“It’s been over a year, and I still wake up screaming,” the guy huddled on the couch across from me said, his gaze practically boring a hole in the ugly brown carpet. “My girlfriend doesn’t get it, and I can’t tell her…” He made a helpless gesture and ran a hand over his hair, buzzed nearly bare on the sides with maybe half an inch of bristly brown on top. The same “high and tight” haircut I still wore. “The only ones I can really talk to are the guys from my unit, and they’re all as fucked up as me, or worse.”
“I’m glad you came in, Corporal…”—I stole a glance at his intake form—“Sullivan. I think we can help you here.” At least, I hoped we could. I’d seen my fair share of broken, traumatized military men come through the clinic in the past few weeks, most of them self-referred. Guys at the end of their rope with nowhere else to turn.
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