The smell of this waiting room clings to the inside of my nose, an uninvited guest that refuses to leave. It lingers, heavy and overbearing, like a shadow I can’t get away from. I’ve never cared much for doctor’s offices or hospitals, for that matter. They always seem drenched in a cocktail of death, sickness, and human despair—an undertone of stale urine completing the grim symphony. These places feel inherently depressing, and for me, veteran clinics and hospitals somehow amplify that feeling.
All around, I see worn, battle-scarred veterans, many of whom look like they’ve been neglected by the system since their early 20s, left to weather life’s storms alone after serving their country. Their tired eyes and broken bodies tell stories no one seems to hear. It’s a sobering sight, one that doesn’t just tug at the heart but leaves it aching.
Yet here I am, despite my distaste for these places. Ever since my mental health took a nosedive, it’s become clear that this might be my only path to something resembling normalcy—whatever "normal" even means these days. It’s been over ten years since I last served in the military, but the war-torn world I left behind seems to have followed me home. Anxiety and depression have become my constant companions, and now the doctors and therapists have added PTSD to the list.
I never imagined that the things I did, or the things I witnessed, could leave scars so deep and invisible. Back then, it all felt normal—or at least, it was my version of normal. But hindsight reveals a harsh truth: what I thought was "normal" was anything but. You live, you learn, and you come to terms with the cracks in your foundation, hoping it’s not too late to rebuild.
A few months ago, I was hanging out with some friends outside of work when the conversation turned to disabilities and the treatments people receive. As we talked, they were shocked to learn that I wasn’t seeking any help or receiving any treatment for what I was going through. Their reactions didn’t surprise me, though—this is just how things have played out for me.
I’ve tried seeking help more than once, but each attempt seemed to lead nowhere. Time after time, I would walk into a doctor’s office, explain what I was dealing with, and hope for understanding. Instead, I was met with suspicion. Some doctors treated me like I was just there for free medication, as if I wanted to get high or score pills. Others dismissed me outright, assuming I was just seeking attention.
The most disheartening responses came from the ones who looked me in the eye and said things like, “You’re a guy. You’re a man. Go work out, go for a run, lift some weights—you’ll get over it.” As if my struggles could be sweated out in a gym or outrun on a track. Those words have stayed with me, not because they helped but because they stung. They left me feeling dismissed, as if my pain and experiences didn’t matter.
Even during my time in the service, seeking help came with its own set of challenges—and consequences. Military doctors were quick to question my motives. Was I genuinely seeking treatment, or was I looking for a way out? When they realized I was serious, it only escalated. I was met with threats of a medical discharge, or worse, the looming specter of a dishonorable discharge.
The thought of going home without completing my service terrified me. It wasn’t just about the stigma of not finishing what I started—it felt like it would strip away what little sense of purpose I had left. Those threats weren’t just intimidating; they made me feel powerless. I felt like I was standing on quicksand, with no one willing to reach out a hand to help me, to advocate for me, or even to see me as a human being.
And yet, despite feeling so small, so unseen, the world around me demanded more. It asked me to keep serving, to push through, to fight for the country and the people I swore to protect. But how could I serve others when it felt like no one cared enough to serve me?
After a long night of heartfelt conversation, my friends finally convinced me to take a step I had been avoiding for years: reaching out to the veteran clinic. They urged me to seek help, to see what treatment and support might be available, and to stop carrying the weight of my struggles alone. Their words stayed with me, a persistent reminder that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something better.
And so, here we are—almost a year later—and I’m nowhere near where I thought I would be in this process. Considering the country I served, the sacrifices I made, and what some would call the "blank check" I wrote—payable up to and including my life—it feels like I should be further along. Yet, even now, if I were to walk into a clinic and say I needed help, I doubt I’d receive it.
For the past nine months, I’ve been trying to navigate the system, desperately seeking the assistance I need. I’ve filed claims and spoken to doctors, therapists, psychiatrists—anyone who seems qualified to help. These are people with more education and expertise than I could ever hope to have, yet here I am, still left alone with my thoughts and fears.
Unchecked, untested, and unstoppable, those thoughts are like a storm I can’t control. They rage on, while the help I’ve been searching for remains just out of reach. The system that promised to take care of me feels more like a hollow echo, leaving me to fight battles I can’t win alone.
No matter how often I go to these doctors and try to explain my struggles, it feels like they’re always searching for a problem with me rather than truly seeing the person standing in front of them. Time and again, I’ve felt overlooked, dismissed, or tossed aside, as if I’m just another patient complaining about something trivial—like I’m ungrateful for the "help" I’m supposedly being offered.
When I joined the service, I wasn’t seeking glory or honor; I just wanted to find a way to afford college. After high school, I struggled. I’d done well academically—my grades were solid, and I performed well on both the ACT and SAT. But what I didn’t excel at was prioritizing my future. No one in my family had ever been to college. Beyond high school, the only path anyone in my family knew was straight into the workforce.
