Sunday Afternoon News Conference With The Entire Planet: Veteran Suicides Are A Symptom of A Cause Called World War Three Which Has Already Been Raging For Over 30 Years. That Is Not An Excuse to Disarm Americans or Anyone Else Either!

Here is some appropriate musical ambience, since this is how people like me feel right about now.  We feel no better than a man like Charles Manson.  Doesn’t matter what I am actually saying or doing, someone is gonna fuck shit up, and I’m gonna be the scapegoat no matter the truth.

I’m going down to the basement, on my face, man, down on the floor on the Hallways of Always… I keep moving on my own mother fuckin’ road. I don’t need no help from no one, I can make it on my God damn, you better let me on my own…my God damn highway…

America,

If the photo quality is not good enough, I apologize.
If the video quality is not good enough, I apologize.
If the audio quality of the video is not good enough, I apologize.

Either get me a better camera, pay me so that I can get a better camera, or please tolerate whatever shortcomings are in this content so that you can receive my message.

I have a $100 Nikon Coolpix camera at my disposal at the moment, and that’s all I’ve got. Sorry if I’m hardly the Investigative Journalist, and Foreign & Domestic War Correspondent you might be demanding, but I assure that I am worth it if you are willing to believe that. One pair of boots in these pictures were worn on my third deployment, and the other pair were worn on construction sites, school campuses, and even dance floors for years after I left the Army.

Thank you.

How copy? Over.

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Take this time for a musical intermission before we move along to the next point:

Now, where was I?
On that note:


I say again: how copy?  Over.

Roger.  Solid copy.  Read you 5 by 5.

Out.

ACU for OEF XIX 2012

-EJH

“STOP WATCHING PORN!” or Operation Kill Fee: Why The Pornographic Industry Has Direct Ties to 19th Century Slave Trade Tactics, Techniques, & Procedures (TTPs)

“Stop watching (((Porn))).”
-Varg Vikernes

If even those simple words from a reformed, convicted Norwegian murderer and alleged church burner who now lives peacefully with his French wife and little army of happy little children on a small permaculture farm in France, cannot possibly convince you that the entire pornography industry is anti-human and bad for your individual health and prosperity, I am not sure what I can do to convince you either.

It’s a bad habit that I’m also trying to break myself.  It is a habit that has pathologically morphed into an addiction like a cancer in my life over the last decade.  It is an addiction that manifested in earnest after I joined the United States Army of all places.

The majority of my issues with porn are service-connected, and many other veterans, both male and female, have little to no way of utilizing mental health services of the US Department of Veterans Affairs because the VA, unsurprisingly, does not see pornography as a problem both in theory and in practice.

I have personally had to listen to several psychologists, psychiatrists, medical doctors, and social workers who are paid hundreds of thousands of US taxpayer dollars every year, try to convince me that my use of porn was “totally fine” and “totally normal.”  How cute, adorable, and (((diverse))) of them to think such (((tolerant))) thoughts.

That being said, I’m still going to try to convince you right here and now that pornography is bad.  I am especially writing to all of you Bug Men out there in Clown World who have a pornography habit worse than the one I have had for about ten years (and I thought mine was pretty bad).

Apparently, some of you mother fuckers out there in Kasperlewelt don’t need to be placed into concentration camps full of degenerate misfits who will NEVER  be able to possibly figure out that Arbeit really does Macht Frei.  Apparently, you’ve already jumped past all of that fun stuff full of handsome Waffen SS guards, playful German Shepherds, smoking hot Waffen SS auxiliary female guards in their housewife clothes, and you instead placed yourself into solitary confinement filled with filth in some undisclosed location on a giant Communist peasant farm near a Synagogue of Satan.

Here is a quick glimpse into what I have personally witnessed when looking into the mind of the average consumer of one of the “hottest” pornography “fetishes” of the modern day.

Stop Watching Porn

Known as “cuckoldry,” or as its more specific illegitimate sibling “interracial cuckoldry,” it is a so-called “fetish category” that has negatively affected multiple generations of men and women around the world, particularly white people, myself included.

The proliferation of the fetish on both the internet and in the real world is nothing short of a new version of the Champagne Socialists’ 1861 slave plantations in America with racial roles reversed, and the Barbary Pirates’ disease infested harems during the First Barbary War of 1801 with racial roles intact.

The First Barbary War was one of America’s first officially declared military operations not unlike the “undeclared” war currently going on during the Gulf War Era of 1990 to a date to be determined.

The First Barbary War was carried out by, with, and through one of America’s first military allies: Sweden.  This does not surprise me in any way, considering that President Thomas Jefferson and King Gustav IV The Adolf of Sweden were two extremely hardcore men.

In recent years, many different entities have thrown their opinions into this topic that suggest pornography consumption is destructive, only to be labelled many subversive labels by Leftists across the planet; Leftists who, whether wittingly or unwittingly, have very important financial and economic stakes in the continued existence of, and proliferation of normalized ideas and trends created by the porn industry.

Some of the entities who have spoken out against the pornographic industry, other than the most infamous Alföðr of Black Metal himself, include:
Fight The New Drug
GQ Magazine
No Fap
Your Brain on Porn

Even another man named Marcus Follin has said many truths that are simple and easy to understand about why porn is bad for us.  Keeping to his own culture that he understands best, Follin focuses especially on why pornography is bad for white men of the West, or in military terms: for white men living in the countries of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO).

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Follin is a European Nationalist, body builder, former Swedish Army soldier, mixed martial artist, and modern day living embodiment of mainstream popular culture’s idea of Vikings and the god Thor himself.  Marcus Follin portrays a semi-fictional character named The Golden One on YouTube, and just a few days ago, he released another easily digestible set of statements regarding the disgusting ramifications of pornography:

I am not here to sell you some kind of twelve step process.  I will be 31 years old in February 2019, and pornography has been in my life since childhood.  Porn has been an integral part of every day life for many decades for most people, even in marketing and advertising, so it’s inescapable for those of us not fully tuned into what is at stake here for the majority of people living in NATO.

IF you are a white man living on earth right now, and you’re a resident and citizen of a NATO country, chances are dangerously high that you are in fact being directly targeted by special interest groups.

These special interest groups want you alone in either a poorly maintained prison cell you might call a bedroom at your parents’ house, a house that you’ve mortgaged for an insane price that is devoid of any real culture or loyalty from a woman, or in an apartment you can barely afford while being surrounded by a bunch of other ideological slaves who also seem to think that having “roommates” who all use the same modern day equivalent of a Primus stove in an upscale Manhattan apartment, is normal.

These particular special interest groups want you isolated there in your apartment “cell” while you clutch your “cell” phone, sitting or lying in your own filth on bedsheets made in Communist China that are stained with “chicken tendies” grease from food that I have literally watched ants avoid eating for weeks in my backyard.

They want you covered in your own semen stains and body odor ripe with chemicals released during masturbation that repel women no matter how many showers or other actions you take in life to correct this repellent.

The special interest groups want you that way especially during and after Civil Twilight hours for any number of strategic level political or military reasons.  This includes illegitimate special interest groups that fall under the umbrella term “terrorists,” whether or not those terrorists consider themselves terrorists.  I don’t care if you dismantle a happy home brick by brick, or with a bomb in the shape of a hammer and sickle.  A terrorist is a terrorist.

They want all of you there, even all of you NATO soldiers out there on active duty.  They want you to forget about this truth while you are performing tasks like standing guard, fire watch, and radio watch at night in warzones by yourselves or in small teams while the rest of your comrades should be sleeping.  Instead, they are masturbating to pornography in between binge watching degenerate entertainment “shows,” eating and drinking cancers and sugars right into their bodies, and playing massive multiplayer video games that are proven to stunt adult maturity in men and women deep into old age.

Don’t believe me?  Log out of your Fortnite, PUBG, GTAV, Arma 3, DayZ, or whatever other currently supported massive online multiplayer faggot fucking game for a second, and take a look at this:
Pornhub Insights Program

That’s right, Indo-European white man: every time you spend minutes, hours, days, and even years of your life consuming porn, there is someone out there “recording that” as publicly traded information.

