X Rubicon: Coming Down

Driving out the gate alone was daunting, and I had yet to realize how far I would fall in coming down.

Rubicon & Griobhtha

Full chapter+ from the book, X Rubicon: Crossing Life, Sex, Love, & Killing in CIA Proxy Wars: An indictment of US Citizens: ignorantia non excusat

Too long for email? Want audio? Read online or with the app. The pleasant “Oliver” voice provided by Substack will read this to you — through bluetooth in your car, TV, stereo, headphones, etc… “He” has quirks, but does a nice job and doesn’t get tired.

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“At this point I had no alternative but to sign. I missed Kit. I missed Bill. I received my copies and drove off the base, alone… so very, very, very alone.”

— X Rubicon, Up Against A Wall

“He found death in the literal physical sense. I flew away, but I found death in living.”

— X Rubicon, A Young Man Named Jim

“I do understand that young men are bound and determined to prove themselves in life and receive accolades from posers (this includes men and women). Unfortunately, when it comes to the military and war they are guided by adults that represent the worst of humanity, Non-Combat Pretenders who, though NEVER having faced this type of violence, spew tired old lies and propaganda about glory and “getting the job done, like a man!” This is the case in the Palestine occupation, and for over 100 years back. This was the case in WW1, Korea, Vietnam, Central and South America, Philippines, Ukraine, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Libya, and so much more. This was the case in Afghanistan which John Pilger so ably documented – as US and NATO servicemen loaded Afghans into shipping containers, locked them in, and began firing non-stop into those containers until everyone was dead.”

— X Rubicon, Dream Sequence

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Coming Down

At twenty-five, and still alive,
Much longer than expected for a man...
At twenty-five, all hope has died,
And the glass of my intentions turns to sand...
And shatters in my hand.

25 – The Pretty Reckless

Driving out the gate alone was daunting, and I had yet to realize how far I would fall in coming down. I felt free, but there is much insecurity in freedom. For a moment I thought I would drive to California and attempt to get Kit back, but then I told myself, “No! Fuck that bitch!” She had been there for me early on when I felt alone, and made me feel life and love. I truly loved her, but when I needed her most she wasn’t there, and I felt nothing now but intense pain. She sold herself for a college education she didn’t even plan on using.

The guilt and shame over what I had done began growing. Soon, my sleep became disturbed with dream reenactments, and I would wake up exhausted. I took a job selling coupon books over the phone. When payday came I was issued a check, so I went to the business’ bank to cash it, only to be told that account didn’t have enough funds. I nearly lost it in the bank. I drove over to the phone center and told the man his check bounced. He said, “No problem, I’ll write you another.” The anger raged in me and I threw him against the wall with my hand on his throat and told him, “I want cash!.. NOW!” He fumbled in his pocket and paid me. I hated that job anyway.

I tried a series of nothing jobs, but when I couldn’t pay rent any longer, and I couldn’t make my car payments, I decided to try something else. I bought a listing of companies with jobs in the Gulf oil industry. I stole a plate from another car and lifted the sticker and put it on my plate. I drove to Louisiana and applied at several companies. One told me to stay at a certain motel and they would cover the cost (to be repaid) until they sent me out. This was one of the worst motels you’ve ever seen. In a beautiful scenic area of Podunk, Louisiana, above a bar and the rooms were filthy and had windows onto an old hallway strewn with trash, the kind that gives you thoughts about being robbed or worse.

