On December 22, 2021, I woke up exhausted—not the kind of tired a night’s sleep could cure, but the bone-deep fatigue that comes from years of invisible battles. Police wellness checks had become routine, with young officers standing at my door, weapons ready, trying to decide if I was a danger to myself. Life no longer felt like living; it felt like waiting. That morning, with a zip tie in my hand, I thought the decision was final. But suicide is never a straight line. Doubts kept circling me: What about my will? What about Molly, my dog? What about the food in the refrigerator? Even in the darkest moment, hesitation lingered. Then a friend arrived. She didn’t bring therapy manuals or government forms. She didn’t try to convince me of anything—she simply said, “Hey buddy?” and offered lunch. That human connection shifted the balance. I realized that if I was still worried about loose ends, maybe I wasn’t ready to go. That day didn’t end in tragedy—it ended in survival. Exactly one year later, on December 22, 2022, I moved into my own apartment in New York City. The symmetry was not lost on me: a date once tied to despair had become a marker of renewal. Unfortunately, just five weeks later my uncle passed away from lung cancer. But surviving in New York meant confronting a new battlefield—the shelter system. For veterans, it was less a refuge than a warehouse. At Borden Avenue Veterans Residence, men who had served were packed into cubicles or open bays, fed scraps, and denied access to benefits promised under the VA’s Grant & Per Diem program. Bureaucracy deepened the wounds. What should have been quick tasks—approving vouchers, sending emails—dragged on for weeks. Veterans left the program and never returned. Some, I fear, chose suicide. The result is a perfect storm: indignity in shelters, systemic neglect, and the crushing weight of PTSD, TBI, depression, or substance use. In 2023, 6,195 veterans died by suicide. Forty percent were under VA care when they died. These are not isolated tragedies—they are systemic failures. For me, suicide was less about despair than doubt. I doubted the system, doubted whether anyone cared, doubted my own strength. Yet within that doubt lived survival: Am I ready? Do I truly want this to be the end? Who will feed my dog? Small questions became lifelines. Doubt can become the thin line between life and death. My journey did not stop at survival—it became a mission. Today, I advocate, write, and challenge systems that treat paperwork as compassion. Suicide must be spoken about—not as weakness, but as reality. It must be addressed not only with therapy, but with logistics, dignity, and action. Today is World Mental Health Day—a time to remember that one conversation, one simple act, can change everything. Veterans and civilians alike need to know that they are not alone, and that doubt can be the thread that keeps life intact. It’s been a tough week for me after being betrayed by fellow veterans simply because I dare to speak out on this important subject. They would rather see me dead than show tolerance. When I speak with veterans, I share what my friend once told me, and what I later told my uncle when he admitted his own weariness: “Hold on. We’ll make a plan. You are not alone.”

New York, NY -- A recent Veterans Affairs Office of Inspector General (OIG) report revealed serious failures at the St. Albans Community Living Center (CLC) in Queens . Delayed investigations, incomplete medical assessments, and a pervasive culture of silence left residents at risk. While the findings focus on long-term medical care, they echo long-standing issues in the Grant & Per Diem (GPD) program at the Borden Avenue Veterans Residence (BAVR) . BAVR provides transitional housing and support for veterans experiencing homelessness. However, multiple reports and firsthand accounts show systemic failures similar to those identified at the CLC. Veterans have described unsafe living conditions, delayed responses to complaints, and inconsistent oversight. Staff often lack training to manage abuse allegations or respond to resident concerns, creating a climate where problems go unreported or are superficially investigated.

New York, NY-A federal lawsuit has been filed against New York City’s Department of Homeless Services (DHS), the Institute for Community Living (ICL), and former Manhattan VA Homeless Services Director Karen Fuller, accusing them of unsafe shelter conditions, misuse of federal funds, and unlawful retaliation against veterans. The case centers on the Borden Avenue Veterans Residence (BAVR) in Queens, the only federally funded Grant & Per Diem (GPD) program available to homeless veterans in New York City. The lawsuit claims the facility was mismanaged in violation of federal law, leaving veterans in degrading conditions instead of the recovery-oriented housing required by law. Alleged Violations According to the complaint, DHS and ICL operated BAVR under a MICA (Mentally Ill, Chemically Addicted) shelter model that tolerated drug use, violence, and untreated mental illness. This approach, it argues, contradicted Public Law 109-461 and 38 CFR § 61, which require federally funded veterans’ housing to be safe, sober, and supportive. The lawsuit lists several failures: • Lack of transportation to VA medical and mental health appointments. • Nutritional neglect, falling below federal standards. • Unsafe facilities without required sinks and toilets. • Overcrowded conditions that denied veterans privacy and dignity. Shifting Blame Pena attacks the city’s definition of “success,” describing it as putting a veteran in a room with five doors, demanding they pick the right one, and then faulting them for choosing wrong. It argues that the system deliberately sets veterans up for failure, shifting responsibility away from mismanagement and onto those the program is supposed to serve.