While they are trading the derivatives of your future for you, you are killing the derivatives of your own genetic past.  Every time you ejaculate, you are spilling millions upon millions, perhaps billions, of living sperm.  Each one of them were potential human beings who could have been given the gift of human life if they had been properly spilled into a woman who gives a huge shit about you and your well being as a warrior of and for the truth.

Just as women unscrupulously abort children each day, we as men are aborting the very essence of life itself each time we ejaculate anywhere that isn’t in the company of a caring woman.  Without us, there would be no human consciousness of the world the way we have it today, especially because of the Western Men who conquered the lands that would have never been able to possibly share this idea I am sharing with you today, in the manner that I am, for the betterment of everyone, not just white people.

Man is the keeper of the very seed that springs forth the matters of human life and death themselves onto Planet Earth, and no bleeding vagina and constantly dying eggs will ever be able to compete with that force of nature that is housed in a man’s venerable testicles.  There will never even be a real competition, no matter how many snarky comedians, politicians, celebrities, and other morons of the “amusement” class of people are duped into convincing all of us otherwise.

Wake the fuck up, White Man!

Get your dick out of your hand, your head into a military science book, your feet into combat boots, your bodies outside your prison cells and into a fitness routine, your stomachs into a diet that supports and sustains healthy human life that is prepared for very real physical war, and get your strong arms around the waists of the young women out there who are just as terrified or as angry about all of this as you are.

If you’re going to take out your frustration about all of this onto something, do it with those ladies by way of “old fashioned” sex, or with some other healthy occupation of time that is not being actively spent on preparing for this: a very real war someone else created to genocide you.

For the rest of you who aren’t white: I am “checking my privilege” by not speaking on your behalf.  Do whatever the fuck it is you’re going to do with this information, because I’m not going to even make the attempt to talk to you about it because I know you’ll call me a racist or some other Communist or otherwise Leftist “word” invented in the last 150 years.  If you want to, I’ll even “self arrest” myself and send this to every major “non-profit” “anti-hate” group on the internet if it has to come to that.

If a convicted murderer and alleged church burner who reformed himself into a Pagan permaculture farmer with a very healthy family; a bodybuilder and former Swedish soldier who still respects boys with teddy bears who might happen to see him when they walk by their big brother’s open bedroom door; an American Special Operations Forces combat veteran (me) who earned the NATO Medal in a war; GQ Magazine which is arguably the most successful and relevant men’s magazine on the planet; and two special interest groups dedicated to studying the negative effects of porn on a scientific and social level, cannot possibly get you to wake up and realize that people are trying to start a new American Civil War and international Barbary Slave trade simultaneously all around the world, I don’t think you can be salvaged as a human being.

That’s it, lads.  If you will excuse me, I’ve got to go back to lightly oiling my V42, and checking on that huge shipment of Corcoran Jump Boots and black face paint.  There’s a place in Cypress I want to visit, and I’d like to make it a paid vacation for some of you to come with me.  I hope Cypriot women like Paratroopers, because I’m really fucking horny, and they’re really fucking hot.

dasdicke

-EJH

Dear Communism, What Part of “I Don’t Need to Produce Divorce Paperwork Because We Never Married in The First Place” Did You Not Understand?

“In the communist movement, a popular slogan stated that everyone gave according to their abilities and received according to their needs.”Ruven Chu – Stanford University B.S. in Computer Science 2009, Daniel Lau – Stanford University B.S. in Computer Science 2009, Shane Moriah – Stanford University B.S. in Computer Science 2009, Amos Schallich – Stanford University B.S. in Computer Science 2008

Computer Science 201, Stanford University, Project: “Communism & Computer Ethics; Communist China”

Well, it’s looking like I will not be able to do anything for any of you since I hold the labor power, and it’s looking like I will not be needing anything from you Communist nerds either since I curiously hold the means of my own production at the same time; except to simply say “No” to you while maintaining the security of myself and my property.

You know, that whole “Constitution” thing people usually babble on about at the Role Playing Game conventions, but never seem to take enough time to understand when it comes to the real world, is still something very important.  Someone’s personal, tribal, communal, and national constitutions are still important no matter how many times your Communist icons, idols, and celebrities ordered and many times personally carried out the murders of hundreds of millions of innocent people over these last 150 years or more.

Sticking money in my face, and sticking a fine ass little Chinese college girl in my face like business bargaining chips aren’t going to sate the hunger I have of wanting to rid the world of your ideology either, just so you know.  I do not negotiate with blatant Communism if I am still afforded a rational choice and logical ability to do anything other than business with Communists.

America, The Red Scare of the 1950s was not a political stunt.  It was a warning.  It is a warning.  It is a warning from the past.  If you don’t believe me, talk to the surviving Korean War veterans.

That’s all for now. -EJH

“Simon Says:” So-Called Consultant & Big Brain Simon Sinek Believes That Corporations Are Supposed to Help The Millennial Generation “Finish Growing Up” By Creating More Social Experiments

To: Simon Sinek, et alia.
From: E. Julius Hauser, Endeavors to Success
Subject: I Quit.
CC: Your Producers.
BCC: All of The Other “Millennials” on Planet Earth

At the 11 minute, 45 second mark, Sinek goes into his “vision” for a Corporate groupthink initiative that will help fix the things people like him created in the first place.  Conveniently, and as expected, he went almost eleven minutes straight defining a problem that, arguably, is not a real problem; before concluding with the strategic level vision that private corporations will be able to accomplish something that governments have yet to master: generational mind control.

Conveniently, he leaves the audience with a small, poorly worded thesis statement on this vision, and, almost as if the producers of this dumpster fire of a video planned it, his voice trails off, the video ends, the audience claps, and the viewer is left to their own assumptions on just how the corporations and their government lobbyists are going to solve “The Problem.”

What will be their “Final Solution,” I wonder?

It’s something I witness as being the worst parts of Capitalism and Communism all thrown into a small soundbite:

“I hate to say it…” Simon begins to say.

No you don’t, mother fucker. You love this shit.  You love this shit, and you know it.

You love to say this sycophantic garbage, you corporate sociopath.  You eat your own shit like it’s caviar, and people pay you for it. I could hear the smugness in your voice, and a quick internet search for photographs of you did not disappoint me or my instinct-driven senses one bit.

I digress.

I am a “Millennial,” and like a lot of us Millennials, I also don’t want to “do anything with my life.”

I say it that way in quotations, because what people like Simon Sinek look at as meaningful life on this planet, I look at it as total slavery to a robotic tyranny.  It is an automated tyranny that depends on humans to feed it, but it was never set up to give anything back to the humans.  It will never be that way, because something that isn’t alive in the first place cannot show human emotions or an appreciation for human life.

Humans are more important than Hardware” -Special Operations Forces Truth #1

It is a robotic tyranny, one hell-bent on the reduction of human life to nothing more than strategic movements along a predetermined pattern of a bunch of cubicles on a marketable, supply-chain-driven course.  All of it is connected by an asphalt prison yard, a prison yard full of artificial game trails called roads, highways, and interstate highways.

The prison yard is full of men and women who have been tricked into thinking that they are hunters on this so-called game trail, when in reality they are the prey.  It’s a prison yard where metallic boxes on wheels called automobiles are commonly used.  The automobile as I see it is a physical object that is becoming decreasingly qualitative but increasingly quantified.

The automobiles are flung around in a hardly controlled chaos for hours and hours all day, racing up and down the game trails, mindlessly billowing out carcinogenic fumes that killed the horses they replaced.  Whether it’s direct fumes from exhaust pipes, or indirect off-gassing via “plugging in” the automobiles at night to some electronic device, some process to make the automobiles appear “alive” will require cancer causing properties to be released into the world during the device’s manufacture and use.

Simon, if you’re going to take that much risk creating or maintaining a system like that, one that requires the use of such a horrifying object that drives inside of such a horrifying prison yard, at least make it a cool automobile.  Make it something that is able to be used in a war, like a Panzer.

