That Others May Live: An Airman’s Mental Health and Medication Hurricane

“Take me to jail,” I’d said, according to the arrest report. “You don’t have to give me the field sobriety test. Just take me in.”

For years, I’d been experiencing compounding stressors that were co-occurring, the frequency and severity of which had recently escalated. Seven months earlier, my only brother, a veteran of the Marine Corps, had died by suicide—he’d been prescribed lithium and his life had followed a precipitous descent since taking the drug. Weeks later, I provided relief response for three consecutive hurricanes. After that, in Vegas where I was stationed, I was tasked with finding missing Airmen after the largest mass shooting in history. At the time I was between units and trying to manage overlapping duties. Two other Airmen I knew took their own lives. All of this occurred within a six-month period. Each time I went to the mental health clinic on base for help with my grief, I was offered medications. Though I have no memory of the arrest, I’d apparently called my Commanding Officer to apologize for my egregious integrity violation. I was eighteen months short of military retirement when I woke up in jail.

I grew up in the suburbs of Milwaukee, playing with G.I. Joes, collecting Topps Desert Shield & Desert Storm trading cards, and shopping at the army surplus store. I played “war” in the woods of southern Wisconsin and northern Illinois with my brother and cousins. When high school graduation approached, I didn’t really know what I wanted to do. A persuasive recruiter and my strong performance on the Air Force’s Special Warfare Physical Ability Stamina Test (PAST), combined with inspirational stories from the first Gulf War, led me to consider a career in the USAF. In September of 1999, I began Air Force Basic Military Training.

“War Cry For Change”: Veterans Launch Campaign for Informed Consent and Safe Deprescribing at the VA

After boot camp and follow-on training, I joined a unit of real-life G.I. Joes. November, 2000, I deployed overseas to Kuwait. I thrived in this new structured environment, motivated by a desire to serve my country. I enjoyed the rigor, embraced the core values of the Air Force, and respected my fellow servicemen.

During that deployment, my mother passed away in 2001. I was prescribed SSRI antidepressants and continued to perform my duties. When my grandmother died in 2005, my struggles deepened and I was prescribed a second set of SSRIs. Though my aggressive health regimen hadn’t changed, I subsequently failed an Air Force Fitness Test for the first time in 2006.

In 2014, I took emergency leave from Afghanistan to be with my brother. He was in intensive care after attempting to end his own life. I returned to duty as soon as he was pronounced stable. I’d go on to become an Air Force First Sergeant later that summer and would succeed right away in this position.

My abilities here were sharpened over the next 18 months and I was honored to be selected as the 2016 Air Combat Command First Sergeant of the Year and, shortly after, promoted to Senior Master Sergeant (E-8). My Air Force career was flying high, but as my trauma and grief piled up, it all came to a crashing halt.

“Something has to change, undeniable dilemma” — Tool

Assigned to a Pararescue unit as their First Sergeant in July 2017, I was responsible for advising the Commander on anything related to the health, morale, and welfare of all assigned Airmen and their families. My bags were packed and I was off to the Air Force Senior NCO (SNCO) Academy in Alabama, eager to continue sharpening my leadership skills among the best that our services and coalition partners had to offer.

The first few weeks were met with academic rigor and research. Luckily, there were several familiar faces and friends I was easily able to reconnect with at the Academy. Our class was bonding quickly. We’d just completed one of our major speaking assignments and were heading out as a class for a celebratory dinner when my stepmother sent a text urging me to call immediately. I pulled off to the side of the road and she delivered the devastating news that my brother had taken his own life.

The Guardian Angels—as Pararescuemen are sometimes called, known for taking care of their own, operating in silence, and focusing on their duties without seeking recognition—quickly came to my family’s aid. They checked in on my parents who were then at my home and they covered my duties while I made preparations to attend my brother’s memorial service.

My brother’s loss was compounded by a series of traumatic events over the next several months. Within a short period, our unit was tasked with responding to hurricanes Harvey, Irma, and Maria. My role was to prepare equipment and ensure the well-being of rescue teams’ families before they left for affected areas. Grief-stricken, I continued taking my SSRIs as prescribed. As I did, I began drinking more and more.

