I was Rescued by the United States Coast Guard

 

 

 

I was rescued by the United States Coast Guard.  On an average day, in addition to all of the other duties and responsibilities - maritime law enforcement sorties, drug interdiction operations, pollution investigations, marine inspections, security boardings, and infrastructure waterborne patrols - assets of our nation's smallest military will preserve $1.2 million in property and conduct 45 search and rescue cases.  And ten lives will be saved.  Ten.  Each day.  Since 2000, each year, the Coast Guard saves more than 4,500 individuals.

But I'm not one of those.  No.  The Coast Guard saved me in another way.

A year ago this month, a substantial, often times burdensome, cornerstone ingredient of my life and who I had become as a person ended.  I had been a law enforcement officer for most of my existence on this planet.  And as most police officers will tell you, it was far more than a job.  It was a compass.  My morale bearing, which shaped my vision of life and lives.  My life and the lives of everyone I touched, both personally and professionally, and both good and bad.

It takes a certain kind of person to become a public servant.  You are giving yourself to others.  Every.  Day.  You experience the underbelly of society.  The sickness that plagues our world.  And yet, you continue to give, to sacrifice, to care, and to protect.  To do, what you believe, is the right thing.

When I was a freshman in college, I had competed in soccer for 13 or so years to that point.  As with being a police officer later in life, playing European football was who I was.  I loved playing it, just as I would revere my career in law enforcement years later.  But during practice one August afternoon, I felt excruciating, searing pain in the lower half of my right leg.  I dropped.  And that was essentially the end of it.  My soccer days were behind me.  I suffered an extensive linear tear of my gastrocnemius muscle.  Scar tissue developed as deep tissue massages by my team's trainer tried to keep it at bay.  But there were no more intense hill climbs or sprints.  Spirited practices or fierce games.  I had to hang up my cleats.  My days of playing the game I loved for years was no longer within my capacity.  Bullshit, I thought.  I was not ready to have it end.  It was my call to make when I wanted to make it.  Yet, there are some influences that are out of my control.  I could've limped along, but that wasn't my creed.  I wanted to be the best I could be in whatever I committed myself to.

And just like as that muscle rip was one of many I suffered while running up and down grass fields, I sustained injuries as well during my professional career running from call to call.  Hence, when I had to hang up my gun and badge, like the cleats and shin guards before them, I did so, not because I wanted to, but because I had to.  The time had come.  Policing is a young person's game.  All my traumas caught up with me.  Scars and fractures riddled inside me.

But serving others does not leave you.  It is you.  So, I needed something.  I could feel myself starting to drown in emptiness and loss.  By November 2019, I was wrapping up my sixteenth year in the Coast Guard Reserve and had stepped into serving again as my lifeblood.  The Coast Guard, as it has done longer than any other military branch in our country's history, threw a lifeline out and saved another.  This time, it was me.  I grabbed a hold of the opportunity to go on active duty and clutched it tight.  Although my CG career field has been and still is maritime law enforcement, I am gleefully performing other duties and responsibilities completely unrelated.  I provide direct logistics support to the fleet, like the mighty United States Coast Guard Cutter BERTHOLF, the first National Security Cutter (NSC) for a Coast Guard fleet undergoing an historic recapitalization of its surface assets.

The 418-foot NSCs are the most technologically sophisticated Coast Guard cutters performing critical missions worldwide, like in the South China Sea alongside our Navy sister ships.

This second wind for me is a godsend.  I help deter the Chinese.  Interdict drugs.  Ensure ports are secure and the boating public is safe.  I help save lives.  It's the least I can do with the United States Coast Guard rescuing me.  Like the fishing boat in the Bering Sea that calls for the mayday during a torrid storm, the Coast Guard came.

To those of you struggling out there or wandering aimlessly and hoping for a lifeline, keep your head up.  Keep treading water.  It'll come.

A Farewell Letter to My Brotherhood

On Sunday, 17 November 2019, I sent this email message out to the individuals I had worked with for the past 16 years...

This past Friday was my last day as a police officer.  Last night, I watched a documentary movie titled No Greater Love.  I don't know if any of you have seen it, but I recommend it as its message is about brotherhood.  Many, including me, have likened law enforcement work to military service.  As a matter of concept, police departments are paramilitary organizations.  Whether they are operated as such, well, that's a different issue.

The movie shares the story of a group of soldiers of the "No Slack" Battalion from the 101st Airborne Division while they are on deployment in Afghanistan.  I have never deployed overseas or into a combat zone and I am always indebted to those who have served and been there.  But to the few who I know, have talked to and are reservists or national guardsmen who are also police officers, they agree that being a police officer is consistently more arduous due to the day in and day out of dealing with other people's crises, stress, anxiety, and trauma.  The members of No Slack are brothers.  That is obvious.  They commit to risking their lives over and over while in combat.  But they are also clearly committed to each other when they are at home and struggling with their own individual challenges.  Combat, I can imagine using my cognitive reasoning skills, creates unique bonds.  You are surrounded by life and death and you rely on the man next to you.  You have to.  So, when those men return home, they again rely on their brothers to help them.  They care for each other.  They have to.

Law enforcement, for all intents and purposes, is akin to those issues faced by those servicemembers.  There can and, almost assuredly, will be countless times that you, as a police officer, will rely on the man (or woman) next to you.  You have to.  It only takes one moment for someone's life to change, forever, and that includes dying in the line of duty.  A police officer, however mundane the call for service is or the area that they patrol, exposes himself to potential danger.  As I'm sure you have all heard at one time or another during your tenure, there's at least one gun on every call for service, every traffic stop, every contact.  And those moments add up.  Some stay with you.  A few haunt.  It's during those "some" and those "few" when your brother or sister-in-arms needs your help.  They might need a simple pick me up or a more committed commitment.  But at some point, someone will need you.  And for the ones that do need your extended hand, do not expect them to call out and let it be blatantly known.  You will have to "see" them.  And to see them, you'll have to know them.  Individuals in a depressed state, whether acute or chronic, are sometimes too consumed by their helplessness to pick up the phone and say "hey man, can we get together?"  That's your job.  He's your brother, right?  Certainly, there were times, however slight or subtle, when you needed him and he was there for you...to back you up on a violent domestic or a high-risk traffic stop.  Those sounds of distant sirens getting rapidly closer never sounded so sweeter.  So, what's stopping you from doing the same for him when it's a little less dramatic of a situation?  The answer is nothing.

I spent over 25 years in law enforcement working with other officers from all walks of life with varying degrees of skill level and professional commitment.  I am proud of the things that I have accomplished and the dedication I conveyed during my career.  But there was always one thing that I struggled with while I was there...the absence of a dependable brotherhood.  Yes, there were some moments and instances where people stepped up.  But all too often, it was fleeting.  To be certain, there is accountability on my part.  I am sure I failed along the way at times.  And for that and for those for whom I did, I am remorseful.