At least make the prison yard something that can’t be mass produced without the skill of mankind’s best yet most underappreciated tradesmen: the road workers.  Make the prison yard out of something historical and wholly human, like a tenured cobblestone lane or brick road that has cultural meaning, instead of an artificial lava flow of asphalt mixed with tar that gets replaced every few years not unlike the rootless multiculturalists traveling over top of it.

The reason I “don’t want to do anything with my life” is because people like this guy Simon Sinek are already out there, waiting in philosophical ambush for “overthinking” people and Millennials like me.  They are just WAITING to begin the process of making money off of me by pushing their buttons, pulling their levers, inventing their new labels to describe me and my unwillingness to behave in their image.  They will even get the pharmaceutical companies involved to deal with me.  They’ll make sure the government lets them do it too.

They will point at me with what appear to be cosmopolitan fingers to the culturally inept, and they will write their books about me that the same culturally inept people will buy and read like a young nymphomaniac college girl who needs sex, or a man with COPD who needs to exhale.  They will try to uncover something about me as though I am living in someone else’s open-air theater play.  All of them are already prepared to talk about me and all of it like I’m some kind of victim, or test tube subject.

I will become the latest “victim” or “test tube subject” for people like Sinek to be studied, analyzed, vaccinated, expatriated, and repatriated all at once; altogether trapped in something that people like him created who will deny responsibility of creating even in a court of law.  The entire time, he will sit comfortably with the knowledge that I will have given him every right, or so he thinks, to do these things to me because I signed some contract, or agreed to some kind of terms of use or terms of service.

That’s how these people think, and you need to be alarmingly aware of this.

Instead of honoring my humanity regardless of my circumstances, he reduces me, condenses me, limits my entire generation and me into a talking point: Millennials, and what’s wrong with us.  He does this, all while trying to portray himself as “the good guy,” even though every last one of us in my generation who were paying attention, all watched him carefully.  We watched him as he stepped out from the same pack of bad guys who traveled to our metaphorical farm, compound, bunker, castle, or combat outpost.  We saw them coming from miles away.

Sure, we even watched those guys do it with the optics people like Simon Sinek provided us, but we knew from the start that by using these fancy new metaphorical binoculars the bad guys gave us, there would indeed be some kind of catch when we accepted the gift of the new technology.

We knew that eventually they’d come back for some kind of tribute, or tax, or some other form of fancy worded theft, or enslavement to an idea we don’t want to act upon on someone else’s behalf.  No matter how fancy their so-called “gifts” of technology or social media or incorporated groupthink are, the Millennial generation’s gut instincts simply will not let this happen.

Something deep down in our gut tells us that ecologically incorporated people like Simon Sinek are going to have some kind of “condition” or “term of use,” something we have to agree upon before we can use this metaphorically convenient pair of binoculars that act as a place holder to explain what it is this asshole is trying to trick us into accepting.

(“Run-on sentences are not allowed?”  Fuck you.  This is my website, not yours.)

What people like him and his stinky band of mass produced, business suit wearing tribesmen were not expecting is that we Millennials used his own optics against him to observe him from miles away.  We watched as he came back with his big pack of fortune telling gypsies and hand rubbing merchants, all of them dressed in suits and ties that suggest regency in spite of their rootless, cultural bankruptcy.  They came here so they could perform some kind of feel-good ritual that would certainly get us to dance the way they want us to dance.  Right?

We aren’t gonna dance just because you tell us to, Simon.  I thought people like you would have learned that after creating the business model which states that people would have to pay money just to talk to other people of the opposite sex no matter the distance of proximity (read: online dating and smartphone applications like Tinder and Bumble).  However, I guess even people like you truly are dumber than your own smart-sounding ideas.

Multiple decades of experiencing all of those “formative gaps” Simon Sinek talked about did not exist in a vacuum.  In our parents’ absence while they suffered through the tasks of people like Simon’s corporate slave plantations, we young Millennials were forced to hone our survival instincts.

Mainstream media called it being a “Latchkey Kid.”

I tend to call it “That One Long Decade of Time When I Wished That I Could Have Been With My Mom And Dad A Lot More Because Being A Teenager With Neither of Them Being Around Most of The Time Was Very Unpleasant.”

I mean if we’re gonna get personal here.

What Simon Sinek observes as childishness among other things in so many words,  I call it survival in order to make sure my own children will be able to identify and fight this nonsense, and effectively fight people like Simon, fighting them physically if necessary.

That’s one thing about Millennials, we people who were blessed with experiencing our youth at the turn of a fucking millennium, and not just the turn of a century: we are REALLY good at detecting bullshit.

What Millennials are not good at -and God bless us for it- is being able to compartmentalize bullshit in a meaningful, tangible way that will make someone else a lot of money hand-over-fist.

Millennials fail at being able to compartmentalize bullshit in academia in colleges across the world, so we don’t finish our degree.  We just drop out.

We fail at being able to compartmentalize bullshit in the business world, so we don’t give our two weeks’ notice.  We just quit.

We fail at being able to compartmentalize bullshit in the fields of art and science, so we don’t complete what we started.  We just stop.

Because our time-tested, survival-based worldviews do not fit with the corporate, mass-produced groupthink that dehumanizes those of us who make the scientific discoveries or put the paint onto canvas, we go underground.

We go out into a wilderness unknown to the corporate slave plantations that those plantations will then claim, will demand, will violently declare is the lunatic fringe.

“Sole proprietor?  What are you?  Some kind of lunatic?”

We just can’t seem to get it right when trying to play with this subject of complete bullshit, but then again, why make that a skill?  Why play with shit all day?

“What are you?  A corporate coprophiliac on Prozac?”

Moreover, why play with SOMEONE ELSE’S BULLSHIT that was shit out onto that asphalt prison yard that was paved over what was once a beautiful meadow, or stout acreage of oak trees?

Simon, I’d rather play around in a military history museum and learn about why I DON’T have to repeat the same mistakes someone else did, than do something “meaningful” with my life.  I’d rather “sit around doing nothing” than “Do Something” that is going to continue wrecking our fucking planet.

“Recycle or die.” -Jason C. Allen, fine artist, Sunray Eco Art

I’d rather imagine jumping into a Viking longship and plundering the next village down the coast or up the river, or imagine jumping into a Tiger Tank to kill the Communists who were braver than your ilk who seem to exude the eerily similar behavior of Communists.  I’d surely play make-believe in the woods faster than agreeing to sit trapped inside your hell.  It’s a convenient, climate-controlled hell shaped like an office cubicle, to be sure.  It’s a suggestive hell what has a small patch of grass next to it, with a few overly pruned and fruitless trees, a square pond made from cancer-filled water runoff, and whatever wildlife are still left barely alive during this, the so-called Holocene Extinction Event.

But hey, at least Corporate Policy made the “nature trail” outside the office a “no smoking” nature trail.  Right, goy?

I want to honor the fact that the planet is a massive, open air military history museum, and to honor the truth that it has always been someone’s battlefield.  While I want to honor that, people like Simon Sinek seem like they want others to continue perpetuating some massive psychological and physical war that doesn’t need to keep happening over and over again on a wider and wider scale each time.  Each time the war happens, it would appear that people spend less and less time tending to the humanity of the warriors who were compelled to fight it.  What is worse, people like Sinek appear to want the civilian bystanders who are caught in that war’s wake to “do something with their lives” while being simultaneously forced to make sense of the war.

In doing so, the civilians will be perplexed by that war for the rest of their lives, a process that will fuel the next war after they are dead and gone, and a process that will line the pockets of hand rubbing merchants with that sweet, sweet currency that doesn’t actually exist except in the eyes of some all-seeing, non-human central bank.

Yes.  The planet is constantly hosting war.  The clear feeling of war might not be wherever you are, as you read this jumbled up mass of thoughts I started writing to nobody in particular around 2am.  The war might not be raging in full swing near Safety Harbor, Florida, at least not for me as I sit here in this cramped Florida Room with windows on all sides from waist to ceiling.  It is the equivalent of a back porch, and I’ve been humbly living this way for about four years now, with about 150 square feet, give or take the space I have to actually walk.