Because of my promotion, I was reassigned to a new unit on Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas, NV, with greater responsibility. My immediate leadership pushed against the transfer, knowing I was in crisis, to no avail. I bade farewell on my 37th birthday, September 29, and prepared to take over at the new unit the following Monday.

That Sunday, October 1, 2017, the largest mass shooting in American history happened at the Route 91 Festival. Chaos ensued as my duty phone rang off the hook. Because I was transitioning between units, I found myself managing simultaneous duties from both the old and new, trying to account for over a thousand Airmen who may have attended the event. I could barely process anything that was going on and resorted to self-medicating even further. Though I knew I was not okay, I kept plugging through. A timely intervention by a trusted Chaplain encouraged me to be honest with myself, and get help. I sought treatment.

As usual, I was first met with questions of readiness. Can you do your job? Can you deploy? I was always able to keep working; it was time off, after hours, when the weight of my grief engulfed me. As the questions about my abilities to function continued, the cocktail of medications I was prescribed expanded, and I began attending talk therapy. Because of my mother’s, brother’s, and my own past experiences with antidepressants and mood stabilizers, I was very apprehensive about these drugs, but I trusted the prescribers. Temporarily reassigned to an alternate duty location, I began to build trust with the therapist and for a time I gave the impression to those around me, and myself, that I was doing better.

A month later, my leadership and I felt that I was well enough to return to the SNCO Academy in January, 2018 to complete the training program I left when my brother died. Motivated by my brother’s loss and very supportive friends and colleagues, I graduated the course with honors and was nominated for the top leadership award.

I thought I was on a brief path to recovery and believed I was in a good position to return to my First Sergeant duties. Tragedy struck again when I was notified of the death by suicide of a fellow SNCO with whom I’d spent every day on duty caring for Airmen at a maintenance unit. On the day of his funeral, I saw an ominous social media post by another Airman I’d previously supervised. News broke later that day: He had taken the lives of his family and then died by suicide. I broke down. In my tears I asked myself and God, “Why is this happening?”

Though devastated by trauma and grief, I was committed as ever to meeting the needs of my Airmen. I distracted myself with what I knew best: I returned to duty, attended heavy metal concerts, and took care of people. I couldn’t pull myself out of the emotional abyss I was in and continued trying to numb the pain—outside of work—with alcohol. My interaction with others became increasingly transactional, based upon what I could do for them, while my soul longed for depth, human connection, and healing. I continued to take my pills (Lexapro) as prescribed, even though this SSRI made me crave alcohol more and more. I now know the problem compounded when my drinking shifted from social to secluded. This led to the worst mistake of my life. I drove under the influence, a choice I will always regret.

“The opposite of addiction… is connection.” — Johann Hari

To my shame and embarrassment, a fellow First Sergeant picked me up from jail. I was subsequently stripped of my professional duties and purpose. I spent the next three months in and out of partial hospitalization and intensive outpatient programs for substance use and post-traumatic stress. A new regimen of SSRIs plus Buspirone were prescribed. I didn’t know exactly what each one did or how they interacted. They came with warnings of increased thoughts of suicide as a side effect, and left me feeling uneasy. My demeanor and mood were flattened. As I read more about the medications I was on, I found that one of them, Lexapro, can have the side effect of causing alcohol cravings. How I’d remain sober while being on this drug was a bit of a mystery. My existence was aimless. I’m so thankful that a fellow First Sergeant was holding onto my firearms.

Another Guardian Angel, a military substance abuse technician and volunteer mentor for the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors (TAPS), gave me a gift—a connection—that jump-started my journey to grief recovery. I attended my first event with TAPS in June of 2018 and immediately found transformative support. I took the first real step toward sobriety and began processing my trauma. TAPS is especially well-equipped in aiding survivors of suicide loss. As Dr. Shauna Springer, one of my mentors, iterates, “When we connect, we survive.”

I leaned into others who were living a sober lifestyle. A fellow wingman introduced me to movement and breathwork techniques such as Qi Gong, Wim Hof Method, and holotropic breathing. Sobriety, social interaction, movement, and holistic healing methods proved to work for me. This came at a critical point as I was soon to be out of uniform.

