On discharge, duty, and the burdens no form absolves
When I was discharged from the world’s greatest naval-marine conglomerate, I was issued a DD-214. For those unfamiliar, it is a formal document — a discharge certificate — recognizing the completion of service. It lists rank, dates, awards, and reasons. It is often treated as a passport back into civilian life, or at least proof that you once wore the uniform.
There is a peculiar phrase in the Fifth General Order that refuses to slip from my memory: “To quit my post only when properly relieved.” The logic is clear. One does not abandon duty. One does not dismiss oneself. One stays until someone else takes one’s place. But what does “properly relieved” mean outside the chain of command? What happens when one is relieved of one’s benefits, but not of one’s burdens? That is the situation I — and many others — find ourselves in after separation. The paperwork certifies closure. The systems withdraw. But the responsibilities remain.
Military service imparts structure, routine, and systems of accountability. These are not abstractions — they are modes of life management. The rhythm of orders, meals, schedules, inspections: each small ritual offsets the overwhelming fact that your life is not fully your own. When the uniform is returned, those structures evaporate, but the underlying requirements do not. Rent is still due. Health must still be maintained. Purpose must still be imagined. The problem is not the lack of benefits — it is the unacknowledged continuation of responsibility without any supporting system.
The term “veteran” implies a kind of closure, but that too is misleading. I do not feel like someone who has completed a cycle. I feel like someone who has been transferred — unceremoniously — from one post to another, with no briefing — a PCS sans orders. I was relieved of my duties in uniform, yes, but no one relieved me from the daily duty of self-maintenance. No one replaced the scaffolding that was stripped away. And so, in the absence of structure, I write. Not because I enjoy it, and not because it pays. I write as a form of articulation that holds me accountable to myself. If no one else is keeping the watch, the least I can do is maintain my own deck logs.
This is not to lament. I don’t write to complain. But I do write for clarity. There is a difference between benefits and burdens. The former can be denied, delayed, or revoked. The latter persist. I was properly relieved — on paper. But not in practice. I carry that distinction like a folded ensign no one saluted. My post continues but the underlying subtext has shifted.