I use this place as my bedroom, office, “whack shack” or “masturbatorium pornographia,” dining room, toolshed, woodshop, military history library, historical archive, study hall, music room, listening post, observation post, operations center, and other various parts that would be better suited for the castle in the kingdom that I have not yet built.  The castle will be bristling with weapons systems in my kingdom.  It will be a kingdom manned in every neighborhood by an army of kind, brave men, who I will have the honor to call Brothers.  Somehow, in some odd form of reality, all of them will be Kings over their own kingdoms, and it shall be called America.

That’s right, America.  We are still out here, we don’t do drive-by shootings, and we don’t quit.  We assault through the enemy, and move to contact to take the objectives.

No, the war might not appear to exist here in Safety Harbor at the moment I am writing this.

However, somewhere out there, there is a person, usually a man, moving about freely under his own liberty.  He has the ability to receive the order at a moment’s notice to put a weapon in his hands, and be prepared to fight alongside other men.  Ideally, in this day and age, that weapon is a rifle, and those riflemen, those Minutemen, are fighting to survive in a very real conflict.  It is a war that exists here and now in the United States of America.

Many times, this conflict is not openly acknowledged by the civilian bystander, because the new war is still in its infancy stage of psychological conflict on most parts of the battlefield.  In this instance, I support the abortion of infancy.

Chances are, as I write this article, those men fighting for this survival are Millennials.

Chances are, if a person isn’t directly engaged in the conflict, they are a civilian bystander caught among three options to either join the warriors, fight the warriors, or simply observe the warriors either close up or from far away.

I return to the main point.

It appears clearly to me that Simon Sinek fails to realize anything I just mentioned.  My conclusion is evidenced by the content in his feel-good pep talk that was characterized by unthinking applause and laughter, and dry-erase board “art” illustrations that were animated to add gravity to a speech that had no weight in the first place (((other than the weight of revenue and returns someone makes off of making up these assessments about my generation))).

These people aren’t fully fucking human, including the people who clapped for this guy, and including the fucking retard who spent hours drawing pictures on a dry erase board that illustrated an overpaid person’s garbage dump ideology about how to “fix” me or “fix” my generation.

“Leave me the fuck alone, I have the right to remain silent!” ought to be the battlecry for the Millennial generation.

It always seems like when people entice us to get up from our chairs to talk to us about doing something; it seems like when people get us to walk away from whatever meaningful thing we were doing at the time, for both ourselves and the real people to our left and right; it seems like the experiences we are promised to receive after we agree to abandon our own goals are NEVER, EVER what we get when we finally arrive to perform the incorporated tasks for people like Simon Sinek .

“Hey, if you could just do this thing for me real quick, that would be great,” incorporated people like Simon Sinek are quick to say.

No.  No, I think I’m good, Mr. Sinek.  Matter of fact, I just got a call from somebody named Washington, telephone extension 1776.  Some guy named Jefferson wrote something important, and he wants me to proofread it for him.  Something about independence or something, in a very very declarative tone.  Jefferson won’t be done with it until next year around the summertime.  Says he will need it finished by July.  Says he needs someone to engross it for him in August… whatever that means.

By the way, I’m taking an extended leave of absence for massive depression.

Your office building is really fucking depressing, and you don’t even follow your own rules that your own people invented in the first place.  If I want to walk into a climate controlled building, I’d rather be in a military history museum, or art gallery, or private laboratory or something… maybe even a strip club or whorehouse at this point.  At least the girls there “put out.”  All the girls here around the office just want to write me up on a Human Resources complaint because I wasn’t the right guy on the right day of the right month of the right year to flirt with them.  They keep leaving the residual derivatives of their birth control in the water I’m drinking out of the water fountain too, and my only other options are to either drink the water from that water cooler filled with black mold that’s supplied with those big bottles made out of the plastic that my body will slowly absorb, or risk drinking water out of that square retention pond outside by the “non-smoking nature trail,” whatever that means.

I guess what I am trying to say is that you can have your metaphorical binoculars and corporate ideological optics back, Mr. Sinek.  I guess this means you, your gypsies with their crystal balls, and your merchants with their incessant hand rubbing can get off my property now too.

I need some, uh, some Living Space, you know?  Some Lebensraum or something.

I think that’s what my crazy cousin called it a few years ago.  He called it that, and he hired one of my other cousins to train a bunch of modern day knights to make sure we got the Lebensraum.  The knights wore these S shaped things on their collars.  Another group of cousins had to learn how to jump out of planes, climb tall mountains, go on long walks in the desert, land on dangerous coastlines in small boats, use a bunch of different guns, flamethrowers, rocket launchers, and explosives.  Eventually they were ordered to go fight and murder my other cousins with these crazy looking knives designed by these two ex-cops named William E. Fairbairn and Eric A. Sykes.

Yeah, apparently my two groups of cousins suffered heavily.  People like you said that my cousins owed them a bunch of money or something, so they decided to start a war.  Just like you, these people claimed that they owned all of this fake money and debt that can’t be found anywhere except on paper in some weird looking guy’s bank filing cabinet, so they decided to start a war.  They also said that neither group was doing “enough” for their countries just like you’re saying, so they decided to start a war.

I can’t remember the details, really.  I could tell you more about it without sounding like a complete dumbass, but your corporate network administrators keep blocking me from researching the history behind it when I’m on my lunch breaks.

I think it was called The World War Two or something.

Anyway… “I’ve been here eight months, and I don’t think I’m making a big enough impact.  I quit.”

Bye, Simon.

Sincerely,
A Disgruntled Millennial

Last Three Feet.  Win the mind, win the day.
-EJH

To The Brother Who Initially Asked Me What Happened to Me at The Hospital & What I Said That Caused Me to Be Placed into A VA Hospital Psychiatric Ward,

To the brother who initially asked me what happened to me at the hospital and what I said that caused me to be placed into a VA hospital psychiatric ward,

Right up front, this letter is gonna be a wild ride full of tangential speech and all manner of communication that is not deemed “normal” or “appropriate” in everyday life anymore.

Also note that I have published it publicly. That public publishing of this open letter can be found here:
https://endeavorstosuccess.com/2018/11/16/to-the-brother-who-initially-asked-me-what-happened-to-me-at-the-hospital-what-i-said-that-caused-me-to-be-placed-into-a-va-hospital-psychiatric-ward/

Finally, note that in the wake of this Veterans’ Day 2018, and in the wake of what I am writing to you, many and if not most Vietnam War era veterans are finally being given the recognition and respect they don’t deserve, but instead EARNED, over fifty fucking years ago. For many it won’t matter because they have suffered in silence, died from Agent Orange in silence, and suffered through the political intrigue Americans created after Vietnam that will never allow them to fully appreciate the recognition; many of them will forever be “walking wounded.”

With tears in my eyes, the only people in recent history that I can think of who were treated similarly on such a wide and disgusting scale were the men who were asked or forced to serve in the Wehrmacht during World War Two, MY ANCESTORS, to include the combat veterans of the Waffen SS. What that says about America and Americans is contextual with what I witnessed when I was held against my will in a VA hospital.

You have been warned. Forward this letter to your personal email address now if your place of employment is tyrannical about such things.

To answer your question, the major point that you should take away is not the knowledge of whatever it was I specifically said that caused me to get detained against my will under the Baker Act. What you should take away from this situation is how it affected me, and that those effects were not within the boundaries of what a veteran should expect when they visit the VA, as per the VA’s own rules and resources available to the veteran.

The four major points you should take away are the following:
1. As a young combat veteran, I had my words taken out of context that were used against me in a manner that, as just one example, enabled a federal government employee to completely lie on official government documents related to my Veteran Life Safety & Suicide Prevention Plan. This woman actually put words I never said into direct quotations onto documents she typed up faster than I could have actually said them to her. This makes the document even more bogus than if she had been smart enough to at least leave her computer program open long enough to make it look like we actually met in real life, and had a real conversation. BUT HEY, YO, COME ON, ERIC… it was Friday before a long three day weekend, before Veterans’ Day Weekend no less, and she probably had a hot date with some civilian faggot ass beta bitchboy bug man scumbag who lets her do similar shit to him on a daily basis… certainly we gotta cut her some slack because she wanted to get out of there that day as fast as she could, right? I have this woman’s name in writing, and the Bay Pines VA Medical Center OIF/OEF/OND Veteran Patient Advocacy Office is already aware of the situation, so it’s already being addressed officially.

