I left the military over a decade ago and never thought I’d touch the system again.
I didn’t think I ever would.
Total Disability based on Individual Unemployability always felt like a step too far. Too final. Too exposed. Even when other veterans—guys already at 100%—told me I should go for it, I let the idea drift past. I was in Saigon the first time someone brought it up. Later again in Chiang Mai. Both times I nodded, thanked them, filed it away.
Back then I had 50% for sleep apnea. That was already life-changing. It got me out of survival mode. Let me leave the U.S., carve out something quiet. Later—after nearly a decade of not touching the system—I filed again. Mental health. Another 50%. That claim felt harder to write than the first. But they approved it. And just like that, my life tilted into something more stable. Not rich. But steady enough to live with.
TDIU always sat there like some final lever. The last form. The last move. And for years, I told myself I didn’t need it.
But the truth was harder: I didn’t want to admit what it meant.
Unemployable. Not just struggling. Not just tired. Done.
What finally pushed me over the edge wasn’t a person. It was AI. Cold, structured, neutral logic. No judgment. Just a mirror held up in front of me saying, you already meet the standard—why are you pretending you don’t?
So I filed. Cleanly. On my own terms. My history was consistent. My last claim recent. My income, well below gainful. I didn’t have to stretch anything. Just told the truth in full, maybe for the first time.
Now I wait.
And yeah—there’s a pulse of hope I can’t quite tamp down. The idea that I might actually get approved again, that this third and final claim might land like the last two did. Not with a fight, but with quiet affirmation. Not with a windfall, but with freedom.
It’s a strange kind of anticipation. Not giddy, not detached—just this low, steady hum. Because if it does get approved, that’s it. No more forms. No more chasing. Just... done.
It would mean I could live anywhere. Save. Build. Choose. Maybe even make peace with time. It would also mean, weirdly, that the very same government I’ve grown to distrust—the one collapsing into something cruel and authoritarian—is the one writing the check. There’s something twisted about that. But I’ll cash it anyway. Maybe that’s the quietest form of reclamation there is.
In a place like Cambodia, that kind of increase becomes overkill in the best way. In Portugal or Mexico or even parts of Europe, it becomes freedom.
But the waiting? That part never gets easier.
I’ve filed three times in 13 years. Every one of them felt like a gamble. But they were all approved—not because I played the game well, but because I waited until I could back every word with lived truth.
Maybe this one will follow the pattern.
If it does, maybe I’ll ring the bell at the bar. Not for show. Not for attention. Just to mark that—for once—the weight lifted.