The vets at the VA hospital used to ask me, “How you doing?”
“Ducky,” I’d say.
They’d look at me sideways. “What the hell is ducky?”
“Cool and calm on the surface. Paddling like hell underneath.”
One guy laughed. “Yeah. We’re all ducky.”
Coming Home Broken
I came home from eight years in the Navy with more than I left with—some of it visible, most of it not. PTSD, major depression, chronic pain, and a nervous system that never seemed to shut off. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t know how to ask for help.
I was broke. Living in a haze. The first year out, all I did was cry, dissociate, keep myself away from suicide, and repeat. I read and read and read anything to keep my mind occupied. To block out the other thoughts even for a few minutes. Because when it got quiet, it got dark.
Motion, Not Hope
It wasn’t about hope. It was about motion.
Work gave me a reason to make it to the next hour. Some nights I wanted to live. Some nights I didn’t. What kept me here wasn’t clarity or faith—it was repetition. A kind of survival autopilot. One task. One conversation. One more bench at the VA.
The Bench at the VA
On my second or third inpatient stay at the VA mental ward, I met some Vietnam veterans. They were a hard group to click with—they didn’t welcome newcomers. But somehow my PTSD and my story passed muster, and we started talking.
They explained that I had a claim for Major Depression and maybe PTSD, and what I needed to do. My therapist and psychiatrist said they were going to treat me for both anyway. I was officially diagnosed once the DSM criteria changed.
In the meantime, I kept chatting up veterans. Not just the Vietnam vets, but every veteran who sat down next to me on the bench at the hospital. I was there every day for a Day Hospital program, so I met a lot of them. I asked a ton of questions about claims.
And I realized: more veterans needed to know what I was finding out.
The Information Vacuum
In 1991, there was no Google. No forums. No central database. Service officers were overworked and unreachable. Libraries didn’t stock the CFR or VA manuals. If you wanted answers, you had to find another vet who’d already fought your fight—and hope they’d talk to you.
I had originally thought of flyers. But when the Web hit in the early 1990s, I knew that was how I could share the information.
That’s how HadIt.com started. Not as a business plan. Not even as a conscious mission at first—just something that was needed, and I thought I could provide it.
The Crowdsourcing Breakthrough
I thought: what if veterans could crowdsource their claims questions?
If a vet in Texas with a service-connected back condition got approved and a vet in Minnesota with the same condition got denied—they could compare notes. See what the Texas vet did differently. Figure out what evidence worked.
That’s not just information. That’s power.
Vets started showing up. Talking. Sharing tips. Comparing decisions. Teaching each other the rules the VA never explained.
Still Ducky, Still Here
Twenty-nine years later, HadIt.com serves over 30,000 veterans a month. We’ve helped thousands get service-connected. And we’re still teaching the VA’s own rules back to them.
Now I still run HadIt.com and I’ve added TbirdsQuietFight.com where I break down VA policy, legal updates, and the reality of surviving systems that weren’t built to help us. I’m also writing some stories from my memories in Diary of a Mad Sailor under my Substack.
Same mission. Bigger megaphone.
If you’re reading this because you’re fighting for your benefits, your dignity, or just trying to make it to tomorrow—I see you.
You don’t have to be fine. You don’t have to be strong every day.
Sometimes, barely is good enough.
Cool and calm on the surface. Paddling like hell underneath.
Still here. Still fighting.
— Tbird
Founder of HadIt.com and writer at Tbird’s Quiet Fight
from a homeless shelter on a church donated laptop in 2015 I finally was able to gain success with a claim id been struggling w for 20 years. your site was one of only a couple that existed and it helped me a LOT. just the NAME gave me some relief because i jnew for the first time that i was not alone. Thank you for your years of continued service.