After graduation, I stumbled, trying to find my way. I worked two jobs—managing a pizza restaurant and pulling shifts at a warehouse—just to scrape by and save for school. But despite all my efforts, I couldn’t make it work. Then one day, by chance, I found myself standing outside a recruiting office. It felt like an answer, a way forward. I told myself I’d give a few years of my life to the service, and in return, they’d pay for my education. I thought it would help me feel like I’d accomplished something, like I’d earned my future.
But here I am, more than a decade after leaving the military, only now truly returning to college. It’s not about earning a degree anymore—it’s become something different. College has become a kind of treatment, a way to keep my mind occupied. It gives me something to focus on, something to anchor me, rather than letting my thoughts spiral into the intrusive, negative patterns that threaten to pull me under.
It’s not the life I imagined for myself back then, but at least it’s a way to keep moving forward, even if just one small step at a time.
At first, going back to school seemed to help. I steamrolled through my first associate degree in just 11 months. During that time, I even took a semester to earn both my EMT license and my firefighting certification. I graduated feeling motivated and accomplished, and that drive pushed me further—I went on to earn a second associate degree. I thought that achieving these milestones would finally bring me some peace, that it would quiet the nagging voices of doubt or the expectations from others.
But life had other plans. A series of setbacks and challenges delayed me, but eventually, I returned to school to pursue something no one in my family had ever achieved: a bachelor’s degree. Not just one, but two. I was proud, of course—these were monumental accomplishments for me and my family’s history. Yet, in my mind, it still wasn’t enough. I found myself constantly striving for perfection, searching for meaning in each achievement.
It felt like every time I reached a goal, someone would move the bar. When I went back for my associate degree, I heard things like, “You’ve never been to college; you have no life experience, no merit. What have you done?” Those comments made me feel like my life had lacked purpose since leaving the service, like I was somehow unfinished or incomplete. So, after earning my two associate degrees, I thought to myself, okay, maybe now they’ll stop. Maybe now I’ll feel like I’ve done enough.
But the pressure didn’t stop. It followed me, even as I advanced in my career. Eventually, I decided to pursue my bachelor’s degree, thinking this would finally put an end to the relentless cycle. After achieving that, I felt like I was finally done. No more learning, no more studying, no more writing, no more late nights with textbooks—unless it was for something I truly wanted to explore.
That’s the kind of learning I craved: things that fueled my curiosity and brought joy into my life. Maybe one day, I’d decide to learn how to brew mead or start my own vegetable garden. Those were the things I wanted to dedicate my energy to—learning on my terms and diving into what I found meaningful and fulfilling rather than chasing goals others thought I should achieve.
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After my mother passed, one of the last conversations we shared stayed with me—it was about going back to school and finally earning my master’s degree. She encouraged me to pursue it at the state college just down the road from my childhood home. That college held a special place in our family’s hearts. Every fall, we’d gather around to watch their football games, cheering them on as if we had a personal stake in their victories. However, for all the pride we felt for that school, no one in my family had ever graduated from there—or from any college, for that matter. It wasn’t because we lacked ambition or ability; it was simply out of reach. College was a luxury we couldn’t afford.
It wasn’t until I joined the military, trading my future and, as it turned out, my well-being for the opportunity, that I could even dream of going to college. The idea that I might one day graduate from that school became a sort of legacy—something bigger than myself, something that would honor my family and, in a way, my mother’s memory.
So, now that you have the Cliff Notes, that’s why I’m here sitting in yet another doctor’s office, hoping to find answers. This time, I’m trying to figure out what might help. Medications, therapy, acupuncture, microdosing—anything that could possibly help me overcome this constant battle within myself.
I’m curious to see what they’ll recommend today, but I can’t say I’m overly optimistic. The last time I was here, I spoke with a doctor who told me she would refer me to a psychiatrist. She said we needed to explore every option, though her words felt heavy and final. She mentioned that “time was running out” and that there wasn’t much else they could do beyond what they had already tried.
That statement has lingered in my mind ever since. What happens when there’s nothing left to try?
When I first went to the doctors, they told me the strain and stress on my body caused by my mental health had destroyed my kidneys. Not long after that, I had a heart attack—a heart attack in my 30s. It was something I never thought could happen to me.
At the time, their explanation felt frustratingly simple: I wasn’t eating right, wasn’t exercising, wasn’t taking care of myself the way their textbooks told them I should. They saw the symptoms, not the source. What they didn’t seem to understand—or didn’t want to acknowledge—was the toll mental health takes on a person’s body, especially when it goes untreated for so long.
It feels like there’s this heavy stigma around men and mental health. Society expects us to stay silent, to "man up." That expectation hit me hard the first time I finally broke down and spoke up. I admitted to a doctor that I was struggling with suicidal depression, hoping for help. Instead, they treated me like a threat. The hospital staff panicked as if I were a danger to them. I remember the look in their eyes—fearful, like they thought the 300-pound guy in front of them might lash out and hurt someone.
