I lost my father to suicide on May 4, 2017. He had been diagnosed disbaled with 100% PTSD due to serving overseas in the military. Coping with alcohol had been his strategy. Growing up, I faced the demons of his past. He would have flashbacks while we were home, and I believe he mistook us for who he had gone to war against. While parts of my childhood were traumatizing, I also never gave up on him. Despite numerous DUIs, I knew he would never completely sober up. However, he would also attend our sporting events, school awards, and work on our ranch. I was fortunate enough to have a father who showed up-even if he wasn't in the "best shape". He wasn't belligerent in public places, just at home. Home wasn't always a safe place for me, but for him, it kept him out of jail system. McNaughton and Percocet. Wasn't even prescribed Percocet so I'm not sure where he got it. He didn't mingle much unless he called one of buddies from the military, and they all lived in other states. When I found him, I remember immediately going numb. No tears, no anger, no relief-just numb. I walked to the fire station across the railroad tracks and to my luck, they were out on training that night and wouldn't be back until 10pm. So I sat there, in a house that smelled of death (he'd been dead for about 5 days), and just stared. The skin had begun to slowly come off his bones, his hair had all fallen out, rigor mortis had set in. The first few days, I kept expecting his car to drive down the dirt road and pull into our driveway. I knew it wouldn't but it'd become habit for the last 10 years of my life. He never showed up-his car was parked in our garage. The clothes I'd worn to his house 4 days prior were now in the trash due to the smell that would not wash out. Then the tears came. Like most people, I blamed myself first, then my mom, then myself, and that cycle continued for awhile as she did the same thing. Deep down we knew there was no one else to blame. The government had set veterans up to fail. Either over prescribing medications rather than offer counseling, or, offer services to those who choose to not do something about their circumstances. While he wasn't always the nicest guy-he was called the "black sheep" of the family, he was still my father. And despite all we'd been through, the bruises, the fear, I couldn't help but love him and miss him. It did change my perspective though, too. I was struggling with anorexia, already having gone to 3 different centers in 4 years (Avalon Hills, The Meadows, and Eating Recovery Center). I'd do well for a bit, "play the system", then go back into old habits. However, his death made me wake up and realize that I'd have the same fate if I kept on this cyclical path. He danced with alcohol and I danced with an empty stomach. Did I turn my life around over night? No. Not even close. But I found a new hobby that literally showed me how eating can fuel my body and I can become anything I want. Yes I chose bodybuilding, and like the rest of my life prior to this hobby, it requires a person to keep getting better whether that be mentally or physically. Now as a BCBA, I use that metaphor a lot with my clients and/or their caregivers. Better doesn't mean 100% overnight, it means 1% each day. It can be as simple as changing your mindset on a once nonpreferred task, fading prompts, increasing reps, completing a task analysis independently, vocalizing more, etc. I want to use my current skillset as a BCBA and combine that with the skillset of a social worker in order to serve other veterans in my community and have a chance to guide those who want to get better, no matter what that looks like. I couldn't help my father, no matter how many tears I cried and promises I made him sign in crayon on the living room coffee table after school, but I have the chance to do the same for others.