So, I will leave you all with one last piece of humble advice.  Take it for what it's worth.  You must care for each other.  You have to.  And that means, more than not, that the caring happens beyond the call for service, the traffic stop, the contact.  It happens when someone is out due to an injury, illness at home, struggles with a spouse, or even the unexpected legal and administrative challenges at work...when that individual, who was your "brother" up until that moment, is fighting to "breath" and keep their head above water emotionally, mentally, and probably financially.  When the fear of loss is enveloping them, they could use that extended hand of yours.  And they might have to use it (that hand of yours) over and over and over.  Because the sense of abandonment is a shitting thing to someone who thought those unique bonds of brotherhood extended beyond that call for service, that traffic stop, that contact...and that it also went to when they're home alone looking for a purpose.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends"  John 15:13

Always, be well and be safe.

John

Rules Are Meant To Be Broken. Right? No...Not This One

October has passed and along with it another Mental Health Awareness Month.  In 1990, Congress established the first full week as Mental Health Awareness Week in recognition of NAMI's (National Alliance on Mental Illness) work to raise awareness.  October 10 was dedicated by the World Health Organization as World Mental Health Day.  Who knew that?  Did anyone do anything special for those dates or time frames?  Volunteer?  Talk to a friend?  Reach out to a co-worker?  Stick a ribbon magnet on your car (sure, hope not).

Me?  What did I do, you ask?  Well, I had the distinct "pleasure" of attending a police suicide funeral on October 19.  Police Officer Thomas J. Bomba was a 13-year veteran of the Montgomery County Police.  More importantly, he was a husband and a father of two boys.  Six years on the county peer support team...one line of duty death and four police-related suicides.

I never met Officer Bomba, but I heard about him from mutual friends and as well as childhood mates.  He was one helluva a jokester, both on and off the job.  But as with most of us who cleverly use humor as a shield, there was suffering underneath.  TJ, as he was affectionately known by his co-workers, or, better yet, T-Bomb, by his childhood friends, was emotionally wrestling with personal issues at home.  Now, look...some will say that putting that out there is out of bounds.  I can respect that and my intent is not to highlight his intimate issues specifically, but to bring focus on the fact that police officers - those that respond to other individual's crises over and over - have their own.  I've said it before and I'll say it again...we are human, so we need to stay linked to one another.

So, what's the lesson?  There has to be one, right?  We simply cannot let TJ die without using his sacrifice as a call to arms.

OK.  Here's another instance where we need to be connected to our brethren.  If someone leaves the job, for whatever reason, particularly one that is not of their own determining, do you think that maybe there might be a need to remain united to that person, at the very least in a casual manner to ensure that they don't unexpectedly fall off the cliff?  I know an officer that had dedicated the better part of his entire human existence to the public safety profession who got forced out due to medical concerns.  Now, I'm not here to say whether those health concerns were legit or not.  I have no clue.  That's not the point of this diatribe as to how he was subsequently "taken care of".  The dude just devoted 30 plus years - yeah, that's right, thirty years - of his life to the profession, to the community, to that department, and...to the safety and welfare of those "brothers" and "sisters".  I was beside myself and simply disgusted at how the agency just discarded him like a bag of shit.  Unfuckingreal.  And a disgrace to the "think blue line", the law enforcement "family", or, quite frankly, whatever the fuck you wanna call it.  Just sickening the way that administration's "leadership" treated him.  At his core, regardless of what or how you thought of him as a police officer, he is a human being.  As any of us would demand and deserve, his departure warranted a respectful exit.

So, he is out.  Unceremoniously no longer a police officer and now, presumably, without an identity - which is a critical issue for many who leave the job and arguably a prominent factor in the rising tide of suicides within the law enforcement profession - and what do his brothers and sisters do?  Dick.  Nobody reaches out and, if they do, it's cursory; a simple interaction with the now stranded kin for a few weeks or a month or so.  And then "poof".  It's like he didn't exist.  Years and years of "bonds" broken in a virtual instant.

Now, many will argue that if he wanted to maintain those relationships, that severed officer had every opportunity to reach out and preserve those friendships.  But if you're saying that then you don't get what it feels like to be deserted.  It's like, when you're a kid, you go over to your buddy's house for years and then one day their parents no longer want you around and tell you to "get the hell out".  Are you going to walk back over and ask to be welcomed back into your friend's house?  Or, are you going to stand by, patiently...eagerly...and await his invite because you don't feel wanted in that revered place your friend calls "home"?

Discouraged individuals, whether chronically or acutely depressed, almost unconditionally, will NOT initiate contact, especially when they feel like they have been abandoned by someone - a friend - or by something - a profession, a "brotherhood".  It is absolutely up to those that remain within the "house" to preserve contact, to keep that unique bond alive and well so that the dispirited can still keep some semblance of that once family.

So, listen up "brothers" and "sisters"...Stand. The. Fuck. Up.  Get out of your own self-absorbed lives, if even for a half-hour breakfast gettogether, a quick phone call, or, hell, how about a goddamn text just to check-in and see how they're doing during their challenge to steady themselves.  And do it more than once, twice.

They deserve it.  For years and probably hundreds, if not thousands, of times during various routine and balls-to-the-wall calls for service you depended upon them to watch your six, protect your ass, or just flat-the-fuck-out save your life.  And now, the best you can "spare" them is a blow-off?  Abandonment...of trust.  Of friendship.  Of honor.

But I get it.  We all have our own shit to deal with, right?  Of course, we do.  But tell me, please, how it makes any sense whatsoever to expend blood, sweat, and tears for people you don't even know and then not even the time of day for ones you called your brother for years?  Do the right thing.  Helping one another doesn't always have to mean talking about inner feelings, holding hands, giving hugs, or shedding tears with one another.  Helping out a brother or a sister can be - and will almost assuredly be - as simple as hooking up for lunch every once in a while, heading out to a game, or even that 21st century preferred method of "connecting"...the dreaded text.  Speaking from some very personal experience, it does not matter what you do, JUST DO SOMETHING...for the love of God and for the simple fact of treating another human being with a sense of decency.  And do it several times, not just the token once or even twice.  Golden rule, right?  You could help someone from starting down the path of despair, which sometimes can lead to the road TJ was on.

And for those of you that need a refresher...Matthew 7:12 "Therefore, whatever you want men to do to you, do also to them, for this is the Law and the Prophets."

He Has a Name. It's Chris.

Chris.  Or Jose, depending upon your relationship with him.  His God given name is Jose Christopher Trujillo-Daza.

They all have a name.  It's Mark.  And Martin.

These are the three men who I will be riding for beginning this Friday in the 2019 Police Unity Tour with Chapter IV.  This is my ninth Tour and, since 2015, I have been participating in it to honor police-related suicides.  This is contrary to the original intent of the Tour.  The Police Unity Tour was started in 1997 by two New Jersey police officers to bring awareness and honor to those public servants that had been killed in the line of duty.  The problem?  Each year, more law enforcement officers take their own lives than are killed in the line of duty.  According to the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund (the Tour is the Memorial's primary supporter), there was 150 line of duty deaths (LODDs) in 2018.  In that same year, Blue H.E.L.P. recorded165 suicides.  To date, NLEOMF lists 40 LODDs and Blue H.E.L.P. reports 76 suicides.