That moment taught me a harsh lesson: vulnerability wasn’t safe. I decided then and there that I would never truly open up to anyone again about how I felt.
“DING DING.”
Well, there you have it folks, that’s the end of the fight.
The sound of the door chime snapped me back to reality. I turned to see what looked to be a man in his 70s, maybe older, slowly making his way through the door with the help of a walker. His shoes were scuffed from toe to heel, and he shuffled along, dragging his feet with each step. His mismatched socks stood out, and the color of his clothes, though faded, seemed to reflect a man struggling with poor circulation. He wore a pair of basketball shorts and a long-sleeve flannel shirt, which struck me as odd. It was like he was trying to balance between being hot and cold at the same time—completely at odds with his surroundings, yet he seemed completely unconcerned with how he looked or what anyone might think of his mismatched attire.
As he pushed his walker past me, I noticed in his right hand a giant plastic bag, crammed full of white and orange medicine bottles. There had to be at least twenty different medications in there, a testament to the battles he was fighting within his own body.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the elderly gentleman said, addressing the front desk clerk.
“Yes, what can I do for you?” she replied, her voice thick with indifference, as though irritated by the interruption of her music and whatever show was playing on the tablet in front of her.
“Yes, ma’am, I don’t mean to be a bother, but I need to see the doctor and get my prescriptions refilled,” the gentleman said, his voice polite, though it was clear he was already bracing for a less-than-friendly response.
“Well, sir, as everybody knows, we don’t fill prescriptions at this location,” she responded sharply. “You’ll have to drive an hour and a half into the city and hope someone there has time to fit you into their schedule. You should know better than to come here and waste our time and yours.” Her words were laced with impatience and condescension, as if the man’s request was an inconvenience.
“Okay, well, I didn’t mean to bother you or intrude... Okay, well, thank you for your time. Do you happen to know if there’s a taxi service or a caravan that comes by to take me back home?” The elderly man asked, his voice softening, still polite but tinged with frustration.
“Sir, you should’ve set that up with your driver before they left after dropping you off,” she snapped, offering no empathy or assistance.
This small exchange, this tiny moment of disregard, irritated me to my core. It wasn’t just about the military service or the way elderly individuals should be treated with more respect; it had everything to do with the basic human condition. It was a stark reminder that, too often, people are treated as inconveniences, as if their presence and needs are something to be managed, tolerated, or ignored. There was an underlying, unspoken message in that interaction—one that suggested that the elderly, and perhaps anyone who needs help, is somehow less deserving of dignity or empathy simply because they are vulnerable or in a position of dependence.
What bothered me most wasn’t just the coldness of the clerk’s tone but the way she dismissed him, as though his request for help was an unwelcome intrusion into her world, a world she had designed to revolve around her comfort and convenience. The complete absence of kindness or consideration for this man, who was struggling both physically and mentally, was a painful reflection of a broader societal issue. It spoke to how, in many places, the value of an individual is so often determined by their ability to contribute or their capacity to “keep up” with the demands of a fast-paced world.
But the issue went deeper. It wasn’t about simply offering help; it was about seeing that person as a fellow human being—someone who has lived, who has a history, and who, despite their appearance or situation, deserves to be treated with the same level of compassion and respect that anyone else would. We all face struggles in life, some of them visible, others hidden beneath the surface. But the human experience—whether in youth, middle age, or old age—is built on connection, mutual understanding, and the idea that we are all deserving of care, no matter where we are in our journey.
This moment—this small, seemingly insignificant encounter—struck me deeply because it encapsulated something so much bigger. It wasn’t just the poor treatment of an elderly man at a doctor’s office; it was the ongoing, pervasive issue of how people, particularly the vulnerable, are pushed aside in society. And it was a painful reminder of how we, as a culture, often fail to see people for who they truly are, reducing them to labels, to problems to be solved, or to burdens to be endured. It was about the basic principle that every person, regardless of age, background, or circumstance, deserves to be treated with empathy, dignity, and respect. In that moment, I realized just how rare that kind of compassion can be and just how deeply it’s needed.
At that moment, just as the tension hung in the air, the taxi driver walked into the building.
“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Thomas,” he said, addressing the elderly gentleman.
“You left your wallet in the back seat of the caravan. I just wanted to make sure you got it.” The driver’s tone was warm and caring, a stark contrast to the cold indifference of the clerk.
“Well, thank you very much,” the old man replied, accepting the wallet.
“It looks like you’ll be driving me back home, as they don’t have time to see me today.”
The elderly man turned to me, a smile creeping across his face despite the frustration of the day.
“Make sure you prepare for anything and everything... all the time, young man. You have a great day, and don’t be like me.”
His words held a weight of wisdom, a quiet reminder to never let life’s struggles define us. As I sit there weighting on what I just heard, my thought is interrupted by the nurse calling out my name.
“Frank Anderson”
Ah, it’s finally my turn.