2. As a young combat veteran, I have never been able to properly address with the VA the problems that have continued to affect me for over four years, that finally culminated in me sitting alone in a psych ward surrounded by other veterans trapped in the same situation, all of us getting “assistance” from the same shitty government employees, not being fed properly by the cafeteria staff on site, being lied to, and a whole other litany of things that went wrong while I was there for a mere 36 hours or so, all at the expense of the US taxpayer.

3. As a young combat veteran, my living situation, family situation, my professional life, and my personal life are now worse, not better, because of what happened to me. Because of what happened to me, something that happens to our veterans every single day, more often than not now apparently as per the words of two VA Police officers, I now question my own need for existence even more.

4. As a young combat veteran, I was told by no less than two lawyers at the time of this letter’s writing, both of whom are military veterans deeply seated and well established in the same legal system that allowed these things to happen, that they would not represent me. One stated that he was incapable, and the other stated that he was unwilling because I decided to go public about my situation, going so far as to call my decision to do so a “public crusade against the federal government.” He told me he works in matters of “differing opinions between private parties and the government,” which leads me to believe he and I work from “differing positions of reality between one human being and the rest of humanity.”

Remember: a lawyer gets paid by the government no matter how you float the bill to pay the fee, and you also “attorn” or “attear” yourself from representing yourself in some legal matter. If people would actually read and absorb those first ten amendments in the American constitution a little more, they would clearly see the ridiculousness, albeit humorous, of the legal leftovers from British colonial and maritime law that still exist in America, which allow “attorneys” like these to continue their “legal” practice.

The Baker Act as it was used against me last week was in and of itself, in my opinion, brutally unconstitutional, and it’s being done to many veterans in varying degrees. The fact that people have that kind of power over veterans is, in my opinion, part of the reason why veterans and civilians are so fucked up right now in America as a whole. It’s why we are so numb to each other’s personal problems, it’s why people are hesitant to be selfless and serve others in various ways, it’s why men and women don’t get along; the list can go on and on if necessary.

We’re living inside the mouth of the cat of tyranny, and nobody is willing to spear that motherfucker through the roof of its mouth and into its brain. Things like the “Baker Act” are a symptom of that tyranny, and I believe the cause is individual weakness both physically and mentally in many Americans today.

Unless I am some kind of Pagan Warlock (male witch) capable of casting verbal and nonverbal spells that conjure physical actions into the real world, how in the world can Americans truly look upon themselves, and think it’s okay to detain other people against their will, using lethal force as the vehicle no less, because of words, not actions? I’m sorry to tell you, but if you even hesitated when you read that so you could think of something to pose as a disagreement, you might want to consider yourself a potential threat to the 1st Amendment: a potential domestic enemy to the United States Constitution.

If people feel threatened because someone communicates words to them, I don’t care WHAT they say, maybe they should go to the fucking gym, learn how to fight with their bare hands, learn how to stand stoically in front of people threatening them with the comfort of knowing they have no fear in defending themselves and others, and quit being a little fucking bitch about life.

In the last four years of civilian life, I have seen people bring problems upon themselves, only to cry about it later like the victim. I know because I started down that path; it’s easy to do in the civilian world, and I have since crawled away like a beaten child from that stupid mentality. I know because I have been physically threatened, physically assaulted, and even sexually assaulted over the last four years as a civilian, all of these things happening as it is written in the letter of our laws, but nobody was there to help me. Nobody. When I tried to get help, I was either shamed, blamed, suspected as being the real criminal, or all three.

The truth is that I said things in a supposedly safe and controlled environment (the VA hospital) that should exist to allow me to say things to get them off my chest no matter how ridiculous, bizarre, or irrational, and then being physically and verbally comforted by someone capable and willing to help me get that mental poison out of my body in a positive manner. I should expect that I have the freedom to do this without it affecting my life, unless of course the effect is positive in a manner that allows me to be a healthier veteran.

Instead, I was thrown into what is essentially a medical jail cell run by the federal government, and I had the risk of having certain constitutional rights waved in front of my face like a carrot on a stick in order to get me to behave in a certain way to make VA employees’ lives easier. I know this is so bad because two separate VA Police Officers, both combat veterans, have a major apprehension toward using the VA facilities as a patient because they see this as well.

The truth is that the social worker who “Baker Acted” me either got offended or “felt” something negative toward what I said, and her employment doesn’t allow her to think rationally: it instead requires her to go full force, and throw someone into the ER under police escort. I believe the tipping point in my meeting with her, when the woman started changing her tone, was when I brought up the Communistic Leftism that is destroying America. I mentioned that this country is swarming with domestic enemies that many people have humorously dubbed as things like “Bug Man.” I mentioned that I observe a lot of potential domestic enemies in my every day life, and that I am taking appropriate actions in the absence of orders as a former NCO of the Army to guard myself and my family from these people. When she asked me “who” the enemies are, trying to have me create a “list” right there on the spot of specific groups or individuals, I laughed.

I laughed at her, and told her I am the last person she should be asking… veterans should not be bothered with this question. If you don’t trust my judgment, why the fuck did your government, a government that includes YOU as a voter under constitutional law; why the fuck did you let me into your Army in the first place so that I could protect you from what I am trying to tell you about? Why the fuck is it so against protocol that I give the mere mention of something I see happening domestically that was something I saw in a foreign war, something that can and will have a very real negative effect on America?

It isn’t my fault you people have not paid attention on your road to slavery while I was traveling the road to war. So don’t fucking sit here and try to use my Military Occupational Specialties of expert communicator and expert propagandist against me by asking me to create some illegitimate threat profile package that you will use as evidence against my mental clarity. Instead of thanking me for my service, and appreciating that veterans like me exist to help protect this land, you want to lock me up, throw away the key, and make that sweet sweet General Schedule VA employee salary like you’ve been doing under the watch of what was an extremely Communistic federal government for about a decade or more.

Because this woman working at the VA has quotas to meet, to include the quota that I’m basically not allowed to kill myself after talking to her because she could lose her job (that’s a summarized QUOTE from VA employees to include an actual M.D. doctor and a R.N. nurse, not my suspicion), she had to press some buttons and take some real physical actions of her own because of my words.

Instead of her referring me to the PTSD program on site at the Bay Pines VA to let me talk to someone, a fucking program so vast it now HAS ITS OWN FUCKING BUILDING, BUILDING 111, and a program I am ALREADY ENROLLED IN; instead, she had VA Policemen escort me into a cold psych ward where I wasn’t able to talk about my feelings to anyone properly trained and qualified to listen to me.

Sure, I got medical nurses, more social workers (one of whom completely lied in official documentation, and another who couldn’t give me a straight answer as to whether or not I would be allowed to have legal representation), a substance abuse coordinator who in one breath said she couldn’t talk about marijuana use but in the next breath went on into detail about it, and a medical doctor who served in the Army who seems to have a problem with veterans who are white with conservative values… just to name a few characters in the cast of characters working up there on the 4th floor of the psychiatric wing at the VA.

However, I was never actually able to talk about my problems, my experiences in Afghanistan, etc., and it’s been that way for literal YEARS now. Any time I bring up Afghanistan, I am shut down. At one point, I was even told that my therapy sessions are not “venting sessions” when I tried to vent about my experiences in Afghanistan. As of a few days ago, I am told, that therapist who actually said that to me, is no longer an employee of the VA, and apparently left the VA on bad terms. Sure, she’s gone now, but the damage was done, and I lost all respect and trust in the VA when she told me those things.

Someone needs to verbalize the slaughter of this cat called tyranny, or its going to swallow us all whole, destabilize our nation beyond repair, and we’ll be speaking someone else’s language of death and taxes very soon.

I guess I’m that guy with the spear, even if it means stealing some other unit’s Guidon, or becoming a Guidon bearer again so that I can use the spear to which the Guidon is attached.