Seventy-fucking-six.

No way.  This is not happening.  It can't.  That is simply unacceptable.  Period.  And that's why I have been riding for these individuals...to raise awareness - to provoke ACTION - as to what is happening to those that help others.  The stigma of seeking help that engulfs our first responder professions (and military) is killing us.  Literally.

I have had the tremendous honor to talk to Chris' family and friends.  What an amazing young man he was.  He was loved.  Chris was a First Class Petty Officer assigned to Port Security Unit 313 out of Coast Guard District 13.  PSUs are deployable units that provide force protection and security to forward operating naval bases and are almost exclusively staffed by reservists.  Chris was a boat driver, a boatswain mate, for the unit.  When fellow Coasties talk about him they use words like honorable, respectful, dependable, intelligent, and likable.  How I wouldn't beg for a member like Chris to be on my team.

And his family adored him.  His older brother, Paul, told me that their hero, their leader, was Chris.  Paul looked up to his little brother.  They both went to aircraft mechanic school and then worked together for six years.  Chris dreamt of one day becoming a police officer and, presumably, used his duties and responsibilities with the Coast Guard to hone his leadership skills and officer safety tactics.  He loved serving.  His community.  His country.

Chris loved his mom.  Tragically, six months prior to his suicide, his mother lost her battle to cancer.  Paul knows that her loss took a heavy hit to Chris.  But, with this stigma strangling public safety professions, he was reluctant to seek out help.  So, we lost him.  (Many times, a traumatic catalyst like the loss of a family member sets a loved one into an abyss.  Keep that in mind if you know someone who has experienced such a loss.  It could be a trigger.)

And we lost Mark.  A beloved 43-year old police officer in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.  A father, a brother, a friend, a son.

And Martin.  A dedicated sergeant with the New Jersey State Police.  A husband, a father, a son.

This shit has got to stop.  It simply has to.

So, I ride for these three...and all the others.  My journey to honor them starts on Friday.  All participants in the Tour wear an "honor band", which is an engraved metal band with the officer's name, agency, and end of watch date.  We wear this band as a way to remember the loss during tough times on our ride.  It reminds us that our "tough time" is nothing - nothing - compared to the challenges and struggles that the families, loved ones, friends and other survivors go through each and every day since their loss.

But police-related suicides do not get the same honor.  They must, however.  I mean, it's on The Wall (the Memorial)...

 "It is not how these officers died that made them heroes, it is how they lived."

- Vivian Eney Cross, Survivor
(husband, SGT Christopher Eney, EOW: 24 August 1984)

So, I ride...again...for heroes like Mark.  Martin.

And Chris.

I Thought About Suicide Today

I thought about suicide today.

It was a pretty shitty "sleep" last night.  After I woke up, I grabbed a bowl of Special K - with berries - and sat down at the kitchen table.  As I ate, it just started rolling in.  And once it starts, it kinda keeps going.  Remember that whole seed thing?  I rolled through each person within my circle of trust, wondering, briefly, about how they would react to the news.  And I came to the love of my life.  I pondered as to how I would want that to go...remember me always or forget I even existed.  I dunno.  Still don't.

The last few days have been rather shitty.  She and I got into a "disagreement".  It's been brewing for a bit, so there was no surprise when it finally erupted.  For a few weeks, I have been bitter about work.  A lot of anger and anxiety being compartmentalized inside me.  There have been a few attempts to address this pileup, but nothing of sustaining substance that would do the trick.  So, that's on me.  But once you get caught up in a vicious loop - her then me then me then her and on and on - it's hard to break out of it.  Dr. Sue Johnson, relationship expert and bestselling author of Hold Me Tight (a must read for cops), calls it the demon dialogues.  And Jesus, are they nasty.  And pointless.  Here are two people who love each other getting caught up in some quagmire of shit that keeps going round and round with no end in sight and only an escalation in anger, disdain, and resentment to show for it.  So, when I came to thinking about her while these thoughts slithered around in the depths of my mind, I didn't know if I wanted the whole drama engulfed in "never forget the good times" yadda yadda b.s. or simply the final page in a chapter that doesn't get read again.  It simply sucks not being on point, or connected, with her and getting it wrong.  Most of this shit is simply a result of mis- or even noncommunication.  Frustrating.

But here I was, I just polished off my cereal and consumed in my thoughts of despair and sorrow.  Near the end of my rope.  Like a lot of us, I just want pain to end.  Ok, some pain is good.  The kind that lets you know you're alive and even the emotional kind eventually leads to gratefulness of appreciating what you have and all that.  But goddamn, I'm tired of the unnecessariness of feeling like shit.  The work backstory has some significance to this path, but I'll spare you the details...for now.  The point is that this flashpoint is a culmination and, as I've said in the past because it's true, we turn to those closest to us to unleash and release the torrent of bullshit that is stacked behind that proverbial dam in our mind.  I know better.  She deserves better.  But that demon dialogue thing is a powerful force.  Instinctual.  We rally to our own defense first and foremost.  But in times like this, we need to stop and evaluate the words that our reaction driven minds are pushing out.  Words can sting.  And be heartbreaking when they're from your loved one.  No, I'm not a pussy, but, as I told her this morning, I've spent over a quarter of a century seeing people be shitty to other people and I. Am. Done.

I took a shower.  (Always a go-to for the psychological cleansing as well as an actual one.)  And then I went to church.  The church I attend is one that we discovered together, she and I, which is pretty cool.  It's something I like to hang my hat on when I tell people about where we go to seek forgiveness and feel inspired about humanity.  It is powerful to have that as a connecting point with her.  But I went by myself today.

Today's sermon title was "Fixing Church".  I was not necessarily fired up about the sound of that talk and thought, "OK, God, I need a little help here and this doesn't seem like it's going to give me what I need."  (Que the big buzzer sound.)  Wrong.  And this is what I absolutely love about this place of worship and, specifically, Pastor Kevin.  He is literally a Godsend.  Once he got rolling, the message started to materialize.

Hope.  Helping one another.

What started out as a talk about how the church has moved away from being a venue of celebration, migrated into a discussion about hope, about the church being that place, in the middle of this swirling world of hopelessness, that steadfast point in the center of chaos.  Hope is essential.  It is the difference between health and despair.  And maybe God, as Kevin suggested, brought some parishioners to the church that day, not for themselves, but to be there for someone else.  To be a strength of hope for another, someone they're sitting next to, perhaps.  As Kevin began to segway into the sermon's conclusion, he mentioned Rick Warren.  Rick Warren is a well-known pastor in California.  Five days after Easter Sunday in 2013, Pastor Warren's son, 27 at the time, committed suicide.  He left his parents house earlier in the evening, shared a few texts with his mom, and then used a handgun to end his life.

