A young veteran's account of returning to American life while struggling with PTSD - with scary implications for his future. After twelve months of military service in Iraq, Michael Anthony stepped off a plane, seemingly happy to be home?or at least back on US soil. He was twenty-one years old, a bit of a nerd, and carrying a pack of cigarettes that he thought would be his last. Two months later, Michael was stoned on Vicodin, drinking way too much, and picking a fight with a very large Hell's Angel. At his wit's end, he came to an agreement with himself: If things didn't improve in three months, he was going to kill himself. 'Civilianized' is a memoir chronicling Michael's search for meaning in a suddenly destabilised world. AUTHOR: Michael Anthony is the author of 'Mass Casualties: A Young Medic's True Story of Death', 'Deception, and Dishonor in Iraq', which received a starred review from Publishers Weekly, and blurbs from Howard Zinn, Bing West, David Bellavia, and Philip Zimbardo. He has written for the Washington Post blog, the Business Insider blog, as well as several others, including a year-long stint as a feature writer and the editor of the "War and Veterans" section of the Good Men Project. Excerpts: "I'd always heard that the hardest part about returning from war is adjusting to the changes that happen while you're away. The world goes on without us." "A month ago, I had been in Iraq working in a combat support hospital. I was an operating room technician and assisted doctors during surgery-picture a scene in a movie or TV show where a doctor yells "Scalpel!" and then a mysterious hand reaches over with the necessary tool. That's what I did. I was that hand. I was cauterizing wounds, suturing skin, and sawing through limbs, along with handing over scalpels. I was saving lives while trying to stay alive. And now, as I stared at David jumping around, I couldn't believe I'd been home a month. It felt like five minutes and it felt like five years." "Everything I wrote felt like a cliche of every other suicide note I'd ever read or heard about; Cobain, Woolf, Thompson. But I kept writing nonetheless. I tried to think of good times to write about, but memories from before the war were harder and harder to remember. The distant memory of a lone midnight kiss, a family vacation in France, or a game of volleyball with friends, could hold no ground against the remembrance of a cold bunker during a mortar attack. I ended it after three and a half pages. I made sure not to add the date."