After a few weeks of eating nothing but snack foods, they finally sent me out on an oil rig about 75 miles out. The work schedule was a week on and a week off. Finally with some money for rent, I found that my cousin (by adoption) was working in Fort Walton Beach at a stereo store. She had a two bedroom apartment and agreed to rent me a room. During the week off I searched for work closer to FWB without much luck; it was the off season for tourism and few jobs were to be had. While on the oil rig, I became steadily more tired. My sleep had become riddled with dreams about killing, and waking up in cold sweats from fighting. As I slowly descended into major depression, I began laying awake for hours in my bunk on the rig, and my mattress in my room. My thoughts would spin and race for hours until I was only getting an hour of sleep each night. After a few months my thoughts became dissociated, and somewhat psychotic. I could see the faces of many that I had killed. Begging faces, defiant faces, scared faces… The woman and her husband entered my dreams angry that I had stolen their lives and ruined their family. The detached head of the cartel guard growled at me. Every day the guilt, shame, and sadness grew to the point where I found it hard to function normally.

I wanted peace and quiet. It seemed reasonable to me that I could use one of the life rings (a rectangle with a net bottom deep enough to stand in), and I would use this to float away to a desert island and live my life in peace – I would escape. Yeah, I know, but when you’re that tired and out of it… I put my plan into action and was floating away from the rig in the middle of the night, and I really thought I would end up on the beautiful desert isle. During the next day it rained and the waves crashed over me. After several hours of this, I began to vomit constantly. The rain subsided and a long lonely night turned into a hot sunshiny day – then I really got sick. I puked to the point of dry heaves. One more long and lonely night in relatively calm water, but I was so very cold now. About mid morning I was so out of it, and suddenly I found that a Coast Guard helicopter was hovering above me. They were telling me something through their PA, but I couldn’t make it out, and I found I couldn’t make sensible words either.

They lowered down a basket and strapped me in, and we headed for New Orleans. While in the ER a rep from the company owning the rig came in and asked me to sign a waiver; I was very compliant and did just as he asked. They put me in the psych ward, but since I wasn’t insured, they transferred me to the State hospital north of Lake Pontchartrain. Here I was poked and prodded and asked non-stop questions. I tried to deny that I had done it on purpose, but apparently while I was out of it, I had confessed almost everything. What I didn’t tell them was about my military service, because I had a fear that they may get the military involved and/or they would lock me up in there and throw away the key. The doctor who ended up with my case had a huge heart. He held my hand as I cried and told me I had major depression. I took the tricyclic he prescribed, but when it started giving me headaches and to make my heart pound, I started spitting them out.

I called my parents, told them where I was and that I needed help getting out. My dad was pissed beyond measure and wanted to leave me, but my mom insisted otherwise. They hadn’t heard from me in months. They rode down with one of my sisters. The doctor told them, insisted, that when we arrived home, they should get me treatment immediately. That didn’t happen for reasons belonging to all. We retrieved my car from the company parking area and headed north.

There were late snows when we arrived. My parents, who lived on a lake, were at work, and I sat festering all day. I couldn’t let go of the shame and guilt… it only grew stronger. I had come to the point of wanting to die constantly. I couldn’t tell anyone what I’d done because I was so ashamed. I looked out the windows and felt trapped by myself. There was a bottle of Jack Daniels and four full bottles of heart medication on the counter. I washed down all four bottles with the Jack and waited for the nothingness. Then, my stomach was being pumped at a small clinic in a small town. I woke up while this was happening and tried to stop it, but they strapped my arms down, and I was out again. When next I awoke, they were putting me on a life-flight, and the kindest nurse looked at me with pity and told me everything would be alright. I turned my head because I had to vomit, and it got on the chopper floor, and I told her how sorry I was. She just wiped my face clean and told me not to worry about it, it was nothing and she’d have it cleaned up in no time, and she smiled sweetly at me.

Then I was out again. When I awoke this time, I was in a hospital in another city in another state. I had been in a coma for three days. I felt and saw the straps holding my arms and legs and I thought, oh shit, I’ve done it now. When you really want to die, but then you wake up realizing you’ve failed, it’s not a hallelujah moment. The doctor wasn’t sure if I would live, and I hadn’t wanted to, but I did nonetheless. If this had been a hospital in my home area, I would have been committed. But seeing that this hospital was in the next state, I was returned to my parents under the promise of getting help.