Kevin shared how Pastor Warren and his wife navigated through the months that followed.  With Easter so close to his son's death, he reflected on the three days of Easter and how he survived the "darkest day of (his) life".  There's a cycle that everyone goes through and repeats in life.  Good Friday, the day when Jesus was crucified and died, is a day of loss, of suffering.  Saturday follows as a time of doubt and confusion.  But Sunday.  Sunday is the day of victory.  Of hope.  BOOM!  That's what I'm talking about, right?  The cycle begins with suffering enters into doubt before ending with hope and victory.  Yet, that wasn't what connected with me.

Kevin went into something more powerful for me.  He said, "If you are in the 'Friday' situation of suffering and pain..."  Oh boy, I thought, here it comes.  I can feel it.  "...would you mind just raising your hand.  Go ahead.  Hold them up.  Now, the people around you need to put their hand on you because we're in this together...and don't not put your hand up.  'I don't wanna admit that I'm in Friday'.  Everybody goes through 'Friday'."  About four or five raised their hands.

Then I raised my hand.

I closed my eyes and listened to Kevin's words.  Within moments, I felt a hand on my left shoulder.  Then another.  And another.  Perhaps six or seven different people had softly, gently laid their hands on me.  I was overwhelmed.  I quietly wept.  It was one of the most powerful experiences of my entire, battered and bruised, life.  Even as I write this now, many hours later, I tear up.  I put aside my pride, my shame, and silently called out for some help.  God, what a moment.  I felt strength and energy.

You may be, right now, neck deep into a "Friday" with no end in sight.  It is black as shit for as far as you can see.  Been there.  Done that.  But it doesn't have to be.  Despair is fleeting.  Hope is alive.  There is strength in numbers.  And we can take care of each other.  I know.  Been there.  Done that.  What I experienced today was glorious and the absolute perfect timing for me, as it always seems to be the case when I walk through the doors of the sanctuary and take a seat for worship, forgiveness, help, or healing.  Reach out and lay a hand one another.

Here is Kevin's Sunday sermon.  The story about Pastor Rick Warren begins at 53:00.  I encourage you to watch it.

And those early morning thoughts?  Gone.  Nowhere to go, but hope.

Fingers Crossed

Well, I stepped out into it...the unknown.

I had been mulling it over for a couple of years.  Really, it started when I rolled the dice and applied to speak at a C.O.P.S. national conference on law enforcement wellness.  I had attended the same one the year before and had also solidified many elements to my agency's wellness initiative that I had been working diligently on for the previous year or so.  So, the bug was planted and I thought, "I think I could do this."  I mentioned it to my better half and began to nudge me to give it a shot.  So, I did.  And I got it.  I was chosen as a presenter at this distinguished gathering of police officers, mental health workers, and government officials.  Certainly, I was stoked.  But I was also intimidated.  I was going to speak, as a subject matter expert on developing a wellness program for my police department, to my peers.  Most cops will tell you flat out, despite our everyday interaction with the public, we hate speaking.  Well, I was no different.

But I also wanted to make a difference and that was my motivation.  I wanted to help push agencies, administrators, and officers into action in order to better help my brothers and sisters.  For themselves.  For their families and loved ones.  For all of us.  Because, quite frankly, too many of us were suffering and I wanted to do my part.

Little did I know that the experience was a game changer for me.  I got hooked.  I enjoyed being the point guy on giving out info and maybe even the catalyst for someone else to get busy with their own agency.  I went on to speak at several other conferences throughout the country.  Still, I wasn't satisfied with being in this holding pattern and I wanted to keep going.  OK, so, what was the next step in this progression?  I had been there when my love took a gamble, left her W2 gig, and started her own biz.  The initial struggle was challenging.  The uncertainty was real.  But as she heads into her second year, she's more than made it.  That was inspiring.

And scary.  That's a hell of a ledge.  I've got zero business or entrepreneurial experience.  Except...wait a tic, does Shark Tank count?  If so, then yes!  I do.  Alright, moving on...nonetheless, I felt that was my next move.  I mulled it over...and over...and over.  I talked about it with her as well as my great friend, whom I wanted to come in on it with me.  He has tremendous experience, both professional and personal, and I knew he was passionate about helping others.  I was glad when he hopped on with me for this venture.

So, here we are.  I filed the paperwork several weeks ago with the state, got established, chose a name, created a website, designed a killer logo (yes, I'm biased), and drafted the services to be provided.  Yesterday, I officially let it out into the world and opened up Healing The Blue, LLC for business.  Yes, it sounds familiar, but there's purpose in a name.  We will be providing services to help first responder agencies jump start or enhance their wellness programs.  We can provide training, we can conduct networking and partnership opportunities that will help secure elements of the program, and we can develop a website for the program that will serve as a safe, confidential online portal of resources and information.  All of this in an effort to get first responders the help they need when they need it and to encourage health and wellness among those that put their lives out there to help others.  Let's help them.  Spread the word.  If you know or are with an agency that could our assistance, please reach out.  Do not hesitate.  Check us out.

We are Healing The Blue. 

As always, be well and be safe.

Hang On. Help Is On Its Way.

I've had a pretty shitty time as of late.  But I was driving on the interstate the other day, passing a dump truck.  We've all seen them.  Covered in dirt coming from or going to a job site.  Some of them have some simple phrase hand scribbled in the filth, probably from one of their fellow drivers, that says something like "Clean me" or "Show me your...".  This one had one of those "dirty" notes.

"Help is on the way".  A cross inscribed in the grime as well.

I should've taken a picture of it.  But, um...I was driving and I didn't want to jeopardize my fellow motor vehicle operators.  I wanted to be responsible.  Nonetheless, it took me a bit for that message to really resonate with me.  I sat on it for the rest of the drive.  Sticking it in the back of my mind for when I could put more attention to it.

Here's the thing with stress and trauma, it knows no boundaries.  It has no limits and it doesn't care who you are.  A few years ago, I was sitting at a table.  It was a peer support team meeting, so the other attendees filling up the rest of the room where all team members, mostly police officers.  But this was no ordinary meeting.  A sister police officer and team member had just died.  It was one of those complete horseshit deaths as well.  She inadvertently mixed one of her prescription drugs with an over the counter medication.  The combination proved fatal.  It was completely unexpected and, as you can imagine, devastated many on the team.

So, we were in this meeting and the team sergeant started it off by asking how people were doing.  We went around the room and took turns.  As we made our way around, I heard person after person stick to the same theme.  Each talked about the big stressor in the their life at the moment...the in-laws were staying over, one of the kids was sick, someone had to put a dog down, and on and on.  And then it got to me.  Like the rest, I could've easily rattled off something that was chapping my ass at the time.

I sat for a second and then remarked on the trend I had been hearing from the others.  There will always be something.  Always.  If it's not this, it's that.  We will constantly have to face an obstacle, however small or towering, to climb over, work through, or take care of.  Instead, what we should do is focus on preparing ourselves for that next inevitable shit storm.  I've been getting repeated jabs lately from life and was recently on the receiving end of a mean cross that connected pretty firmly.  It knocked me down.  Hard.

