The Protest That Never Ends

I’ve been standing my post outside Audie Murphy Veterans Death Care Services every day this week. Every morning, I show up—sign in hand—that reads:

“Veterans Death Care Services murders 40 veterans a day. Mark Miller was one of them”

Forty combat veterans. Every. Single. DAY!

And Mark Miller was one of them.

They call it “care,” what they actually

offer is the slow grind of neglect, gaslighting, and silence. The narrative they push is so flawed, so corrupted, so broken— And society is so scared to face the cracks That they’d rather just believe what they’re told.

That tears my soul apart. Because every single morning I wake up knowing I’m going to lose forty more brothers and sisters.

Since 2004, our government has waged a quiet war against its own—the ones who fought for it. We lose them right here. In their own damn backyards. And most of America doesn’t even notice.

So I stand that post.

Not because I’m some hero. Not because I’m ordained with purpose. But because no one else will.

I stand there to remember. To remind them that we’re still here. That whether they like it or not—we still have a voice.

For the last 20 years, it’s felt like all the government has ever tried to do Is take that voice and bury it. Seal it in a box. Call it PTSD. Label it dangerous. Medicate it until it forgets how to scream.

Because here’s the truth:

A healed combat veteran with purpose is the well-trained militia our government fears most.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: They’re not scared of some hillbillies out in the hills of Appalachia. Nobody’s storming the capital from the holler. They’re scared of us. The ones they trained. The ones who know what tyranny looks like up close. The ones who came home.

These are hard days. I’m healing and breaking at the same time. Finding my voice again And paying the cost of remembering.

The VA employees who laugh, who film, who roll their eyes as I stand there— They don’t see a man grieving. They don’t see the bodies piling up behind their institution. They see a “crazy vet” with a sign and a mouth. And that’s easier than admitting we’re right.

I don’t know all their names. I never will. There are too many.

But today I know one that matters: Mark Miller.

Mark took his own life in protest. In the parking lot. At the place that was supposed to help.

Not because he was “suicidal.” But because he knew the truth: If somebody didn’t do something drastic—no one would ever listen.

Mark, I heard you. I heard your voice in the hollow echo of your “celebration of life.” And I heard you scream:

“It should have been a protest.”

So now it is.

I’m standing that post. For you. For every name I’ll never know. For every life stolen by silence, bureaucracy, and betrayal.

My general orders and code of conduct have never left me— Even if my country did. A long, long time ago.