The number 22 became a symbol of something deeply wrong in our country and many have taken it up as a banner of action and awareness. It’s not just a statistic—it’s a daily reminder that an entire community is hurting. For veterans and service members, that number represents lives lost to despair, isolation, and pressures most people never see and unaware that others have experienced. For me, it’s personal. It’s a number that has followed me for years, shaping how I see the world and how I understand the quiet battles people fight.
I am aware some people use it in numerology or angelic numbers and find it beautiful, I am not after that but those that claim things for their own.In 2010, my life changed in a way I never expected. My dad passed under circumstances that never felt fully explained, and that loss cracked something open inside me. Grief has a way of reshaping your worldview, and for me, it stirred doubts about the military that affected my service, about the systems we trust, and about the unseen pressures that push people toward the edge.
During my time in service, I saw fellow service members—some recently returned from deployment—take their own lives. Rumors always floated around, but no one ever really knew the full story. Maybe they didn’t want to know. Maybe it was easier not to ask.
Not long ago, during a meeting, the topic of suicide came up. A young woman whom was distraught at her attempts to create life and my pondering if she was took a COVID-19 Vaccine and if so.. which manufacturer—and a service member that had used their issued weapon to end their life. I reacted without much hesitation and said, “That’s selfish.” Because some of this topic has been hard to broach and I have been wanting to blog that there are external forces, some technological, and a personal story of mine regarding it. The room shifted. Someone spoke up, sharing that their own father had taken his life because of medical issues and his choice to not put that on his family members. That moment forced me to reconsider the narrative and do my best to be aware of the room at large. The topic was specifically about the young people we were discussing but opened the door for someone to share something.
For most of my life, I’ve been navigating a long, painful stretch of confusion, betrayal, and emotional fallout. For nearly thirty years, it has felt like the people who were supposed to protect me, guide me, care for me, were instead working against me — shaping events, relationships, and even careers/jobs in ways that that forced me into homelessness and poverty. The person who claimed to be my mom and the man she remarried created a pattern of manipulation that bled into every corner of my life. Their actions — the lies, the pressure, the intimidation, the strange social tactics — left me constantly questioning my reality and my worth. At times, it felt like a coordinated effort to break me down, to isolate me, or to push me toward the same fate that has claimed so many others. But through the darkest nights, through the confusion and the humiliation, it was the leadership I had in the military — the mentors who saw me, the structure that kept me grounded — that helped me understand something vital: there are people who harm others through manipulation and cruelty, but there are also people who step in, who steady you, who remind you, who refocus you.
What I’m talking about here isn’t the warrior’s death, and it isn’t the heartbreaking situation my coworker described — where their father chose to end his life rather than force his family to watch him deteriorate from a medical condition he couldn’t bear... although the pondering of what another medical opinion would proffer and what is being sold. What I’ve lived through is something different, something targeted and deeply personal. For decades, I felt like I was being pushed, pressured, and cornered by people who should have been family and they even claimed to be as part of the illusion that was created since before I was even a teenager. Their manipulation seeped into my work life, my relationships, even my marriage. It wasn’t just emotional chaos — it was a pattern of control, intimidation, and psychological games that left me constantly fighting to stay grounded. And while I can’t speak for anyone else’s story, I know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of sustained pressure designed to break a person down. The fact that I’m still here is because of the leadership, structure, and support I found in the military, and the hard-earned clarity that came from surviving both the darkest nights and the mornings that followed.
Suicide isn’t usually about selfishness. It’s about pressure—external, internal, chemical, emotional, societal. It’s about burdens that stack until a person can’t see any way out. And when you look at the data, the picture becomes even clearer:
The number 22 became widely known after a 2012 VA study estimated that 22 veterans died by suicide each day. Later studies adjusted the number, but the symbol stuck—and for good reason. It represents a failure of systems meant to protect those who serve. An infestation of thought and action.
America has gone through cultural, psychological, and political upheaval for decades. From Cold War experimentation to the rapid spread of synthetic drugs, the country has been shaped by forces that often leave ordinary people carrying the consequences. These aren’t conspiracy theories—they’re documented chapters of American history. But the impact they’ve had on mental health, community stability, and trust in institutions is still unfolding.
Before and After 9/11, the nation entered a prolonged periods of conflict that seemingly were purposeful in getting Americans killed, draining of resources, and molestations. Deployments, reintegration challenges, financial strain, family pressures, and constant exposure to traumatic events created a perfect storm. Add in the rise of social media, economic instability, and the normalization of isolation, and you get a society where many feel disconnected and overwhelmed. Operation Paperclip, the collapse of the USSR and migration of oligarch political parties, the experiments with drugs and mind control—these aren’t conspiracy theories; they’re documented truths. America became a playground for covert experiments, often with devastating consequences for the people within the borders.
I lived my own version of that storm. In 2010, I found myself alone with a Colt 1911 in my hand, alcohol clouding and influencing my judgment, and my thoughts spiraling. I was lucky—leadership stepped in, recognized the signs, and helped me pull myself back. Not everyone gets that intervention.
Technology has amplified everything—connection, isolation, influence, manipulation. While AI and digital tools can help, they can also distort reality, fuel anxiety, and push vulnerable people further into despair. Online exploitation networks, misinformation, and predatory digital communities create environments where people already struggling can be nudged toward harmful decisions. The digital landscape has become even more sinister. Technologies are being used to subtly influence minds—covertly pushing individuals toward despair or destructive actions. America has been weakened from within—corrupted by networks that thrive on exploitation, from child pornography to other heinous crimes, treason by any other definition, subject to international intervention in other historical examples. These forces are interconnected, feeding into a cycle of destruction that affects the most vulnerable.
The fact that 22 service members once took their lives every day—and that the number remains painfully high—should outrage every one of us. The military isn’t the enemy. The enemy is the combination of untreated trauma, subversion, societal neglect, and the cultural forces that erode resilience.
The number 22 isn’t just a statistic. It’s a warning. A signal. A call to action.
We can’t fix everything overnight, but we can start by acknowledging the truth: suicide is rarely about selfishness. It’s about pain. It’s about pressure. It’s about people feeling trapped in a life that no longer feels survivable and their wanting to remove themselves from this world; sometimes without fully calculating the impact it has on others..
The question now is how we respond. How do we support those who are struggling? How do we rebuild trust, community, and connection? How do we confront the Cultural and Psychological forces that keep pushing people toward the edge in the geopolitical stratosphere?
Because in the end, 22 is more than a number. It’s a reminder that we have work to do.