And it was then, as I was laying on the mat so to speak, that I saw that grimy ass looking truck with its piercing message.  "Help is on the way."  If there's one good thing that I've been able to take from the repeated traumas and incidents I've been exposed to over and over throughout my career, it is that I have acquired the mindset that there is always something else to prepare for.  Now, make no mistake, I am not saying or implying that those experiences made for a good foundation for my mental wellness in dealing with those repeated traumas.  In other words, I didn't better prepare myself for the "the next thing" by going through those experiences.  I just knew that something else was coming after the one I was in was over.  Still, perhaps there's some benefit to that, at least.

Adopting coping skills to help handle the stress and trauma is important.  A few years ago, when I sat down in my therapist's chair following the first couple of sessions, she told me about mindfulness.  I was a little weary.  But I had nothing to lose.  I needed some help and I first sought out therapy because I knew my lack of coping tools was a problem and hindering my ability to get through my most traumatic experiences.  In other words, I couldn't do it myself, knew it, and went for help.  At that point, pride was a nonissue.  Well, that mindfulness exercise was incredible.  I was hooked.  I've since told others about it and have continued to use it myself, along with some other coping techniques.  Here are a few good ones (don't knock them until you try them):

• Mindfulness (OK, you weren't expecting that...?)
• Breathing exercises (for us coppers, also known as "tactical breathing", ya know, to make it more cool and acceptable)
• Grounding
• Journaling
• Aromatherapy (yes, that's rights boys, certain scents, like lavender, can help settle you down)

When I finally arrived home and parked, I had time to reflect on the message of that truck.  Help is on the way.  By recognizing several years ago, when I was going through my "shit" (read earlier blogs), that what I was dealing with was beyond my scope and capacity, I was able to get help and acquire tools for the future.  And now, as I still feel the sting of my latest hit, I know I can help myself.  Oh, I will need the assistance of others, at times, no doubt.  We all should, actually.  I find refuge in the love of my life.  But first things first, I gotta pull myself up.  And that's what I'm doing.

So, prepare yourself 'cause something will always come.  But also know, that if you do get knocked down, help is on its way.  Reach out for it.  Right, LRB?

State Park Peace Officer Steve Bier

Here is Steve. 

Steve had a great sense of humor and a tremendous love and dedication to the desert of Southern California.  He was knowledgeable about the desert flora, worked with volunteers, and lead the annual count of Desert Bighorn Sheep.  “He was everywhere,” said Ernie Cowan, the president of the Anza-Borrego Foundation.  “He had an incredible breadth of knowledge about things in the park and an amazing dedication.  He would spend time during his days off doing what he did every day as a ranger.”

In California, there are two series of state park peace officer, the park ranger and lifeguard.  Each is a POST-certified police officer with statewide authority.  Most people undervalue the park officer, but these servants perform public safety duties, conduct patrols of vast wildlands, perform search and rescue, manage crime scenes, conduct investigations, and much more. 

Steve was dedicated in every way to the protection and preservation of natural resources for future generations.  “He was unique individual,” Cowan said.  “He was larger than life in many ways.” 

On 29 March 2018, Steve Bier was found dead with a self-inflicted gunshot wound.  He left behind a wife, also a park officer, and a son. 

This year, I also ride for Steve. Please help me honor him here.

Patrolman Max Scherzer

This is Max.

Since he was a kid, Max had wanted to be a police officer.  He wanted to help people.  Max worked out at the gym and, because of his gregarious personality, he was well liked and well known.  He would eventually meet a young woman who was a neighbor in his condo complex.  And, as April, his wife, would put it, they "fell madly in love.  We never spent a day apart."

He was funny.  April told me that one time he screamed “like a girl” because he stepped on a rabbit in a field in the middle of the night as he and other officers were searching for someone.  I can only imagine the mileage that story got among his friends.  Max was a practical joker as well.  He listed a live monkey for sale on Craigslist and used another officer's number as the contact.  While on the job, Max would let his arrestee's sometimes chose the music they wanted to hear as he transported them to jail. 

Max prided himself on integrity and strong morals.  So, it was crushing to him when he was arrested for DUI after wrecking into a street sign.  One of his lieutenants picked him up and dropped Max off in his driveway at 2:30 AM.  He was devastated. 

On 21 August 2016, Max Scherzer shot himself in the head.  He was a husband.  A father of 4 month old twins. 

This year, I ride for Max.  Please help me honor him here.

The Push Continues

AN UPDATE...The original numbers of police suicides were under reported.  They were, sadly, too low.  I've updated this post with the new numbers from Blue H.E.L.P..  They make this effort to raise awareness and encourage action from policymakers and police administrators even more necessary, more critical.

This is a quick entry.  And I'll get right to the point...This year, I will once again ride in the Police Unity Tour.  And again, it'll be for those that took their own lives.

 

Each year, more police officers commit suicide than are killed feloniously by someone else.  That is a fact.  And it is my mission to ride for those officers who died by their own hands, but dedicated no less of themselves for the service and protection of their communities.

To date, statistics from the group Blue H.E.L.P. are that 148 law enforcement officers killed themselves last year.  Yeah, you read that correctly.  One.  Four.  Eight.  148.  To put that into perspective, the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund has listed 128 as "traditional" line of duty deaths for 2017.  NOTHING is killing us more than ourselves.

Every 61 hours, an officer is killed in the line of duty.  Shot and killed.  Or drowned during a rescue.  Struck while on a traffic stop.  Or suffered a heart attack during training.  Those are traditional and, quite frankly, "accepted", as it were, line of duty deaths.

But then, every 59 hours, one commits suicide.

In 2018, I will ride in honor of these peacemakers.

• Police Officer Max Scherzer, Westampton Township (NJ) PD
  EOW 21 August 2016
  Max left behind a wife and two infants, at the time, 4 months old.
• Detective Jeffrey Wentz, Ontario (CA) PD
  EOW 24 June 2017
  Jeffrey left behind a wife and two children.
• State Park Peace Officer Steve Bier, California State Parks
  EOW 29 March 2017
  Steve left behind a wife and a young son.

Please go to my fundraising page to support me here.  Spread the word.  Break the stigma.

It is time to stop what is killing us... 

Thank you.

We Go On...

I didn't notice it until I finally cleared my first call of the day and went into the bathroom to wash my hands.  I was surprised.  I don't know if I would say "shocked", but certainly taken a bit aback when I saw it in my face.  Numerous capillaries, the smallest of the body's blood vessels, had burst underneath my left eye.  They dotted my skin like red freckles.

I had cried the night before.  I mean, I cried.  Cried like I hadn't in many, many years.  Fuck...did I cry.  It was absolutely exhausting.  Like I had just run a marathon.  But I had to.  Like an opened floodgate, my soul needed to let out all of the pain and trauma that had been building up over...years.  I came home after my day shift and I needed to find peace.  I needed to find a safe place to land.  I didn't find it.