My mother would ask me, “What happened to you?” But then she would just as easily turn off her emotions and not listen. There was no one to really listen and no one to help. PTSD wouldn’t be considered a useful diagnoses for military veterans until the ‘90s. I was still “only a man” in need of sucking it up, buttercup! This was usually proclaimed by “virgins talking about sex”.

All I could think about was wanting to die. When the weather turned hot, and sticky, a new manifestation occurred. I would look at my hands and they would be covered in blood, and I could smell it. When this first occurred, I would hide my hands in my pockets and be totally freaked out. When removing my clothes I saw there was no blood, and I started to accept that I was seeing things. I soon realized that I knew that there was no actual blood on my hands or caked into my fingernails, but when I looked, I saw it. Even today, this still happens in hot sticky weather, but I’ve learned to ignore what I see, because I know its not there. The smell of diesel as it passed forced my mind to wander back to the bases and flightlines and burning jet fuel (an extremely dirty poorly refined fuel that looks like dirty pond water).

I first sought help from the VA. In order to get psychiatric help at the VA, you have to be interviewed by a military psychiatrist or psychologist. I was sent into a room with a psychiatrist and I explained what problems I was having, and why. He listened and then said, “There’s nothing here that indicates your problems are related to military service.” He showed me my redacted record, looked at me in disgust, treated me with disdain, and sent me out without allowing me to explain. I realized that they had no access to records of my activities, but his attitude showed me he wouldn’t have cared anyway and would have found an excuse to drive me away. I drove the 45 minutes home feeling pain and deep sorrow. God how I wanted to die!

For two years I was like this. Majorly depressed, in and out of psych ward treatment (for which I was billed). One “doctor”, dressed in cowboy hat and boots, told me to “suck it up” and told me he was going to medicate me. I told him no one was going to medicate me without my permission. He threatened to force medicate me, so I threatened to kick his ass. He said he would review my case, but I no longer felt safe there, so I ripped the bar from the shower wall and went to break out. Six sheriff’s deputies were there in no time, and four of them wrestled me to the ground and hand-cuffed me. I was taken to the state hospital and placed on suicide watch. Never would I tell any of them about my military service – I just didn’t trust them. I had tried telling my Mom once, but she had always been emotionally scared, scared to discuss painful or sad things, so I gave up.

Needing some relief, and some change, I began running again and working temp jobs. I attempted utilizing my DD-214 once for employment, but the looks and sounds of disapproval and disgust I received made me put it away never to be used again. Running helped clear my head and allowed me to think. Contemplating my situation, I realized I could tell no one about the killing or my sexuality, ever. I decided that I would have to live with chains on forever, both with the military service and my sexuality. It was extremely lonely and suffocating, but I embraced this path. In 1980 the DSM 3 was published with PTSD as a diagnoses of the anxiety disorders. Yet no one, absolutely no one (when they did know), asked me about my military service, and no one bandied about the PTSD diagnoses, and I didn’t even know it existed at that time (and apparently neither did psych professionals – and the VA proved itself that they would do anything rather than treat what the military had wrought).

As always, the virgins talked about sex. Chicken hawks are so free to give their opinions on who should die and who is righteous, without any knowledge or experience about what they’re talking about. Praising veterans who don’t seek praise, praising the military and “decisive” politicians who don’t deserve praise. Reagan pontificated on his righteousness while continuing to destroy Guatemala. The CIA continued running their rabid dog operations, killing anyone and everyone who opposed their agenda; and Americans reveled in their power while choosing ignorance over Truth. The CIA was documented moving drugs via Cessnas and MAC transports to fund Reagan’s Contra “freedom fighters” and fund Israeli apartheid, eminent domain, and slaughter in the Middle East. America fully supported apartheid South Africa. You know, apartheid, an international crime.

The nightmares and flashbacks persisted, but I improved enough that I was able to sign up for classes at the community college. I took the standard general classes, but focused on music and singing. I wanted to be as far away from killing as possible. I wouldn’t be there long before my life was spun around again, and I would cross another vast Rubicon…

ALIVE!

