I don’t particularly appreciate using that term because it is overused. In this case, if you are easily offended or if sexual assault is disturbing to you… Stop, right here.

What the? I am awake in a cold sweat. It’s that time of year, and I am awake with memories of something nearly 30 years ago that happened on a very long night while I was in Kuwait after Desert Storm.

Once again, What the? Awake in a cold sweat, and I am home with Leonard lying on my legs. Dang dog, but I am nice to Leonard because I know I found another in a long line of really good dogs.  I brush him with my feet and lay there for a bit, still recovering when the feelings of dread and doom set in.  I quickly have to stop the thoughts that “the world is a bad place” and the desire to jump right up.  I lay there for a bit and look at messages that I got yesterday evening when I fell asleep way too early. I need to pee, but I realize that I am frozen with fear.

Wait, fear? Why? Oh yeah, it’s him again, and I think, well, maybe some water and trip the bathroom.

Shit, still can’t move. What the hell is going on? Then I think, yeah, the dream.  I am back in Kuwait; it is 1991.  We came in the country at the end of the little war and stayed until December when the last oil fire was put out. We spent a lot of boring time post-war breathing oil fire smoke (over 200 oil wells were lit on fire by Iraq as they turned tail and ran after the ground war started) and doing sometimes exciting missions dealing with insurgents. One night in the border camp we were in, I woke up to a dude that was in my Battalion but not my company, sticking his penis in my mouth.  I woke up because I was choking, which the little fuck was doing while he had his penis in my mouth.  I was frozen in the moment because, honestly, I was waking up, and here was CPL, what’s his name, with his dick in my mouth choking me. When I finally was coherent and starting to process it, he ejaculated and then said, “tastes good, doesn’t fag.” Words I remember as if they were just spoken.  Oh, wait, they were in my dream. He does it every time.  If that wasn’t bad enough, my platoon sergeant at the time was standing in the door way as an accomplice to make sure no one walked in and caught CPL fuckface (see what I did there?) while he did the late-night deed. I would later be verbally abused by this same platoon sergeant and reported to CID, ya know, because apparently, I like a dick in my mouth.

Fuck him.

The assault was before don’t ask, don’t tell.  I believed in the military’s mission, and honestly, as I have said before, offered me a chance at a better life than the one that lay in front of me.  I served in silence, meaning that my sexuality was secret, and I was cautious (sometimes) to not have any sex with another soldier (especially in my unit).

Since we know I am gay and do like a little sex now and then, I like to choose my sex partners, and honestly, this guy wouldn’t be one. We all know (unless you are living in a weird alternate universe) this had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with my platoon sergeant and his little buddy having power over me.

Please make no mistake; rape is not an act because someone is horned up; it is an act of intimidation and power.

Part of my PTSD comes from this; there are other components to it. Most trauma can be overcome, and often, believe it or not; a person can recover.  Most PTSD is not a short term thing; although it can be in some situations, it is usually a chronic condition. It has a lifelong negative impact on a person’s interactions with other people and your time alone. It is a frequent cause of suicide among veterans and non-veterans.

In the vernacular of things, my rape is classified as Military sexual trauma (MST).  It is what many of the folks who have turned up dead at Ft. Hood have experienced. Military sexual trauma claims in 2019 totaled more than the number of names on the Vietnam war memorial.  As my friend Paul (@paul_mst on the twitter) put it approximately 63,000 claims to the Veteran’s administration for PTSD related to MST.

MST is the ugly side of the armed forces that they hope will disappear because they cannot gain any control of it.  Too often, unit commanders sweep this behavior away with the “boys will be boys” line, or honestly, they will view the person who reports it as weak. It took me almost 25 years before enough of that night surfaced in my memory for me to remember I was raped.  Oh, it sat out there as one of those delusional dreams that you think, did that happen?

My unit was at times like a frat house. “Boys will be boys,” is what I frequently heard as an excuse for hazing that often rolled down the road of sexual. I was even told later that my rape probably wasn’t directed as anything but a “joke.” A joke? Nothing is joking about choking someone while you stick your penis in their mouth as deep as it will go.

My platoon leader told me last year that he knew something happened that night because my entire demeanor changed, and I went from being comfortable in my job and my role.  He didn’t know what to say or do, and the same platoon sergeant told him not to interfere.  As I said, commands sweep shit under the rug hoping it will go away.

I have always struggled with my interactions with others because of this desire to stay isolated from people. I mean, if you don’t interact, you can’t be hurt.

This carried into going back to school.  College was an insane hill to climb.  What had been easy before became difficult. I had trouble concentrating and barely passed.

My master’s degree brought me to the brink of suicide. The story is a long one, so that is for another time.  I am going to continue with what certainly my piss you off about MST

Be the kind of person your dog and your mom think you are.