I've been thinking all weekend . . .

. . . , well, about two things really, but one of them is private and I've already shared it with the appropriate person. The other is a complicated thought about Memorial Day, and one I want to be a little careful with.

So many civilians approach veterans this weekend with well-intended gratitude for their service, but that isn't what this weekend is about. It's for those who gave their very lives in service of their country, and no, giving up family time and all the other things that come with military service, short of the ultimate sacrifice, are not the same thing. Please, this day out of all the year is not the one to thank veterans for our service. It is the time, though, to share in our profound sadness for our friends who are no longer with us because they died defending our nation. They are too often forgotten, and even this weekend that is allegedly dedicated to remembering them itself too often distracts from that. I think that Memorial Day would have been better left observed on May 30, so that at least some years it wouldn't be more of an excuse for a mini-vacation than a day-long opportunity to pause and remember.

But this weekend, I find myself thinking of those who lost their lives not as a direct result of in-theater action, or of preparing for such, but in the aftermath of such service. In particular, I've been thinking of my dad. In truth, I'll probably never know how accurate my thoughts are, but they are good for me to consider anyway. And these thoughts are the ones I want to be careful of.

I'm sure I've written about dad's problems before. As long as I can remember, my adoptive father was an alcoholic who never really accepted me for who I was, unequipped as I was to recreate his glory days of youthful athletic excellence. I was fourteen when he took his own life.

But dad was also a veteran of the Korean Conflict, an Army vet who was shot in battle. And it has only recently occurred to me to wonder how much this had to do with the rest of his life, including his broken marriages and relationships, his self-medication with alcohol, and his suicide. There is a much greater focus today on how trauma ravages the psyche long after it is experienced, a truth that I know first-hand due to an entirely different set of circumstances from those affecting most veterans. Back in my dad's day, the stigma associated with perceived weakness likely made the struggle in some ways more difficult. To whom was a veteran to turn for support?

Is this why dad turned to the bottle? I will never know. Is this, at least in part, why he took his life? Likewise, a mystery.

I know that there is a danger in recognizing among the heroes we remember this weekend those many veterans who die by their own hands after returning home. I realize that glorifying suicide is a dangerous thing for those who struggle in the same battle every day. We shouldn't do anything to make this option look more attractive to them. We should find other ways to support and help them. But this weekend, I think it might be good for us to quietly remember those broken men and women whose "ultimate sacrifice" may not have been so obvious, and silently thank them, too, for their service to our nation, without doing it in a way that ever encourages others to seek that end to their own battle.

Dad, thank you for giving your life for my freedom.