The Beautiful Narcotic of Work

For the first couple years after getting out of the Navy, my mission was simple: don’t kill yourself. That was the only job that mattered. I had no real work to throw myself into, nothing to tether me to the world. I tried. I still had some old software, a computer. I taught myself everything I could about every program I had, trying to stay busy, trying to stay alive. It helped—but just a little. I was missionless, untethered, surviving on instinct.

But like they say—when the student is ready, the teacher appears. When I was ready, my mission appeared. And with it came back the beautiful narcotic of work.

I created HadIt.com out of righteous outrage. The VA was treating veterans—myself included—with indifference, delays, and a stunning lack of transparency. I was furious. There was no centralized source of information. Just pamphlets. Fragments. Silence. So I began gathering. I called every state for their veterans benefits. I hoarded brochures, reports, any scrap of data I could get. I went to the library, took notes by hand, read everything I could. I saved up and ordered my first copy of NVLSP’s Veterans Benefits Manual in 1992 and devoured it. I bought Black’s Law Dictionary so I could understand the language of the system I was up against.

And while I did all this, I was still struggling—suicidal thoughts, flashbacks, disassociation, hunger. Picking smokes out of the VA’s butt kit just to get through the day. But the work gave me something to hold onto. A reason to stay.

Therapy helped. The Day Hospital program gave me structure. Compensated Work Therapy gave me a place to go every day. In 1993, I got a job at an information technology company—just as the Mosaic browser was introduced. When Netscape took over in 1994, the World Wide Web exploded. And with it, I saw a way forward. A way to share everything I’d been collecting. The knowledge. The experience. The warnings. The hope.

That was the breakthrough. The mission had found its medium.

I gave up a personal life—but not because of the work. That was PTSD. That was MDD. They took plenty from me. But the work gave something back. It kept me breathing. It gave me purpose. It connected me to others who were struggling in the same dark waters.

I’m not sure if this story ties neatly into the others I’ve told. Maybe it repeats some things I’ve already said. But that’s part of living with trauma—memories echo and loop until you find new meaning in them.

If there’s a thread I want to leave you with, it’s this:

Even in the worst of circumstances, you can make a difference in someone’s life. You can make an impact.

People said to me, Why are you doing this? There’s no money in it. You really think people are going to find your little site on the web?

My answer was simple:
“It beats walking the streets.”