For those of you that have heard the former police officer, now counselor and incredible speaker, Jack Harris, mention the hypervigilance cycle (it looks like a sine wave...Google it), you know what I'm talking about when I say that there's a "downslide", that equal, but opposite reaction that our bodies go through after a shift.  We're way up in our hypervigilance mode when we're runnin' and gunnin' call after call, but when we complete our shift and come home, walking through the threshold of the front door, we're still there.  Yet at some point, while we are in our own sanctuary, our bodies will begin to dump off all of that cortisol we produced during the shift.  And sometimes that dump is a major trainwreck.  Like any careening object, some serious wreckage can occur.  My body...my mind...was in freefall.

And there was wreckage.

My mind, heart, and soul exploded on impact.  I erupted.  Seemingly, inexplicably.  And certainly, unpredictably for the love of my life.  A torrent of yelling and shouting.  All followed by uncontrollable...inconsolable...crying.  It was during that grief-stricken fury that my capillaries burst.

As I started this writing on Monday night, within the last 72 hours...a colleague of mine was dead, another law enforcement officer was killed in my jurisdiction, I had responded to three dead persons calls, and Sunday was the second end of watch anniversary for my first line of duty death call.  Death, death, and more death.

The colleague, a lieutenant with the local fire department and a deputy chief state fire marshal with the Maryland State Police, was struck and killed on a section of interstate where I have conducted many car stops.  He was a beloved member of our local fire station and a friend to many on my department.  That was Friday night.  I got the notification early Saturday morning.

The first of my three deaths was the worst.  A working code.  A six week old baby.  I was the first car on scene as I rushed in on the heels of the paramedic engine crew.  They spent mere minutes pumping on his fragile, little chest before racing out the door to the hospital.  I stayed on scene and conducted business.  The officer that followed the ambulance to the medical center, where the baby was pronounced shortly after arriving, said the docs found some head trauma.  Fucking awesome.  That was Sunday.

Sunday was the tenth of December.  The tenth of December was...and will always be...the end of watch anniversary for my first line of duty death scene.  I briefly wrote about this incident in an earlier post (Bittersweet).  I was the second car on location of that horrific scene and I conducted the investigation on the striking driver who killed young and enthusiastic Officer Noah Leotta.  I will simply never forget it.

Sunday was hard.  The infant call sent me flashbacks of when my own child, at 12 weeks old, was deathly ill.  She had lost 50% of her body weight.  Her eyes were sinking into her head.  And she was in pain.  Crying and crying.  She was taken to the local hospital, who said her medical care was beyond their capabilities.  She was transferred a week later to a Northern Virginia hospital where she spent the next month getting stuck by a needle - over 30 times - for blood draw after blood draw.  She would eventually recover after an aggressive treatment program.  But the cause of her rapid decline would never be known.  It was that night that I cried and cried my ass off.

But.  After Sunday, comes Monday.

My first call for service on Monday was a dead person call.  A staff member, at one of our many assisted living facilities, went to go check on a tenant who had not been heard from in a week or so.  He had been homeless and was placed in this facility almost four years ago, but was still disconnected from his family.  He was dead.  Probably for a day or two.  Long enough for bodily fluids to secrete out of him and discoloration to envelope his skin.  And he was still gassing off through his mouth even after that time.  Every once in a while, I'd hear something sputtering out from his lips.  After finally getting a hold of his elderly mother and telling her over the phone that her son was deceased (I'm never a big fan of the phone call notification), I cleared.

Minutes later, I'm getting dispatched to another working code.  A Vietnam vet had discovered his wife of 46 years laying on the floor after she collapsed while working out.  He had called to her from upstairs and when she didn't answer, he went to go check on her.  The two had met in 1966, just before he shipped out to the conflict raging on the Vietnam peninsula, half a world away.  He would return and they would marry in 1971.  Again, I was the first car there.  I could hear him downstairs counting aloud.  He was on the phone with the 9-1-1 call taker and she was giving him instructions on how to perform CPR on his beloved partner of over 50 years.  I moved shit and cleared a space around her as the ambulance crew began dumping their gear and getting to work.  She would die there on their basement floor.  His world changed forever.  We have to make some notifications and wait for phone calls when there's a death.  So, I just stood by quietly in a dark corner of the room and watched as he cried over her lifeless body.  His partner.  Gone.

Well, that was my shitty week.  At least, so far.  I was informed yesterday that I'll be part of my agency's honor guard detail during the funeral services to commemorate Sander Cohen, the deputy chief state fire marshal who was killed while checking on a motor vehicle collision that involved an off-duty FBI agent.  Both officers were killed after being struck by a vehicle, thrown over the jersey wall, and getting struck again by another car.

Now, I'm not here to necessarily spew out all of my trauma and just walk away after having put it out there for everyone.  How do you cope?  What does one do to manage all of this shit and be able to still be healthy - mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually?  Well, here are some things I have done as well as key messages from trauma recovery experts.

• The traumatic event is over.  Although you may still be feeling the overwhelming effects of that moment, you are no longer in it.  It is in the past.  If there's one thing that I have tried to do more than anything else, it's follow this philosophy...live in the present.  The past is behind you.  Learn from it, of course, but do not dwell in it.  And the future.  Not yet written.  But, the present.  Well, that's a gift...which is why it's called "present".
• Whatever crazy ass, roller coaster thoughts, feelings or emotions you are going through are totally normal.  You have just been trough a traumatic incident.  Your mind is going to hit the extremes as it tries to process what just happened, move out of the flight-fight-freeze stages, and return to a normal state.
• That event does not have to define you.  At your core, you are still who you were before it happened.  You just might need some help navigating back and it may not be exactly the same. But you are who you are.
• Talk.  Period.  End of story.  Talking is therapeutic and will allow you to vent out the shit that wants to build up inside of you.  Talking helps let it go, so it doesn't stick and stay with you like a bad cologne.
• Stow that pride and reach out to a professional healer.  Now, you may not have to.  But, if one of your buds or your better half calls you out over and over about how off you have been since the event, suck it up.  That doesn't mean laying on a couch as Yanni plays in the background.  There are anonymous hotlines and even texting available now.  But you'll be better off and you might pick up a few things that you can use again when the next hellishness occurs because, believe me...it will.
• Finally, get up and move.  There are too many studies out there by people far smarter than us cops that have show that exercise helps healing.  Of course, it's physically healing, but mentally and emotionally as well as it aids the body in processing that adrenaline and cortisol.  You do not want to maintain an excess amount of either one of those hormones in your body for an extended period of time.  That is bad juju.

As I get ready for tomorrow's funeral services, I am at the tail end of my "super shitty" stretch.  There always is.  An ending, that is.  But those few steps above can help you move through the trauma and get to that end hopefully a little quicker, a little stronger, and a little healthier.  Of course, everyone moves through differently, but those recommendations are tried and true.  Here's the bottom line for me...my week or whatever might have sucked, but Sander's parents will be forever without their only son.  So, the lesson is to live, laugh, and love while we're here.  And, of course, help one another.

And here's the deal, despite all of that shit, tomorrow, I'll wake up, take a shower, put on my uniform, tell my love "I love you", go 10-8, and get right back into it.  That's what we do.  For as it ends in the fantastic film, Fallen, by retired Sergeant Thomas Marchese, "we go on"...

