From Hero to Forgotten: Sergio O’Shaughnessy’s Battle After War

““I hope I can get the help I’ve needed. The help I now know was there. Will the VA deny me? I’m not sure I can make it through this again.”

My name is Sergio O’Shaughnessy, and this is my story — the story of what came from my military experience as a combat veteran in the Gulf War.

I was about 7 years old when I first felt the pull toward military service. I was drawn to the Navy, full of questions and curiosity. At 16, I discovered I could start the enlistment process. School never really challenged me. It felt repetitive and uninspiring, and I was always hungry for something more.

I remember going to MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station). The night before, I stayed at a hotel — and for the first time, I felt important. But the part I’ll never forget? Raising my right hand and swearing to defend the country I loved. At that moment, I would’ve given my life for it. Little did I know it would take my life — not in death, but in the years that PTSD stole from me, from my kids, my ex-wife, and from every relationship I’ve had since.

I thought I was one of the lucky ones. I came home without physical injuries. But PTSD — back then — was not something we knew much about. Still, it was real.
Young U.S. soldiers are tough. We’re competitive. We don’t show weakness. We don’t let our brothers down. That’s how we are. That’s why we are.

The Gulf War: Brotherhood, Bombs, and Buried ScarsMy memories from the Gulf War are sharply two-sided — good and bad.

The good: My shipmates. We were close. Our superiors were like family. We joked, trained, learned from each other. That closeness was why I made E-4, Third Class Petty Officer, at such a young age. When you have people who would die for you, you never let them down.

The bad: I was only 20. I worked as an Aviation Ordnanceman, moving between the flight deck and deep in the ship's magazines. We were trained to fight fires — because on a ship, there's no escape from
a fire. You run to it, not away. That training kicked in fast.

I remember how the temperature changed from the flight deck to the magazines. Down in those magazines, we could be stuck for 20 to 30+ hours, never seeing daylight. We’d get sandwiches and drinks brought to us. We used a bucket to piss in. We’d ball up our naval coats and sleep on the missiles and bombs.

Being raised Catholic, I often struggled with the knowledge that every bomb I built or missile I sent up was ending a life. God forgive me. But for my country — at that age, and with that pride — I’d do anything they asked of me.

After the War: Silence, Ringing, and the Beginning of the EndLeaving the Gulf was a relief. The Captain told us we did our job and did it well. I was proud. I wore my medals — two of them for combat — with honor.

But when we got back to port, everything changed.

The planes were gone. Three-quarters of the crew had left. The ship was quiet and dim. That’s when I first noticed the ringing in my ears. The silence made it unbearable.

I was assigned to do security checks of the magazines — all hours of the night. That’s when the sleepless nights began. The nervousness, the headaches, and the dreams. I’d choke in my sleep, dreaming that my firefighting mask was on wrong. I now know it was sleep apnea. My shipmates would throw slippers or cups at me to stop my snoring. I worked out, ran 3–5 miles a day, but I couldn’t shake the exhaustion.

I started avoiding the ship every chance I had. I’d go to the bowling alley on base. I was underage, but we could drink on base. At first, it was a beer or two — enough to sleep. Then more. But sometimes, other sailors going through the same things kept me from going too far.

From Petty Officer to PariahWhen I went on leave, my family threw me a welcome home party. But all the questions — about combat, about war — were too much. I drank too much. That night, I got a DUI.
I was court-martialed. I received 45 days restriction, two months half pay, and was demoted from E-4 to E-3. And worst of all — restricted to the ship. The very place that was killing me inside was now my prison.

My friends turned their backs. No more invites. No more support. Just shame.
I wanted off that ship so badly. I didn’t care what the ensign attorney said. Please, just get me off that ship.

In boot camp, we were told that anything less than an honorable discharge meant your life was worthless. You couldn’t even work at McDonald's. You were nothing.
I was discharged with an Other Than Honorable (OTH). I went home ashamed. I lied to everyone, telling them the Navy found a hole in my heart.

From hero to zero, just like that.

The Lost DecadesI tried to move on. Tried jobs, school — but it’s hard to focus when your ears never stop
ringing.

I eventually started my own business. Most of my life, that’s what I did. I fathered 9 kids through 8 relationships, trying to build the family I thought would heal me — trying to make my Catholic mother proud.

But I kept failing. I gave my ex-wife everything — because she kept my boys. She knew I was sick. She made me go for a sleep study. I was prescribed a CPAP machine, but I couldn’t wear it. The nightmares were too vivid. It felt like I was back in the fire.

Because of that discharge, I avoided all veteran help. I wanted nothing to do with the VA, with “benefits,” with anyone that reminded me of what I’d lost.

Rock BottomNow, I’m 52 years old, homeless, and tired of trying — and failing. I live in my Toyota 4Runner, worried it’ll be towed. My tools, my home, everything I have is in that truck. I can’t afford insurance or gas. I have no stable income. I can’t even get to a job.

For the last six months, things have been the worst they’ve ever been. I’ve burned every bridge. My anger is out of control. I’ve lost contact with all my kids — except one. She’s 16. I hope one day she’ll meet the man I really am. Or the man I know I still can be.

A Glimmer of Hope. I finally forced myself to try again. I went to a VA-funded organization and was accepted. But when I broke down and admitted to having thoughts of suicide, I was ignored and denied. That crushed me.

But I didn’t stop.

I called the VA Crisis Hotline. I navigated the VA site myself. I learned about exposure therapy — confronting the triggers of PTSD. It’s helped.
For the first time in decades, I see how this happened. I wasn’t crazy. I was broken by war, forgotten by a system that didn’t know how to help.

Now, I want to live again. I want to apologize to my children. I want to stop running from who I’ve become and start healing into who I still can be.

Final Words.  I hope the VA doesn’t deny me. I’m not sure I can take another fall. But I’m here. I’m trying. And I’m ready to fight — not in war, but for my life.

If you are a veteran or know someone who is struggling, please reach out.
Call the Veterans Crisis Line at 988 (Press 1) or visit www.veteranscrisisline.net.

Published at www.aveteransjournal.com
Written by Sergio O’Shaughnessy | Edited and Shared by Phillip V. Cruz, Jr., MPA