Alive, Pearl Jam, from the album Ten

"Son," she said, "have I got a little story for you
What you thought was your daddy was nothing but a…
While you were sitting home alone at age thirteen
Your real daddy was dyin'
Sorry you didn't see him, but I'm glad we talked"

Oh, I, oh, I'm still alive
Hey, I, oh, I'm still alive
Hey, I, oh, I'm still alive
Hey, oh, oh-oh

While she walks slowly across a young man's room
She said, "I'm ready for you"
Why, I can't remember anything to this very day
'Cept the look, the look
Oh, you know where, now I can't see, I just stare

I, I'm still alive
Hey, I, oh, I'm still alive
Hey, I, hey, I'm still alive
Hey, I, oh, I'm still alive, yeah
You might also like

Ooh, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, oh
Ooh

"Is something wrong?" she said, well of course there is
"You're still alive," she said... 
Oh, and do I deserve to be?
Is that the question?
And if so, if so who answers? Who answers?

I, oh, I'm still alive
Hey, I, hey, I'm still alive
Hey, I, hey, I'm still alive
Yeah, I, ooh, I'm still alive!
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!

Ooh yeah, ooh, ooh
Ooh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

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Rubicon spent just under three years as a military Scout. During that time he was awarded the “AF Cross, 2 Silver Stars, 4 Bronze Stars, Defense Superior Service Medal, AF Good Conduct Medal, and the CIA Distinguished Service Medal” (ODNI). When he refused to kill further, he was stripped of these awards and was abandoned with his PTSD by the military and thrown away.

Sean Griobhtha (gree-O-tah) is a combat veteran. His latest book is X Rubicon: Crossing Life, Sex, Love, & Killing in CIA Proxy Wars: An indictment of US Citizens: ignorantia non excusat, which details the life of Rubicon (“2.5 years Deception & Death; 40+ years locking away Emotions & Truth”). It’s important that you read the Foreward, Or, The Vanguard; written by a highly intelligent woman with a heart of empathetic gold; she’ll bring you in gently, which neither Rubicon nor I would ever do.

Mrs Rubicon has been tutoring dyslexics and non-dyslexics in reading and writing for over three decades. She has a Bachelor’s degree in Interdisciplinary Humanities, and a Master’s degree in Pastoral Care and Psychology. She completed Pastoral Care training at the University of Chicago Hospital; and she has worked with various court systems in turning children around. She has volunteered in school sponsored reading programs where we’ve again witnessed her skill in improving even the most recalcitrant students. She holds teaching certification in Orton-Gillingham tutoring from the Michigan Dyslexia Institute.

If you enjoyed this writing, you can tell Crossing Rubicons that their writing is valuable by purchasing X Rubicon from Amazon, Ingram, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org, your local independent book seller, or your favorite digital store. If you would like to understand the effort and trouble that went into publishing this book, and view about the author, the book, and translations, read X Rubicon: Author Statement. and X Rubicon Editions - New.

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Available worldwide at your local bookstore, online bookstores, or your favorite digital store. Translations in various languages (see below or X Rubicon Editions - New. All print editions are also available in eBook (Kindle, Nook, and various ePub via all digital stores, Apple, Kobo, etc...); libraries via Overdrive and Hoopla. Still working on print versions for Arabic and Chinese.