Touching the Void

Touching the void.  That phrase is from a book about the Herculean struggle of survival by climber Joe Simpson.  Joe fell into a crevasse while he and another were climbing in the Andes.  He was, understandably, left for dead by his partner after falling 150 feet into the frozen chasm.  But Joe marshalled his strength, despite having already sustained a significant leg break from an earlier mishap, and began the punishing fight for his life.

It was epic.  But Joe survived.  He is alive today and able to share his story.

It's kinda like that for us.  Police officers.  While our struggles don't literally involve some breathtaking landscape, gale force winds, constant hypothermic conditions, or a seemingly endless abyss, in the mind's eye they do.  And they are real.  Just as real as Joe's...only not as dramatic and certainly not so to the point where motion picture producers are giving us a call.

We sustain injuries.  Posttraumatic stress is an injury and there's a shit ton of us that have it.  It's like a shattered leg.  We need our minds in order to react quickly, reason properly, and experience compassion.  Without healthy minds, we are limping around.

So, how does that play out when we step into a "crevasse"?...a call for service where an infant is not breathing, a woman's face is smashed in, or a young man's head is blewn apart?  Do we rise up and begin that exhausting journey up and out?  The vast majority of us do.  Every single day, sometimes many times a day, we have to, but we do it.  It can be painstaking.  "Can be"!  Ha...who the hell am I kidding...it is.  It always is.  Some just robotically move through it quicker.  They're able to process the event expeditiously and they have good internal - and external, when needed - coping skills.  Yet, many others need time.  And help.  We struggle with the oftentimes relentless pounding to our mental and emotional spirits.

This past year or so has been a blessing for me.  I have had the great privilege of speaking to some incredible leaders, pioneers, and heroes within my profession.  Last year, I presented about the work I have done developing my department's wellness program (feel free to check out and share www.BodyArmorWellness.com) at a C.O.P.S. national conference.  This year, I spoke at two more conferences and, in 2018, God willing, hopefully even more.  After each session, I am met with individuals, members of my brotherhood, who felt a link with me after I shared my own story of tragedy and triumph.

During one of the law enforcement wellness conferences this year, I was sitting at a table in the hotel restaurant just passing the time and watching some baseball.  (You know I have nothing else to do when I gotta watch baseball.  Don't get me wrong...I love America's game as I used to play it for almost 14 years when I was a kid, but it's just a hair above golf when it comes to watching the game on the telly and its excitement level.)  I'm just quietly sitting when this patch lands in front of me and onto the table.  I immediately turn around and see him walking away, turning his head slightly to smile and give a quick wave.  I get up and mildly jog over to him, so as to not seem to overly zealous to show my gratitude.  I mean, come on, we're still cops.  I catch up to him.  He had talked to me following my session the day before.  He didn't come over after I was done presenting.  Instead, we had ran into each other in the lobby of the hotel and recognized one another.  We began talking.  Well, he did most of the talking.  I listened.  When a brother starts talking to you and opening up and sharing his demons, that's what you do.  Don't interject.  Don't interrupt.  Don't offer advice or your opinion.  Just listen.

To say I was honored, that he would share with me, is an absolute understatement.  I was blessed.  I had connected with him and he needed to feel that connection.  Afterward, we gave a "guy" hug and went our separate ways.  Yet, the next day he gave me his patch.  What does that mean?  That means he purposefully pocketed that thing in the hopes of seeing me again.  The giving of a patch is time honored and a significant gesture within our law enforcement community.  But this was a little different.  It was an indication of his gratefulness that I had shared my story, that it had connected with him so he knew he was not alone or weak for having his own story or stories, and that it had helped him, however slight or however temporary.  That is pure gold for me.

During these past twelve months, I have had many encounters like this.  Each one is a connection.  Each time, I'm listening.  And each moment, a brother or sister rises up a little higher out of their own crevasse.

We - police officers, the peacemakers - touch the void every day.  Every single day.  For years.  Most of us make it out.  Some stumble and need our aid.  But there are those that never make it, simply because they have fallen one too many times and can no longer rise up.  It is for those heroes that struggle or are on the edge of the abyss that I persist on this path.  Talk to each other.  Listen.  And connect.  You never know whose hand you'll reach out and grab.

Excuse Me Little 3-year old Boy...What Did You Say?!

So, I just got home from an evening shift.  It's a Sunday.  Yes, I know, statistically Sundays have the greatest number of use of force incidents.  At least here.  But that's because anything 00:00 hours or later is the next day, so when something happens Saturday "night", it's probably really Sunday morning.  I digress.  My point is, it's a Sunday and people, or should I say the general public, think that Sundays only involve church and football.

Anyway, to the story...I was cruising around, er, patrolling, when a car just pulls away from the curb directly in front of me.  No signal, no nothing.  Well, you gotta signal.  It's the law, right?  Yes, it is.  I conduct a stop and begin to walk up on the car (always passenger side, always) when I notice the driver stroking the head or body or something of the passenger.  I can't see what it is.  The passenger seat is completely reclined back, so my first thought is that it's this dude's woman.  But it could be a dog.  It's neither.  It's a boy.  A small, cute-as-hell little man in his Spidey shirt.

I go through my thing - license, registration, and insurance card.  As the driver is rifling through the glove box, I'm standing there next to this cute kid.  I smile.  He's absolutely adorable.  And then he says something to me, kinda in a whisper probably because he's so small.  I can't quite make out all of it, so I replay it back in my mind as quickly as I can before I ask the little man to kindly repeat himself.  I got an idea, but I ask him to say again what he just asked me.

He does.  "Are you gonna shoot us?"

What?!  I'm sorry.  I must've missed that or misunderstood you.  You - in all of your three years of life experience - just asked me if I am going to shoot you?  Are you fucking kidding me?!  What in the fuck has this kid been exposed to, lied about, or brainwashed into?  What the fuck has happened to our society where we, the ones who chose this profession - the one that answers your 9-1-1 calls, runs towards the sound of gunfire, rushes to your aid, risks body, and sacrifices mind - have become so vilified that a 3-year old, whose presumably only exposure to "news" and current events are what comes out of the mouth of his pre-released-with-a-GPS-ankle-braclet-and-a-protection-order-against-him-for-domestic-assault-on-that-kid's-mother dad?  Am I gonna shoot them?  What do I say to that?  Seriously?  Help me out.  I was dumbstruck for a moment and then probably blurted out some stupid ass response that I can't even remember now.

Little man, the reason you're sitting in the front - fully reclined - seat of a car is because your dad wanted to pick you up some grow-up-to-be-a-big-boy food at...drum roll...7-11.  And the seat is fully reclined because pops knows that what he's doing is wrong.  Why is it wrong, you-cute-as-hell little thing?  Because you need to be in a child's seat.  A child's seat affords you the greatest protection, if, heaven forbid, you two get into a collision.  So, bottom line, your sperm donor placed your little impressionable life in jeopardy.  That, my friend, is unsat.

Oh...did I forget to mention that dad had a suspended license, I mean, learner's permit for...you guessed it, failing to pay child support.  And I'm the asshole, right?  The kid asks me if I'm going to shoot them because I've been portrayed as evil.  The wrongdoer.  Unreal.

