"Homebrew. Pills? Whiskey. Pick one." He manages a small, hollow chuckle. He keeps saying he doesn't have PTSD, doesn't need help, but he knows what self-medication looks like. Knows every way the other vets dress them up in their spiels. 'Helps me get through the day'. 'I feel safer to be around'. 'I know I won't need them anymore one day, but'.
He's got none of that to offer. Only this sense of meaninglessness. Like he'd put too much faith into this idea of closure when it never really existed to begin with. Everything still feels broken and he's probably made things worse instead of fixing anything.
His shoulders sink and his posture slumps a little more, though he's more defeated than tired.
"It's fucked up, right? When you have good dreams about Afghanistan and- bad ones about your own family."
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He's got none of that to offer. Only this sense of meaninglessness. Like he'd put too much faith into this idea of closure when it never really existed to begin with. Everything still feels broken and he's probably made things worse instead of fixing anything.
His shoulders sink and his posture slumps a little more, though he's more defeated than tired.
"It's fucked up, right? When you have good dreams about Afghanistan and- bad ones about your own family."