Military discharge for being gay, Combat PTSD, philanthropist arrives

Marvin Carter says he's helping others because he is also helping himself. In a way, that is why everyone involved in helping others does it. They remember. They remember what it was like when they needed help but no one would help them. When you need help and don't get it, you lose hope. You can also get very angry when you see others being helped, provided with what you need. You also wonder what the hell is wrong with you when you can't get a hand. Some people become bitter. Some people become filled with so much hopelessness they want to die instead of spend one more day suffering. Then one day comes when hope, no matter how small, gives them what they need to try again. They know the difference they can make in someone else's life.

Officer and a Philanthropist
From a military discharge for being gay to struggling with PTSD, today Marvin Carter is helping others to help himself
By Will O'Bryan
Published on November 1, 2012

With Veterans Day coming up Nov. 11, the nation takes some time this month to honor the veterans of the U.S. armed forces. One of them is Marvin Carter, though he's still waiting for the honor – or at least the benefits.

Nearly three decades ago, Carter, 60, was discharged from the Marine Corps for being gay. It was the sort of discharge that cut Carter off from the investment he'd made in the military between 1972 and 1985. In short, the Pentagon discharged Carter with not so much as a thank you, but with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and no access to Veterans Health Administration medical services to treat it.

Rather than stress from being a closeted Marine – or the stress of surviving three military plane crashes – Carter and the professionals treating him suspect his PTSD is rooted in a particularly nerve-racking military tactic.

''We flew covert ops and we would get shot at on a regular basis, especially by the North Koreans and Yemenis. They were always the worst,'' recalls Carter, who speaks not with any gung-ho bluster, but with calm reserve. ''Our evasive technique was called a 'dead drop.' We were flying at 35,000 feet. When they would start to shoot – I was the mission commander – I would get in position. The pilot would get his fingers on the engine. We would turn all the engines off. When we go to a thousand feet, the pilot would turn on the engines. It was a very common evasive technique, but the g-forces on you were incredible. [My doctor] really thinks that doing that on a weekly basis for two years probably took a tremendous toll on my brain.''
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