Let me tell you about Orest. Twenty five years old. Book lover. Academic dreams thicker than his glasses. The kind of guy who probably nerded out over philosophy and Ukrainian poetry. Then one day in 2023 some military recruiter stops him on the street, squints at his medical records, and poof. Suddenly those Coke bottle lenses dont disqualify him anymore. Off he goes to the Donetsk frontline like some twisted version of Harry Potter getting drafted by Voldemort.

Cut to Kateryna, Orests mom, writing him 650 letters since he died. Letters she can never send. Letters she writes because the Ukrainian army told her his death was self inflicted. Because in the twisted bureaucracy of war, her son died the wrong way. Not in glorious combat. Not heroically charging trenches. He died in the quiet, messy way humans break when forced to witness hell. And for that? No military honors. No state support. Just a corpse in a bag and a government that ghosts grieving mothers faster than a Tinder fling.

Let that sink in. Ukraine reports over 45,000 soldiers dead since Russia invaded. Thats 45,000 funerals with folded flags and trembling trumpets. But heres the silent tragedy. Human rights groups whisper about hundreds more deaths missing from that count. Soldiers who came home in body bags labeled non combat loss because they died by suicide. Men like Anatoliy, who stormed Bakhmut with a machine gun only to wind up in some hospital yard taking his own life after losing an arm. Or Andriy, who liberated Kherson before his own mind became a prison no battlefield could prepare him for.

The hypocrisy here stinks worse than week old borscht left in a trench. Ukraine loves its heroic warrior narrative, right? Billboards everywhere thanking soldiers. Instagram hashtags glorifying defenders. But the moment a soldier cracks under the weight of trauma, suddenly hes not useful anymore. Like the state is Marie Kondoing their mental health casualties. This broken human does not spark joy. Toss him in the rejection pile.

My dude. They took a philosophy nerd who needed corrective lenses just to read Dostoevsky and turned him into frontline cannon fodder. Then acted surprised when he couldn’t handle constant artillery barrages. Its like sending someone with peanut allergies into a Snickers factory then blaming them when their throat closes up. The lack of self awareness is astronomical.

Remember Mariyana, Anatoliys widow. Our government gave him a machine gun but not a therapist. Threw him into Bakhmut but won’t give him a military burial. How does that math work? When he stood in the line of fire, he was a patriot. When the fire burned him from the inside out? Suddenly not their problem. Its giving used car salesman energy. You sign the papers, drive it off the lot, and when the engine explodes three miles down the road? Not my problem, babe.

I’ll tell you what this really is. Cowardice. Not from the soldiers who fought. Not from the widows fighting for recognition. But from officials terrified to admit their mental healthcare systems are as functional as a screen door on a submarine. Because counting suicides means admitting failure. Means confronting that sending undertrained, unprepared men into grinder creates consequences deeper than body counts. And that requires actual work. Actual resources. Actual compassion beyond performative Instagram posts about national heroes.

Kateryna put it best. Some died the right way, and others died the wrong way. Let’s rip that bandaid off. There is no right or wrong way to die in war. My cousin served two tours before coming home to Ohio. Ten years later, PTSD claimed him just as sure as any bullet. Guess what. The VA didnt ask whether he died the right way before covering his funeral. They acknowledged that sometimes war kills you slowly. Ukraine could learn that.

Here’s what’s wild. These suicides create second class mourners. Their families cry quietly in online support groups while government officials pretend not to hear. No grave markers. No folded flags. Just widows like Mariyana, shunned at veteran funerals by women who think their husbands grief matters more. Listen Linda, trauma isn’t pie. There’s enough to go around.

Meanwhile Ukraine’s leadership twiddles thumbs. No official suicide counts. Investigations slower than rush hour traffic in Kyiv. Remember how Andriy’s widow Viktoria had to hire her own attorney to find discrepancies in the death report. The military only agreed to reopen his case after photos contradicted the official story. Let me translate. They gaslit a grieving widow until she lawyered up with receipts. That’s colder than a Russian winter.

But I’m supposed to end hopeful. So fine.

Midwestern moms have a saying. When life gives you trauma, make activism lemonade. These families are fighting. Demand changes to compensation laws. Pushing for military suicide statistics. Reject the stigma brick by brick. That’s courage no bureaucrat will ever understand.

Countries can do better. America ain’t perfect, but we added veteran suicide prevention to the VA mission back in 2007. Created crisis hotlines. Campaigns encouraging soldiers to speak up.

Ukraine’s government wants Western weapons. NATO aspirations. Democracy street cred. Okay then. Heres a free policy pitch. Add mental healthcare to combat training. Track suicides like battlefield deaths. Treat surviving families with basic human decency. Takes more than bullets to defend democracy, babes. Takes recognizing that some wounds bleed internally. The ones no medal can fix.

Next time a recruiter magically declares someone’s poor eyesight miraculously healed, maybe assign them a therapist along with that rifle. Just a thought.

I’ll leave you with this. War breaks people in visible and invisible ways. Ukraine can’t rebuild itself by only honoring half those fractures. Heroism shouldn’t expire when the battle moves indoors.