So, I give the dude some paperwork and tow his car.  I tow it because I know he'd just do it again.  He walks away bent.  A few minutes later, he's back and still can't believe that I'm towing his car.  Driving on a suspended license or driving privilege in Maryland is an arrestable offense.  I maybe saved your kid's life.  We'll never know, really.  But you're gonna give me shit about towing your car?!  Go fuck yourself.  You made your bed.  Sleep in it.

This culutral war that we find ourselves in, clearly, does not have a foreseeable end to it.  Not with that narrative.  Just when you think...you hope...that there is a finality to it, somewhere out there, a little boy pushes that horizon back a generation further.

Add that to the others I carry.  Guaranteed that stays with me.  Guaranteed.

My Hiatus

It's been a bit, hasn't it?  I decided to, um, take some time off from the whole blog thing and concentrate on moving forward with my life in a big way.  And I have.  2016 was a monumental year for me on many planes.

But where to start?  I guess logically, it should be chronological.  Starting from where I left off makes sense...without a doubt, experiencing my first on-scene officer death was impactful.  It's simply something I will never forget and something from which all other moments will, most likely, evolve from.  I can still remember looking into his eyes and knowing that life had already left him.

As a member of my agency's honor guard, I have the privilege of paying homage to my brothers and sisters in blue.  In February of 2016, tragedy would strike the tranquil county of Harford, north of Baltimore near the Pennsylvania line.  Deputy sheriff's engaged a person who was causing a disturbance in a Panera Bread...of all places, right?  The first deputy, Senior Deputy Dailey, arrived at the popular restaurant.  A witness would later recall that the deputy walked up to the distraught person and asked him "How was your day?" before being shot in the head.  Right then and there, Dailey was killed, leaving behind two children.  A former United States Marine, he had been with the sheriff's office for 30 years.  Another deputy was also killed in an ensuing gunbattle.  And I was there when they were laid to rest, leaving loved ones, family, and friends behind.

Yes.  I "enjoy" going to funeral services.  Enjoy, as in, I like to eat ice cream or pet kitties?  Fuck no.  But I want to go to them.  I want to go because I want to be the one that pays respect for their service and honors their life.  Deep down, I fucking hate them.  But I want to go.  I simply have to.

So, how apropos then, it was that February was the same month I finally began co-instructing the in-service training class on Mental Wellness for Law Enforcement.  It was a course I had written in order to help my brethren survive traumas like Officer Leotta's scene or the one up in Harford County.  This class was one of the cornerstones of the wellness program and I was certainly proud of it.  I had worked my ass off to get this initative, at least partially, accepted by my department.  And I'm not referring to the talking heads of the agency.  Jesus.  You go to them with the kind of stats and information I had about, not only law enforcement in general, but our own men and women, of course they're going to "support" it.  Certainly, though, it needs to go much deeper than that.  But changing the mindset of cops about opening up to mental health is like turning the Titanic.  That shit happens slowly.

By mid-spring, I was, once again, training for the Police Unity Tour.  I had recovered completely from my injuiries suffered the year before and was ready, once again, to ride in honor of those officers that took their own lives.  Goddamn, too many of them do so.  I rode for Christina, of course, and for two law enforcement park rangers with the National Park Service.  My own career started in park law enforcement and I had always aspired to be an NPS ranger.  There was...and still is...something so nostaglic about them.  I mean, your workplaces are some of the most beautiful spots on this planet.  So, I rode for Matthew Werner.  Matt was a ranger in Glen Canyon National Recreation Area when he took his own life.  Only months earlier, Matt received the Department of Interior’s Valor Award for his actions during a technical rescue in 2014 that saved the life of a climber who was dangling 700 feet above the ground.  And there was Nate Knight, who killed himself only a few weeks after Matt. Two suicides within weeks of each other in any agency would shake its foundation. These two rocked the park service's core.  Nate had worked at Point Reyes National Seashore, a gorgeous California central coast park I had been to many times myself. Nate left behind a wife and two very young children.  We'll certainly never know what pain those three experienced to drive them all to their own deaths.  And even with all that I know and do regarding mental health and suicides in law enforcement, there are days when I still don't fucking get it.

Notwithstanding those super shitty events, in June, my personal life was hitting some serious high notes.  The love of my life and I went to Alaska.  It.  Was.  EPIC.  Holy shit.  That trip was a game changer for me.  It recharged long drained batteries and renewed my spirit.  And I simply never thought I could love someone so deeply and completely.  Thank you, God, for that.

Speaking of God...during this time, you were now more apt to regularly find us at church on Sunday mornings than still in bed.  Growing up as a kid, I was compelled by my parents (mainly my mom) into, not only attending, but participating in church!  So, of course, when the time came when I could make my own decision, I swiftly ended that chapter.  At the time, I wanted nothing to do with God or anything else spiritual.  I wasn't ready.  No one really needs something like God until you really need something like God.  It's like when someone calls 9-1-1 and needs us, the police.  They don't want anything to do with us until they need us and when is that?  Yup, when they're in crisis.  Then we show up, handle it (at least, for that moment), then roll out.  And that's the way most people view God.  So when we started looking for a church to settle down in, found it, and then started going when we weren't in crisis, that was kinda awesome and allowed me to begin to appreciate life in ways that I hadn't before.  When you're in a crisis mode, or even in a bit of stress or anxiety (OK, yes, some would say they're in crisis mode when they're experiencing anxiety...and you know who you are), your capacity to take inventory as to what you have and then be grateful for those things...love, friendships, health, understanding, patience and all that...is limited, if not completely shut off.  It's sheveled.  No shit, right?  You're in the classic fight-flight-or freeze mode.  Some, in total Code Black. Complete fucking shutdown.  Who reviews the blessings of their life then?  Um, pretty much nobody.  I liken it to when I used to be so paralyzed by flying.  With sweaty palms and racing pulse, I would "pray" to God to let me live through the takeoff (I hated them the most).  But is that the time to really reach out? No.  He's there.  So, why not, when things are going harmoniously, be appreciative and say thank you?

When I first started this entry to simply recap my time away from here, I had no intention of writing about God.  I usually just start writing.  But why not?  The purpose of this work is to share so I can maybe help others.  To show them that, after hitting the shittiest of lows in life - when you contemplate killing yourself as I did - you can rise up and triumph.  Make no mistake, it will not be without helping hands, but it can be done.

So, I'll leave you with this (I hate long entries, so I'll have to do a part two on this in order to catch up to the here and now)...I got an email recently from the son-in-law of a police officer who killed himself a few days before Father's Day this year.  It hit me hard.  Out of nowhere.  In it, the writer talked about the grief his family was going through and the betrayal they feel from a department still casting a shadow on their own who succumb to their own pain.  It is dark for him and that family.  And they are, right now, asking themselves "Why God?  Why?"  I don't know why and they probably don't either.  But we must still keep the faith.  Be strong.  And continue to help others and honor lives lost.