People Over Pills

My retirement from the Air Force in 2020 was medically mandated due to the volume and intensity of the therapy I was attending over the previous eighteen months—combined with the medications I was prescribed. Not addressing some of the trauma and loss from my past also contributed. The delicate balance between seeking treatment and performing military duties is about as thin as a sheet of ice on one of the Great Lakes.

Military transition is a crazy space where you lose immediate and ongoing connection to peers and purpose. Separating and retiring service members and their families must navigate a complex sea of resources on national, state, and local levels. Many great organizations such as the Air Force Wounded Warrior Program, Stop Soldier Suicide, Mission 22, Merging Vets and Players, and Irreverent Warriors bridge this social gap well, and each helped me immensely with my unplanned retirement.

In April of 2020, while I was transitioning out of the military, another new (to me) VA provider prescribed Sertraline (Zoloft) to replace the Lexapro they’d had me on since 2018. Lifestyle factors, physical activity, and other treatment options were not discussed.

While I was fortunate to complete twenty years of service, thus qualifying for retirement benefits, I sought counseling outside the VA through a nonmilitary provider in 2021. By then, I was so frustrated with the constant turnover of VA counselors, which forced me to retell and relive my trauma over and over again without action toward or evidence of recovery. At this time I all but gave up on the VA and instead used my health insurance to access a civilian counselor. At last, I am truly healing. I’ve built a trusting relationship with a mental health counselor because of the consistency and reliability of care. Long, mindful endurance cycling rides with others through the rolling Red Rock landscape of the desert southwest have become my antidepressant.

“I’ve seen rock bottom, and I’ve smashed my fist against it.” — Jesse Leach, Killswitch Engage

I’ve had both positive and negative experiences with VA providers. Alternative, holistic treatment options were often blocked though. I was told I had to fail other treatment modalities—primarily consisting of medications—before obtaining newer treatment options, such as the Stellate Ganglion Block and Hyperbaric Oxygen Chambers. Coincidentally, I took steps outside the VA to go through these treatment options because of the insurmountable red tape. The current prescribing practices I experienced in and out of uniform created cycles of addiction that were counter to what I needed to be doing to recover. While the VA has made strides to incorporate innovation into their facilities, we need to move away from a model in which there is so much focus on medication for stabilization.

In June, 2024, I felt myself slipping into a depressive episode, so I inquired at my local VA about an upcoming Ketamine trial. The provider told me that I was likely not a good candidate for that treatment and that I would need to try out more medications—and have those therapies classified as failures—to be diagnosed with “treatment-resistant depression,” for which Ketamine is presently approved.

Instead, the VA psychiatrist offered lithium, even when I expressed my concern that several of my now-deceased relatives had extremely negative reactions to that particular drug. The mere mention of lithium triggered my grief and sent me through a series of rapid flashbacks, conversations with my mom and brother. I never heard anything positive about their reactions to lithium from them or anyone else. Angry but no longer surprised, I left the VA and returned to cycling, counseling, advocacy, and connection.

My story is a testament to how far we have yet to go in expanding treatment modalities. There are no “one size fits all” solutions. I desire to see care models that emphasize the importance of honesty and vulnerability in individual and collective journeys toward growth and recovery. We tend to struggle in isolation. It’s natural to believe that you’re the only one going through something, that you are the only person who can understand your struggle. Throughout my recovery journey, I learned that there are many others who shared and understood my experiences. I learned I didn’t have to do this alone. It took a small army of my brothers and sisters in and out of uniform to drag me out of my abyss.

I believe we must continue to break barriers and drive change for an inefficient, bureaucratic system. There are others who didn’t make it home, or who lost the war at home… That’s what this is about. In the spirit of the Pararescuemen who were there for me when I was at my lowest, “These things we do, so others may live.”

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Editor’s note: This personal story is published through a collaboration with the Gruntstyle Foundation, a non-profit veterans organization that has mounted a campaign for “informed consent” and safe deprescribing of psychiatric drugs. Mad in America is supporting the initiative by publishing the stories of veterans harmed by psychiatric drugs. Members of the veterans community can submit their stories to the Gruntstyle Foundation here.