America needs to stop giving its veterans fake hugs, it needs to stop giving veterans lip service with nothing tangible to back up those words (and no, a discount at a restaurant or shitty job employment where Americans are already suffering through tyranny don’t count), and it needs to start looking at the mess it made while veterans were “out of the house” working to keep the house from falling down.

We didn’t make this mess, so we shouldn’t have to suffer because of it, and we as veterans should not be punished for trying to fix the mess. Full Stop.

-EJH

On Veterans’ Day 2018, I Woke Up

At 11:11, 11/11/2018, my eyes opened without the help of an alarm clock.

I was awakened by the noon sun.  Its light and heat flowed through my window, and burned my torso and face.

It had been a long week.

A few days ago, I was lied to about the help I could expect if I was honest about needing help, I was lied to about my legal rights, I was lied to about my mental health situation, I was lied to by the last government institution I tried to trust, and I was detained against my own will for over 36 hours.

“In the last 30 days, have you thought about suicide?” Yes.
“Do you intend on committing suicide?” No.
“Do you have a plan on how you will commit suicide?”  Yes.
“If yes, have you worked out the details of this plan?” Yes.
“If yes, will you carry out this plan?”  No.
“In your entire life, have you ever attempted suicide?” No.

I wasn’t going to commit suicide.  It’s just how I felt, and how I still feel sometimes when I think about not wanting to be around anymore because of how fucked up America is, and subsequently how fucked up my life is.  However, I was still put into a psychiatric ward at the VA hospital, regardless of any and all rational thought about my situation, and the very real emotional responses I am still allowed to have about it.

“You said ‘xyz.’  That’s really alarming.  Care to talk more about why you said that to the social worker?”

I wasn’t finished making my actual statements about how I came to her office that day; I was giving her context of my military service, but she was already getting up to call the VA police.  So I just decided out of my own entertainment and for my own sanity to just say whatever bizarre shit came to mind.  This woman wasn’t even listening anymore, so why take her seriously?

Well, apparently that was a mistake, because this woman had my rights and freedoms taken from me for over 36 hours, and I had to “play” their “game” in order to have my rights and freedoms restored, allowing the paperwork to be rescinded entirely.

I had my property seized from me without being given the legally required ability to inventory it with hospital staff, and I was never given the opportunity to sign paperwork that verified I had performed the inventory.  Instead, the inventory was done without me.  My property, to include sensitive information, petty cash, credit and debit cards, very expensive and fragile polarized Ray Ban aviator sunglasses, and my VFW life membership card, were quickly put into a brown paper bag, taken from me, and locked up in a place unknown to me until after I was released from the hospital.

I waited almost two hours before I was informed that I was being held against my will, and it was because I actually asked what was going on that I was finally notified.  When a random ER nurse finally told me, I asked if my next of kin would be notified.  This extremely fat and unhealthy nurse told me it was illegal to do that, that she would need my permission to do that.  I thought that that was bullshit, and was later told by police officers that her statement was bullshit.  Something could have happened to me in these last two hours, or something could have happened to my family in these last two hours, but nobody would have known where I was.  A police officer would later notify my family for me, but prior to that, the ER staff started looking through my property, looking for a cellular telephone, assuming I own one like every other person who masturbates a rectangular piece of glass all day with their thumbs.  This told me right away, once again, that nobody had actually done that inventory properly like I talked about before.

I had another fat and unhealthy woman, a social worker, try to “talk tough” with me like we were equals due to her rootless international trip around the world in warzones where she talked to war veterans about their problems.  This woman’s face was caked with makeup.  She looked like she hadn’t worked out in years, yet she wore high heeled combat boots, and talked like some hardcore veteran who spent time behind a rifle; she never had, and was simply a highly paid, war profiteering “contractor.”  She disgusted me on a visceral level.  The female combat veterans I know aren’t like this person, this caricature of war experience.  She went around the world absorbing someone else’s experiences secondhand, and now she’s here in front of me, fat, unimpressive, lazy, yet in charge of my life’s future for as long as I’m stuck here with this saline lock in my arm in case they needed to sedate me against my will.

I had an ER psychiatrist who was over 7 months pregnant try to convey logic and reasoning with me.  This woman was carrying a child inside her in one of the most dangerous and germ infested places in Pinellas County, but she is going to be the representative of logic and reasoning who will be another person to spell my fate for me while I am detained in this place?

“You appear to have brought home a lot of ghosts from the war, Mr. Hauser.”

No, I didn’t bring anything back with me except the steely eyed resolve that can surgically detect tyranny.

The same shit I saw and experienced in Afghanistan and the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan is all right here on American soil.  It’s not that I brought ghosts home.  It’s that I see the real demons that live on different continents that the average American is not allowed to see without a massive psychological war.  Americans are now led to believe that America is a magical place, insulated from a very real war, The Gulf War Era, that has been raging since 1990 to a date to be determined.  This is a sector of the battlefield, but the illegitimate imperials who wish to make this place an empire beneath their illegitimate regency don’t want us to see it that way.

When I asked her if I would be allowed legal representation, she told me that she wasn’t sure if that was possible, but I would need to stay overnight, detained in the hospital, before that question could be answered, before I could speak with a legal representative.

“It is already getting late, Mr. Hauser.”

The psychiatrist’s partner in training, a retired Army colonel, told me I wasn’t behaving nicely in so many words, and that I needed to “play the game” in so many words, or I was going to have a rough time here.  I looked him in the eye, and told him that I have the right to remain silent.  I told him that if he cared, he needed to look around and see the tyranny unfolding in this country, and that this was just another prime example.  I told him to grab his kit, load his shit, move out, and draw fire…Sir.

Then a man came in wanting me to sign paperwork.  I refused.  I demanded he get me a VA police officer so that I could have proper security and to know my own legal rights among a bunch of people who clearly didn’t know how to do their actual jobs, other than imprisoning people and sticking needles in their arms to take their blood, and squirt sedatives into their bodies to make them more docile.

After five attempts to demand a police presence, a VA policeman finally arrived.  I explained to him what was happening, and he informed me that he was also a combat veteran and Paratrooper.  He told me that this was a common thing now, that veterans are being railroaded into the mental hospital process.  He advised that, for my own welfare and safety, I do not sign any paperwork during my stay, and that I do not agree to anything they try to make me take, say, or ingest.  As a veteran and patient at a VA facility, it is my right to refuse any treatment, and to deny consent to any VA employee.  The police officer was very precise in his statements.

I was held against my will.  I was denied legal representation and security of law enforcement until I raised my voice and demanded it five separate times to multiple federal government employees while I was in the Emergency Room, and when the police finally arrived, both officers were on my side, having seen this same unconstitutional scenario play out over and over again, that they are then forced to oversee; something that I could clearly see had continued to wear on their minds, causing obvious cognitive dissonance as they stood there in front of me in police uniforms.

For the next 36 hours and more, I was subjected to several more people of differing backgrounds and professional qualifications trying to indoctrinate me into the post-America and post-US Constitution ideology that a man’s words, not his actions, should give the government and other human beings the right to physically detain and imprison him against his will.  If this is not the definition of a modern “witch hunt,” I don’t know what is.

I had government medical professionals tell me I was “talking crazy,” I had government medical professionals trying to label me with political talking points, political party labels.

“Would you consider yourself a libertarian, Mr. Hauser?  A conservative?  How would you describe your political stance, Mr. Hauser?”

I had the same person compare me to their son who appears to have the same values and ethos that I have.  I had to listen to them give me excuses about why I was being kept in a hospital belonging to the very government organization that is causing the mental anguish in the first place.

I was told multiple times that I cannot tell the truth to the wrong people at the VA hospital because it will give them legal power over my entire existence.  Instead of being given someone to talk to like I wanted, I was thrown into a cold hospital ward with nobody to talk to about my problems except for the other military veterans in the same situation as me.

The only other people who came around were government employees taking my vital signs, feeding all of us food from the VA cafeteria that had whole items missing from our trays that were described on our meal tickets, and the social workers and doctors performing basic and minimal functions aside from trying to ascertain my official political position no less than one time.

