O for the day that we signed our names and the well that we were wished
The men’s congrats and the pats on the backs and the ladies that we kissed
The band that played and the grande parade and the patriotic shouts
All faded fast, didn’t even last till the uniforms wore out

These poor men. I’m betting most of them are men, though the names and numbers haven’t been released yet. I’m sitting here practically in tears, reading the first news stories out of Fort Hood. Twelve dead, thirty-one injured, a Major to blame for the shootings. BBC is reporting that the shooter is still alive, despite earlier reports that he had been killed. They’re also saying he acted alone, not in collusion with two other suspects.

The suspected shooter is a psychiatrist, and that’s what hit me. How… how when you are trained to deal with this type of thing… how do you end up being the one holding the gun? How … what goes through your mind that this is the only solution, that this is the right solution? I think… sometimes, having been diagnosed with my own mental problems… I just have real difficulty now understanding why people don’t / can’t / won’t get help.

Getting help is the hard part, yes, but getting better is easy. I know that I’m talking from a simplified point of view. But even Dooce says that she recognized signs of post-partum depression the second time around and got additional support for her problems, so it’s not just me thinking that it’s… not easy, necessarily, but good to reach out and get assistance. Admitting you have the problem is hard. Implementing the solution is almost a relief.

I know I’m jumping to some conclusions here, and that not everyone who has a mental illness is depressed, and that not everyone with a gun has a mental illness. I realize my logic is flawed. But I can’t help but have a very emotional response to things like this. It doesn’t help that his name gives him away as non-White.

I’m just… I’m sad.