Break the Glass in Case of War

NOTE: I wrote this before I received treatment for PTSD.
Some of my feelings have changed.
But I’ve left this as-is... because it offers honest insight into why we lose so many to suicide.
(soft ambient pad fades in)

by David Burnell

Are you the kind of person most people don’t get?

I’ve been that guy... for years.
And I’ve asked myself more times than I can count—
Why are so many veterans taking their own lives?
Why does depression crush so many of us?

In my experience... the answer is painfully simple:
People don’t understand us.
And that lack of understanding
can make you feel like you’re coming apart at the seams.

I’ve learned to wade through oceans of stress, trauma, and conflict—
and still stay standing.
But I’ve often said, half-joking, half-serious:
“Maybe guys like me should be kept in a glass case.”
Labeled: ‘Break in case of war.’

That’s how it feels sometimes.
Like we’re only good when the world catches fire.
Some people can’t relate to my past—my missions, the choices I’ve made.
Some were mine. Others were made for me.
And some of those people?
They vanish without a word.
Why?
Because they don’t want to touch what they don’t understand.

In a perfect world...
maybe we’d all be safe,
held in warmth, surrounded by peace,
dotting every “i” on the school calendar—recitals, birthdays, bedtime books.

But when you’ve lived inside conflict,
when you’ve tasted the constant threat...
it’s almost impossible to believe in that calm.

To me, the world others live in—it looks peaceful,
but it feels like a facade.

Because I’ve seen the real one.
And I know how fast it can fall apart.

Men like me...
We reconcile with faith.
We cling to family.
We try—God knows we try—to live in the “normal.”

But we’re the ones who run toward the fire.
We pull strangers from rubble.
We act when others freeze.
And we don’t count the cost... until later.

But the cost...
It’s there.

It’s heavy.

Training turns into memories.
Memories become ghosts.
Every mission strips away some part of you
that once believed in safety.

We carry the same heartbreaks as anyone else.
But we also carry the ones no one else will touch.

That’s why we seem distant.
That’s why we disappear.
Because we haven’t forgotten your world.
We just...
don’t believe in it the same way anymore.

I remember when I felt safe.
When someone else stood guard.

But now...
I am the guard.

And I can’t ever go back.

Once you’ve walked into hell—
and lived to tell about it—
you’re never the same.

You don’t want applause.
You don’t want pity.

You just want to be seen.
Understood.
Maybe... even remembered.

So if all this feels like too much,
and you think I belong in some clinic or crisis line...

just know this—

I’ve lived through more than most ever will.
And if that makes me someone you keep behind glass?

Then keep me there.

But when the world breaks again—

break the glass.

I’ll come running.