Veteran of Wars Foreign and Domestic by Phillip Hoyle

A Meditation on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

I first met my Vet buddy at a bar during Friday night Happy Hour. Friends that my partner Jim and I meet there had met the Vet a few weeks before. I found my emotions drawing me to this rather dark-skinned Mexican-American man. He was fine looking, shorter than I, with spiky black hair, excellent vocabulary, effective humor, and sparkling dark eyes—all things I tend to find attractive. The talk that evening was superficial, but I did discover he was about my age. Over the course of several months, I learned more. He was reared in a startlingly rough place, had an abusive father, served the US in the jungles of Viet Nam, married after the war, fathered several children, received a college education, divorced over his homosexuality, and had lived several places around Colorado. I was thoroughly enjoying a new friendship with an unusual and intelligent Veteran.

I watched the Happy Hour group in relationship to this intriguing man. He was in and out of the group, sometimes not showing up when he said he would be there. His unpredictability irked some others in the group, placing him on the outer edge socially. I noted his alcohol consumption and its effect. Gray Goose and Mojitos seemed his preference. “No wine,” he’d say. “You don’t give wine to an Indian.” He introduced several other folk to our group: a younger man of great beauty, a middle-age lesbian who seemed quite bright, a male prostitute, and other occasional passers-by. Then there were family members: a sister, her husband, a son, a nephew, a niece and her husband.

When he was absent, I yearned. My mind and feelings and eventually my body reached out for this man. My partner was jealous, angry.

I heard my mojito drinker say:
“I’m not going to his apartment with you two…” He was cautious.
“My granddaughter is so beautiful…” He felt family pride.
“Come to my birthday party…” He extended hospitality.
“Can we meet for coffee? …” He greeted me with openness.
And one night when he was so drunk as to be falling off the barstool, “want you…” desire.

As much as I liked him, I thought, “No way.” Well-defended me, I wanted more of this man but was aware such a relationship would demand treatment with kid gloves in order not to be a disaster for my partnership, the group, and this Vet’s life. I did nothing regretful; my partner and I weathered the feelings.

Still my Vet and I shared a feeling of accord. So we occasionally continued to meet for coffee. We talked, joked, sipped our coffee, and in general developed warm personal feelings without the aid of alcohol. There were phone calls, mostly voice messages, and some email contacts. Ours was a low-intensity courtship of like minds, of disparate life experiences, and of mutual attraction.

In this man I observed traits of:
“An educated culture”
“A pursuit of Aztec identity”
“Alcoholism”

“Disintegration” and

“Pain”

From him, I eventually heard diagnostic words his medics used:
“Depression”
“PTSD issues”
“Disability”
“A change of meds”

I ached with sympathy. Realizing I was privy to information the rest of the Happy Hour guys didn’t know, I carefully and indirectly doled out illness information to keep my Veteran of Wars within the circle.

War. In my years of church work, I had observed how war often defines the spirituality of men who went to war young and became men by becoming soldiers. With my Vet, I saw how war can wreck the physical and psychological health of folk and often does. I saw how its effects bring conflict into families and into one’s broader social relationships. I saw how its traumas amplify the already existing distress of an individual’s life. I realized one can be reared in the war zone of a family and then go to war for one’s nation. My vet suffered the effects of PTSD from wars both domestic and foreign.

We met the other day, my Vet and I, for coffee and conversation. Still something smolders in our relationship, but neither of us moves to fan the flames. We sipped our coffee, talked, laughed, listened, and smiled—no, beamed—at one another. We bear small gifts of concern and love. I hugged this beautiful warrior in parting. I hope the rest of his life will somehow honor the conditions at war within him, helping bring him security, balm, hope, and healing. I’ll continue to offer my friendship and love. What else? “Qué sera, sera.”

© Denver, 2010 

About the Author 

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com