I even got the front row seat to one of the VA medical staff loudly arguing with his girlfriend over the telephone as he walked up and down the psychiatric ward hallway several different times late at night, screaming at her, cursing at her, and using language that I can only describe as “ghetto.”

I had the pleasure of being compared to Timothy McVeigh by another government employee.

I had the pleasure of being called a “Storm Fronter” even though I do not frequent that website.

I had to listen to this same person try to convince me that I should have my guns and right to bear arms taken away because I am a white man with particular opinions, and because I have a VA disability rating that should give the government the authorization to take those guns away.

I had to listen to this same person try to tell me that I am not to talk to certain people in real life or on the internet because I will be put on some watch list by the government.

I had to listen to this same person try to tell me that our current president is a problem for our country.  This same person tried to tell me that people like his own son and me are a problem for America because of our so-called conservative opinions.

I was further given the pleasure of knowing that I am just one of many veterans now being treated this way, no matter what we say when we are given official questioning about mental health.

It no longer matters what we say, but if we say just the “right” things to these people, things that meet criteria that changes all the time to suit the political situation in America, these same people can use our words against us.  In no time, we’ll be in a hospital gown with an intravenous line hanging out of our arm just in case we try to physically resist what is being done to us.

Even the US Department of Veterans Affairs police officers were and are disgusted by this.  At least one police officer admitted to me that he will NEVER go to a VA hospital as a patient because of how he sees his brothers and sisters treated when it comes to their mental health.

Quote from the police officer, and fellow combat veteran: “Eric, these people treat our brothers and sisters like this is a jail.  This isn’t a jail.  This is a hospital.  You are a veteran, and a patient.  Write everything down from this experience before you forget.  Everything.”

When I was finally released from the hospital, I was released to an elderly family member who was almost killed the last time they came to the VA due to catching viral pneumonia at the VA hospital.  You had better believe the VA staff had an excuse for that one too.

Quote from a VA medical doctor, the same doctor who compared me to his so-called conservative son, who compared me to Timothy McVeigh, and who suggested that I was a potential “Storm Fronter” and domestic terrorist: “Certainly you don’t think your grandfather catching viral pneumonia at the VA hospital was a malicious act carried out against you, Eric?  And let’s face it: more people die at the VA than they survive.”

Wow, Doc!  What a great statement to tell an already potentially suicidal and hopeless person.  Thanks, big guy!

On the morning of my release from the hospital, my grandfather was made to wait because my 1000am release had mysteriously changed to a 1030am release, and then a 1200pm release, until I finally put my foot down and aggressively argued about it with the staff at the psychiatric ward, at risk of me being put right back into their custody for my behavior.

I was handed my release paperwork, and as an added insult to injury, I was never given the opportunity to speak with the last person I was required to talk to in order to leave: the fourth and final social worker in this experience that lasted over 36 hours.

The social worker never spoke with me, but generated paperwork that stated that I did speak with her.  The truth is that she used the words of someone else as her own, words of a different social worker within the last 24 hours.  The nurses and medical doctors specifically told me that if I didn’t speak to this person, and tried to leave without doing it, I would have been considered an absconded patient.  After all of their warnings and dramatics about me absconding without speaking with all of the proper personnel, I never got to speak with the last required person to be able to leave.

As I was putting on my regular civilian clothes, I discovered this on my paperwork.  I spoke with a nurse who told me the name of this social worker, and her physical appearance.  I knew I had never spoken to this woman even once throughout my stay. I ordered the nurse to have this woman come out of the hospital ward so that I could question her about it, and visually identify her so that I could confirm my suspicions.  When the social worker arrived to the security area near the elevators, I visually confirmed that I never once spoke to her, and I ordered her to explain to me how it could be that I spoke to her that day if I never actually did.  She admitted to this “pencil whipping” whereby she used a different colleague’s findings instead of verifying my stability for herself.

I looked down at this stupid, albeit pretty little woman, made a sound of suspicion about her behavior using my throat, motioned back toward the entrance to the hospital ward, and ordered her to “Carry on.”  This woman ought to be at home raising children and making a combat veteran’s life easier.  Instead, she’s in some cold psychiatric hospital ward, pencil whipping paperwork that has potentially permanent legal and life ramifications for combat veterans.

These, and other incompetent, inept, disrespectful, rent-seeking people are the cogs in the machine called the government at your neighborhood VA hospital.  The “good ones” will be the first people to excuse the behavior, and try to circle it back around on the veterans and their families who complain about it.  The only people I could trust throughout the entire ordeal were the police officers; they were the only ones who never once lied or deceived me.  They performed their jobs with honor, and as fellow combat veterans, they were upset on my behalf without once excusing the tyrannical behaviors of the VA staff.

Since writing this article, I have tried to contact a military veteran lawyer who is well versed in fighting the VA, but because I have written this article, because I have decided to tell the world about this problem at the VA, the lawyer has informed me that he does not work with clients who speak publicly during a legal process against the government.

The lawyer informs me that what I am doing is what he considers a “public crusade against the US Department of Veterans Affairs,” and that he does not “work” like that.  He instead “works” between a client and the federal government due to “differences of opinion.”  This man is a military veteran himself, but after reading his legal bar biography, it becomes clear to me whose side he is actually on in this “public crusade” I am apparently undertaking.

I am not sure what part of “I was lied to multiple times, and held against my will” and “I have been compared to domestic terrorists instead of being properly medically and mentally treated at a government hospital” he didn’t understand, but apparently I am now “an intentionally nasty person” who he now “refuses to represent” in the court of law, thus furthering a potentially giant “narrative” against me if this ever comes to real blows in the real world.  How serendipitous that this fucking Baby Boomer won’t be my lawyer after this turn of events.

So it looks like I will continue to fight this fight alone, as I have always done, other than VA claims representation by the VFW.

America has become a lie.

The US Department of Veterans Affairs has become a lie.

The United States Constitution has become a lie.

Enjoy your Feast of The Einherjar.
Enjoy your Blot of The Ancestors.
Enjoy your Veterans’ Day.
Enjoy your Sunday, 11 November this year.

Dine today with the knowledge that these massive lies are going to unravel and burn beneath the weight of the boots of men, and that these fucking criminals will be held to account for their actions that caused me, and many other veterans and their families, to unnecessarily suffer through their bullshit and divisive crimes against humanity.

I refuse to die without honor, just like I refuse to commit suicide, and I refuse to stand idle while America and its veterans suffer beneath the specter of instability that proliferates a very real shadow government that currently exists throughout our country.

Word of advice to the shadow governors: I am a Village Stability Operations (VSO) veteran, and I fought your kind in the past across the planet.  I have no problem doing it again on my own soil, on behalf of my own blood, my own people, every man, woman, and child.

Don’t Tread on Me.  Don’t fuck with me.

-EJH

The Fading Names Upon My Palm: Afghanistan Update 13 NOV 2012

(Originally written and published on 13 November, 2012, at a remote Village Stability Platform (VSP), Kandahar Province, Afghanistan.  Originally written to friends and family back in America.)

(Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force – Afghanistan, or CJSOTF-A, required that no matter what, a Village Stability Platform or VSP always had to have one US Special Operations Forces Soldier on the premises.  I was that SOF Soldier, with six other conventional Army soldiers that day.  We had no medical personnel with us that day, and the rest of the reduced platoon-sized element was miles away.  This is our story.)

In times like these, the clock seems to stand still.  Yet when it’s over, one realizes just how much time has passed.  My eyes have grown weary.  The pots of coffee I have concocted continue to be made, with the utmost need to fill the coffee grounds filter to the limit.

The lines on my face feel more and more existent.  Some of our brothers are outside the wire as we hold down our Kandahar Province “Alamo.”  It’s our home, our fortress that was once a village elder’s large Qalat, or compound.  Its venerable mud walls shield us from prying Taliban and civilian eyes alike.  Seven men currently stand fast in this place while the rest have left to accomplish a mission.  We are the vanguard before they come back; we are on our own.

What transpired today will remain heavy, but for good in due time, on my heart.

