Mark Owen: No Hero

It was toward the end of the day when Gerry and I got to the psych office. I don’t remember if it was my appointment or Gerry’s, but when the two of us walked into the office, the psychologist was taken aback. She was pregnant, about three weeks away from popping. She looked as tired as we did.

“Listen, you don’t have much time,” Gerry said, pointing at her stomach. “We’re going to save you an extra thirty minutes by doing our sessions at the same time.”

After thinking about it a minute, she waved us both into her office. Gerry folded his more-than-six-foot-five-inch body into the couch. I took a seat across from the psychologist. She sat in an office chair with a notepad.

“We’re going to talk about some stuff, some sensitive things. Are you guys OK with doing this together?” she said.

“Gerry knows everything about me,” I said. “And I know everything about him. We’re good.”

“OK,” she said, taking out her pen and starting on some forms.

For most of the thirty minutes she asked us questions about how we were handling stress and if we had any PTSD symptoms. I can remember her handing us a sheet of paper with a list of symptoms on it. I took a second and quickly read down the list. The symptoms included trouble sleeping, avoiding crowds, and keeping your back to the wall in a restaurant.

I chuckled to myself as I finished.

“Holy shit, I think I have every single one of these,” I thought.

I didn’t live my life differently, but I definitely felt the effects of just about every single symptom.

I smiled at the doctor and didn’t say a word.

When Gerry was done, it was my turn to ask some questions.

“Why are we not more fucked up?” I asked. “Why are we not more messed up from the shit that we’ve seen? You talk about PTSD. Gerry and I have been trained to deal with just about every combat or tactical situation that can be thrown at us, but we’ve never had one second of training to deal with the emotional side of things.”

She nodded.

“The best way I can describe it is BUD/S,” she said.

The mental fortitude, the determination and drive you learn in BUD/S, also helps in combat. We’re pushed beyond our mental and physical limits in BUD/S. I learned that I could perform well beyond what I thought were my limits. Because of this, the doctor said we were stronger than the average person.

“So the mental toughness I learned and used to get through BUD/S training is the same I use to overcome combat stress?” I said.

The psychologist smiled.

“It isn’t that simple,” she said. “But BUD/S does help because most of the training is based on mental toughness. It doesn’t hurt that SEALs are all like-minded individuals. Each and every one of you volunteered time and time again to be in combat situations.”

She was right. I had known early on in my career that I wanted to be in the line of fire. I accepted the risk, but I also knew it was a challenge I wanted to meet head-on. Would I be able to face the stress of combat and not just curl up in a ball? I guess in a way I knew that being able to push yourself beyond your limits was not only a key to being a SEAL, but a key to a successful life.

“So are you saying BUD/S made me stronger? Or BUD/S just weeded out the weak?” I asked.

I stumped her with that one. Before she could answer, Gerry jumped in.

“I think we’re just mentally stronger than everyone else on the planet,” he said with a smile.

He was obviously fucking around.

Looking back, he was showing the doctor how we dealt with the stress with humor. When the going gets rough, we were always really good at changing the subject. We blocked things out or made light of it and moved on. There was no way that we could comprehend all that we’d seen and done. It was easier to just make a joke and ignore it.

We left the doctor’s office after our thirty minutes and never said another word about it. We had checked the box off our list and could now go on leave. Of course, we would get only about two weeks off until it was time to jump back on the speeding train and begin training and deploying all over again.

Over time, I started to sleep better, and there was some comfort knowing I was strong enough to compartmentalize the traumatic experiences I’d had overseas. I still have the list that the doctor gave me. From time to time, I read over it, and I still have every single symptom on the list. From the helicopter crash on the raid to that small malnourished Iraqi cat licking the pool of blood from the fighter’s head, each experience had its own compartment. The symptoms didn’t go away even after I got out of the Navy. I just choose to block them out.

We all deal with the stress of combat in different ways. The way that I’ve dealt with it isn’t perfect and certainly isn’t for everyone. Being a SEAL is a tough life and career. The sacrifices go far beyond what I’d ever imagined, but if asked whether I would do it all over again, my answer, without hesitation, would be simple.

Yes.

On my last day in the Navy, I made the rounds at the command, making sure all my paperwork was complete.

It was a beautiful spring day and I’d already cleaned out my cage and said goodbye to my troop. For the past couple of months, I’d been stressing about the decision. I’d been going hard for thirteen straight combat deployments with no breaks. For the first time in my career, I admitted that I was tired, even exhausted. The pace of constant deployment, training, deployment, and more training had started to take its toll. I always figured I’d make it twenty years in the SEALs or die trying. Getting out was a massive decision and couldn’t be made in a vacuum.

I made the decision the same way I would make a choice in combat. I hit up my swim buddies first to test the water. To a man, they all thought I was crazy. I had fourteen years in the Navy and I needed only six more to earn my pension. But my enlistment was up and I had to make a decision. I could either sign up for four more years with one more deployment and then get moved to an administrative job, or get out and take a shot at some sort of regular civilian life.

I’d almost completed my team leader time, which is arguably the best job at the command. The only thing I had to look forward to beyond this position was becoming troop chief. But I’d have to endure at least two years in a training job until then. The war in Afghanistan was dying down, and with the new rules of engagement, we knew that any “good operating” with just the guys on your team was almost completely gone. Deployments were starting to drag on, with little action. I had joined to fight, not sit around.

The command master chief pulled me into his office. He’d heard about my decision to not reenlist and wanted to discuss it with me. He was a great leader with a no-bullshit attitude. He was well respected in the command and I owed him an explanation for why I was leaving.

“So I hear you’re done,” he said as I sat down.

I nodded.

“I’m cooked,” I said. “I feel like if I don’t make a move now, I’ll be stuck in the Navy with another four-year commitment, and I’m not sure this job is still what I signed up to do.”

“I understand,” the master chief said. “I’ve got over twenty years in and even thought about getting out myself on several occasions before my twenty years. You’ve only got six years left, though, and you’re a huge asset to the team. We’d hate to lose you.”

I thanked the master chief for the kind words, but I’d made my decision. There wasn’t really anything he could say to change my mind.