Some Wars Don't Make the History Books

Some Wars Don't Make the History Books
Some soldiers come home to parades. Some come home to silence. Some never come home at all. Earlier this month, I tried to reach my friend. She didn't answer my texts. She always answers. She didn't pick up the phone — it went straight to voicemail. I didn't panic. I've learned that until you know what you're dealing with, you pray. And when you know what you're dealing with, you deal with it.

I emailed a mutual friend. I called the behavioral health unit where she'd been before — the only number I had, because she was several states away and I didn't have last names or local contacts, even after seven years of friendship. Seven years of knowing each other's wounds, each other's wars.

She had tried to end her life.

By the grace of God, she was still here. They had her phone. That was why she hadn't answered. When I called back they put her on the line and encouraged her to give me the code. She was getting out the next day. She is still in the fight. But she is not winning.

My friend and I are survivors of ritual abuse and mind control. What some people think is something I heard my whole life until I met other survivors. No solid evidence. Not verified. Can't be confirmed. Satanic panic. False memory. Let me tell you something about evidence.

My husband is a Vietnam veteran. When he was over there risking his life, the government was here telling the American people there were no troops in Vietnam. When he came home he was called a baby killer. He carried that for years. He was invisible. He was dismissed. He was a soldier who fought a real war and came home to a country that pretended it never happened. Sound familiar?

Eventually — years later, decades later — the veterans got acknowledgment. They got compensation for Agent Orange and the horrors done to their bodies by chemical warfare. It took time, and it was never enough, and my husband still doesn't qualify because the damage wasn't sufficient enough — as if there is a threshold of destruction a human body must reach before it counts. But here is what no one could ever take from him: He really was over there.
And I was really here.

I was really in those rooms. Those things really happened to my body, my mind, my spirit. The CIA declassified documents prove that German Nazi scientists were brought to American soil after World War II. Mind control programs were real. Then they were buried. Then they were covered again by the people who had the most to lose.

No footage. No observable evidence. The programming itself is proof — it is a loop designed to be invisible. The Epstein files cracked open a window that powerful people are already trying to close. Thousands of survivors are speaking. Thousands. And still, there are those who show up to say: not verified. not confirmed. no solid evidence. We are the evidence.

My spine has severe scoliosis. My cervix bears what was done to it. My body could not escape, and my body remembers everything my mouth was not allowed to say. My mind shattered into pieces because that is what minds do when the war never stops and there is no exit. My emotions went underground the way soldiers dig in when they have no choice.

I spent money I did not have on therapy, on inpatient stays, on medical bills for damage done to me by people who were never held accountable. I came back from a war I did not choose, fought on soil that was supposed to be safe, in rooms that were supposed to be home, against enemies who wore the faces of people who should have protected me.
I never got basic training. Neither did my friend. Neither did any of us.

They drafted us before we had language. They sent us into combat before we knew what combat was. They called it childhood. And when we finally found our way back — broken, scarred, still bleeding in places no one could see — we came home to a country that told us the war didn't happen.

The veterans waited. And they were finally seen — imperfectly, inadequately, but seen. The damage was finally acknowledged as real. Their bodies were finally called evidence of something.
We are still waiting.

My friend is not winning this war right now. Even though she is getting released from the hospital she still wants to die. Some survivors never fully come back from the foreign country their minds had to travel to in order to survive. That foreign country was not a choice. It was a necessity. It was the only safe place when the real world was the danger. I will keep calling. I will keep praying. I will keep showing up the way I wish someone had shown up for all of us when we were small and had no phone to call and no mutual friend to email and no one who knew our name.

Because this is what we do when the government fails us, when the systems fail us, when the people who were supposed to protect us failed us.

We become each other's witnesses.

We hold the evidence of each other's wars.

And we refuse to let each other disappear.