It happened just before noon.  I had come from my four hour radio watch shift.  3 men accomplish this task in our operations center as we operate under the auspice of a skeleton crew.  The guard tower, what’s Mk 19 grenade machine gun and M249 Squad Automatic Weapon arm it; is occupied by the remaining 4 men.  A Special Operations Forces PSYOP Sergeant (me), some infantrymen, a cook, and a mechanic; we’re bonded by the hardship of “holding this shit down” while everyone else is gone.

I was just settling in to take a nap before I would have to come back on guard; when I got word that a MEDEVAC would need to be called.  My heart sank.  Just weeks ago, my comrade Sergeant Clinton Keith Ruiz was murdered by an Afghan Police Officer in a different province in Afghanistan.  This still weighed heavily on me.

At the moment, I tried running through the list of names, and the faces that held them.  The eyes, the smiles, the laughs of each of these men with whom I am bound by a cause, and a brotherhood.  Which one was it out there on that mission?  Was it gunfire?  An Improvised Explosive Device (IED)?  Something more sinister, like a rogue interpreter, or Afghan soldier who finally sank his cause’s teeth into an American soldier?

Quickly, I confirmed what this was.  Fortunately, I was quickly informed that it was actually two local civilians.  They had hit an IED, and were now outside our compound gate.  In a way, my feelings made more of a lateral move than a step forward or back in how my emotions ran.  This was still a bad situation.

We were undermanned, and we needed to think fast.  K, the other Sergeant still here, and I quickly formed a plan.  We were able to maintain security, keep at bay the worried and belligerent Afghans who brought the casualties here, keep the radio watch going, keep the tower manned, have the casualties brought in to the compound to be treated, and the other civilians who brought them here informed once this was complete.  We were “holding this shit down.”

B, an infantryman, and I began scrambling through the medical shed, grabbing and prepping all that we would need to treat and stabilize these two Afghans before a MEDEVAC bird could be called.  18 gauge intravenous needles, Ringer’s Lactate intravenous fluid, intravenous lines, medical tape, Ace bandages, tourniquets, rags, Combat Gauze, alcohol wipes, medical gloves, stretchers and saw horses on which they would lie, casualty feeder cards, blood pressure monitors, stethoscopes, trauma sheers, and numbers of other tools of the medical trade.

As it stands, when an American or partner nation military member is wounded, treatment does not have to be complete prior to a bird being called.  Time is of the essence to save a warrior’s life.  Civilian casualties, however, must be fully treated and stabilized in order to receive MEDEVAC.  This is to ensure all birds currently on station are being utilized at the utmost to support the fight, and the people fighting it.  It’s just the way it is; I don’t make the decisions.

My Combat Life Saver training, and other tidbits of medical knowledge, quickly flowed through the front lobe of my brain like some sort of fire hydrant completely open.  Tourniquets were applied to shattered legs.  I would tell them through my Afghan interpreter that the excruciating pain they felt from the tourniquets was a good thing.

“It means your leg is still alive, and the pain means the tourniquet is tight enough to stop your leg from bleeding.”

Ace bandages were wrapped around charred and bleeding shins that had been padded with hemostatic Combat Gauze.  The smell of blood and voided bowels have since been well known to my senses from this deployment; this situation was no different.  Afghan clothes were soaked with blood, one man had quite frankly shit himself, and his hand had been torn apart from the IED blast.  I maintained awareness of the situation, but tensions were high.

That being said, we were able to maintain a relative calmness frequently seen in a highly trained warrior doing the right thing.  We, as a group, hardly know each other except for a few weeks of interaction, but our just cause in protecting ourselves, innocent lives, and each other, rang true.  We were like a perfectly working machine, even without the years of team building.  I don’t even know some of my fellow soldiers’ first names, but today I was shoulder to shoulder with heroes, most of them less than 24 years old.

I took vitals on a man, counting his breaths, taking his pulse, constantly asking “Yuckh?  Yuckh?  Ya yuckh?  Jor-ee yuh?”  I would ask him in his native Pashto tonque.  “Cold?  Cold?  Not cold?  Okay?”  I was holding the man’s hand as he looked into my eyes, showing clear pain.  I didn’t want him to become cold, and go into shock.  He shook his head no.

“Ya.. ya..Jor-ee.”  No.. no.. I’m fine.

At one point before the helicopter arrived, he and I made hand gestures, coming to the conclusion that I should just put him in direct sunlight to stay warm.  I nodded, and helped get him there; his ankle was shattered, and the fracture had been open through the skin before we gave it a pressure dressing.

I ran to and from the treatment area and the operations center.  K, the other Sergeant, was busy sending up the MEDEVAC request while I relayed more administrative information to him.  He needed their names.  I quickly ran out to the treatment area, and with nothing but a permanent marker I had used to mark times on tourniquets, wrote the men’s names on the palm of my left hand: Sharafadin, and Sadullah.  Sadullah was beginning to get drowsy, and cold.  I made sure he was covered with a wool U.S. hospital blanket, and worked our interpreter to his limit, making sure he kept talking to the man to keep him awake.  I ran back to the operations center, and passed on the men’s names to K.  The bird was inbound.. Call Sign DUSTOFF.

We did what we could to stabilize them as best as possible, and scrambled to prepare to move them to our helicopter landing zone.  We were covered with their blood.  Used and broken medical gloves, gauze packets, used and bloody tourniquets, torn apart Afghan clothing; remnants of medical care laid everywhere in bloody heaps on the gravel that had been laid in the common areas of our qalat (Afghan compound).  We loaded the two men onto the civilian all terrain vehicles (ATVs) we press into military service.

D and I made our way to an RG-31, and readied it for landing zone security.  We could hear DUSTOFF coming, the UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter’s rotors slapping through the sky, creating a static electricity that, had this taken place at night, would create an eerie spinning glow.  K and B moved toward the gate in one ATV as M brought the other.  Our interpreter was there every step of the way, keeping the worse man awake and talking.

DUSTOFF’s pilot strained his voice across the crackling, secured radio communications net, and we gave him the Landing Zone Brief.

“DUSTOFF, LZ is secure, no current threat assessed, method of marking is yellow smoke, and be advised that there is a tall object 70 meters to the west of the HLZ.  Popping smoke.”

DUSTOFF saw the smoke as it rushed from the smoke grenade.  I gunned the RG-31 armored truck out the gate with the ATVs quickly coming behind me.  The UH-60 Blackhawk plunged through a thick cloud of moon dust onto our Helicopter Landing Zone (HLZ).  D manned the M240 machine gun and minigun mounted in the RG-31’s turret as I maneuvered us into our security position.

The village next to us now gave us an audience, one of which I was careful to watch every few seconds.  Dozens of children and adults looked on as the dark machine dropped from the sky with a large red cross on a white background emblazoned along its fuselage.  We were not the first American warriors to sacrifice these moments of fleeting youth to save the innocent; we won’t be the last.

Yellow smoke from the M18 smoke grenade poured out to the west as the rotor wash sent smoke and Afghan moon dust everywhere.  The crew of the helicopter met K, M, and B as they made their way to the helicopter cabin with the casualties.  At this point, we were leaving their well-being in the hands of a higher power, and higher headquarters.  They’d be taking the men to a hospital to be treated.  I don’t think the helicopter was even on the ground for more than two minutes.  It went “wheels up” in another flurry of moon dust, and D seemed entranced by the sheer might and ability of our military and combined arms utilization.

Hours would pass, during which time I wiped down areas where bloody hands had touched surfaces.  Bio-hazardous materials like used gloves, tourniquets, used intravenous supplies, and clothes were burned in the burn barrel.  The medical and triage areas were again prepared for patients; the war doesn’t just stop after something like this.

In these processes, hand sanitizer managed to erase some of the writing on my palm.

I look down at my hands now, and see dirt and grime near permanently affixed to the creases and cracks in my weathered hands.  And on my left palm, the names of Sharafadin and Sadullah are all but gone except for where the ink had soaked deeply.  I feel though, that unlike their fading names, the two men will return to us, and their village, fixed and healthy; so long as their Afghan hospital allows proper healing and treatment to grace them.

Another day down in the history books kept in my mind.  I am expecting six more months of this place.. I’ll talk to you soon.

-EJH