John Fleegel

This is my story. I’ll start from the beginning.

I joined the Marine Corps in 2004 and ended up in 3rd Battalion 8th Marines. My

first deployment was in January 2005 to Fallujah, Iraq. We were living outside the

city in a small town called Karma. We set up a small two platoon-sized patrol base

and three observation points throughout the small city and one on the border of

Fallujah propper, the rest of the city was one of the few places in the area

miraculously still untouched.

The war started for me one month into that first delpolyment on February 21st 2005.

I was in a convoy en route back from a hostile area when the vehicle I was riding in

was hit by an IED. Thirteen of us sustained moderate to severe injuries, were

treated, and got back into the fight. One didn’t make it home.

3/8 got home took 45 days off and started the workup for another trip to Iraq, but

this time we were headed to Ramadi. Fallujah was hard but Ramadi was an entirely

different animal. The higher operational tempo and nature of our mission there made

for some stressful moments. I remember telling my girlfriend (now wife)”this place

is not so bad” while Dan Rather was on the TV in the background diming me out,

announcing Ramadi as the most dangerous place on earth.

My third deployment took me on the 22nd MEU. This consisted of copious amounts of

drinking followed by weeks to months of nothingness with some training and

humanitarian missions thrown in there. Looking back I can see that this was the

first time PTSD reared its head for me although I didn’t see it at the time.

Fast forward to 2008. I had my DD214 in hand by April and was moving to a new

city/state by December. I was doing well, or so I thought. I was getting my VA

claim in order, enjoying a new city living the newlywed life. We had jobs, were

working on friends everything was great.

Then sometime after the new year everything shattered. Even now I’m not sure what

triggered it, but something inside me gave way. We had been out at the bars that

night. Was it the alcohol that brought up memories from somewhere locked away?

Whatever it was it broke me. I became depressed, hopelessly and utterly broken. I

became a recluse. I had soul crushing anxiety all the time for seemingly no

reason. My wife would have to coax me out to see friends only for me to hardly

engage. The worst part was that I had no idea why I was so depressed. I refused to

believe that I was weak enough to have PTSD.

This went on for almost two years. I searched for ways to make sense of everything.

I considered re-enlisting, joining another branch, all of these were non-starters.

I watched deployment videos trying to regain some of the feelings I had when I

thought I was invincible. I even found the video the insurgents took when they blew

up my vehicle.

All of this just pushed me further into my depression. I was with my wife, but I

was alone. Then I started getting phone calls.

My friends were dying. It seemed like every couple of weeks I would get a phone

call about another one of my friends dying. They were succumbing to their demons.

These brave men, my brothers whom I fought next too, who I bled with, who we

promised to do everything to make it home together, were taking their own lives.

Late one night I got a call from a brother. One of our own was in a hospital near

me. He had made an attempt on his life but was saved by some concerned friends at

college. I made the hour long drive in 40 minutes and told the desk nurse I was a

direct relative. When I walked into the room I saw a man I served with, fought

with, bled with. I saw a broken man. Just like me.

After this experience, things started to change a little bit. I started to realize

that I was not the only one dealing with this. I started to reach out to my

brothers. After a few months and a few reconnections I had what I call an epiphany.

It was more of a realization. I have PTSD.

This was the start of my recovery. When I finally let myself accept what was wrong

with me I found hope. PTSD is manageable. It gave me an “enemy” to fight. I

started to exercise and lose some of the fat I’d accumulated over the past two

years. I started looking for jobs with my particular infantry skill set. I was

back on track and starting to feel better. I found a contracting job, and it fit

the bill.

I was still too overweight to get the job so I started an extreme regiment of diet

and exercise. I accomplished my weight loss and fitness goals in a few short months.

I made contact with the company, interviewed, and landed a spot.

The day before I intended to sign the contract tragedy struck. While out

celebrating my goal achievements and job landing I rolled my ankle on some

cobblestone and destroyed my leg along with any chance of contracting. I had a high

ankle fracture with a 180-degree rotation of my foot. It was gross. I was sure

that I was going to slip back into my depression, but for some reason, I didn’t.

Things got better. I landed a very good sales job in which I excelled. I attended

school and applied the discipline learned during my time in the Corps to a dual

major. I nailed the Dean’s list every semester. All of this has led me to where I

am today. I’m outgoing, I regularly socialise, and love my job.

My story might sound dark and depressing (except the end). It was but all of those

phone calls from my friends no matter what the news gave me crucial contact. They

were checking up on me. Looking back I see that I clung to that contact, it fueled

me and made me feel not alone.

Most of all the reason I am number 23 is my wife. She was with me 100% of the way

guiding me through even the darkest of times. Forcing me to interact with society

even though I was resistant. She knew who I was before the war and she was slowly

piecing me back together after. I leaned hard on her; she was the guiding light

that made self-harm unimaginable. She continued (and still does to this day) to

believe in me and help me be a better version of myself.

If readers take in only one thing from my story, I hope that it is the fact that

you’re never alone. Your brothers are always with you, your family, and friends are

with you. They may never understand what it is you are going through but they don’t

have to, they can still be your anchor.