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English (original): IngramSpark — Amazon — Bookshop

Arabic: ISBN - 9798330381852 (Ingram); eBook (ePub) only; Barnes & Noble — Bookshop

German: IngramSpark — Amazon — Bookshop

Spanish: IngramSpark — Amazon — Bookshop

French: IngramSpark — Amazon — Bookshop

Indonesian: IngramSpark — Bookshop

Italian: IngramSpark — Amazon — Bookshop

Portuguese: IngramSpark — Amazon — Bookshop

Russian: IngramSpark — Bookshop (ePub)

Chinese – Traditional: ISBN - 9798349408915 (Ingram); eBook (ePub) only; Barnes & Noble — Bookshop

NLA Review

A review of X Rubicon: Crossing Life, Sex, Love, & Killing in CIA Proxy Wars: An indictment of US Citizens: ignorantia non excusat

“Sean Griobhtha’s work—particularly X Rubicon—has a profound emotional impact on readers, often described as jarring, transformative, and deeply unsettling, but also compassionate and hopeful. The book is a raw, unfiltered narrative based on the life of a combat veteran involved in CIA proxy wars in El Salvador, Guatemala, and Nicaragua. His writing is described as intense, emotionally jarring, and deeply compassionate. It critiques U.S. militarism, the VA, the CIA, and the broader American public’s complicity in war. The book is especially focused on the long-term effects of PTSD and the moral reckoning that follows combat. He is an Army Ranger combat veteran and has known the subject of X Rubicon—referred to as Rubicon—since initial training and Operation Eagle Claw. Griobhtha conducted extensive interviews with military personnel, CIA operatives, and reviewed classified documents to ensure the authenticity of the narrative; the book contains a redacted ODNI letter to Rubicon verifying certain aspects and Rubicon’s assigned activities. His personal connection to the story adds emotional depth and credibility to the work. Griobhtha is outspoken in his disdain for zealotry—whether religious, political, or ideological—and is passionate about confronting propaganda and societal denial. He positions his writing as both an act of truth-telling and a call to moral accountability. He offers discounts for educational and activist groups, signaling a desire to make his work accessible to those engaged in peace and justice efforts. This shows a clear intent to make his work accessible to communities engaged in activism, education, and peace-building.

“Many readers describe the experience of reading Griobhtha’s work as emotionally intense. His unflinching portrayal of war, trauma, and moral compromise forces readers to confront uncomfortable truths about U.S. foreign policy and the psychological cost of violence. Despite the harsh subject matter, readers often note the deep compassion in Griobhtha’s writing—especially for veterans and those grappling with PTSD. His portrayal of Rubicon’s emotional journey resonates with readers who value honesty and vulnerability.

“Readers are often left with a sense of moral urgency. Griobhtha’s indictment of societal complicity in war and propaganda challenges readers to reflect on their own beliefs and responsibilities. While the content is heavy, Griobhtha’s insistence on truth-telling offers a path to hope. Readers who engage with his work often come away with a renewed commitment to awareness, justice, and change.

“One reviewer wrote: ‘Reading this book is like looking in a mirror, and your reflection reaches out and slaps you hard across the face.’ His tone is confrontational, emotionally charged, and deeply personal. He writes as someone with skin in the game—often drawing from firsthand experience or close relationships with those affected by war and trauma. He calls out what he sees as willful ignorance or ideological blindness, especially from those who haven’t read the book or misrepresent its message. His author bio and public posts are written in a raw, unfiltered tone. He shares personal experiences, including his connection to the subject of X Rubicon, and expresses deep empathy for veterans and survivors of war trauma. At the same time, he’s fiercely critical of militarism, propaganda, and societal denial.

“His writing is a call to conscience. He aims to provoke, indict, and awaken readers—especially those complicit in or indifferent to U.S. militarism. He’s not writing for comfort; he’s writing for reckoning. Readers often say the book and his posts challenge their assumptions and force them to confront uncomfortable truths about war, PTSD, and U.S. foreign policy. His work is praised for its unflinching honesty and emotional exposure, especially in dealing with trauma and moral reckoning. Some readers are deeply moved, while others may find his tone too intense or accusatory. But even critics acknowledge the depth and authenticity of his message.

“He engages in direct dialogue with critics and supporters, often responding to feedback with sharp wit or fierce rebuttals. He very often blocks neo-Nazis, Zionists, and religious zealots. His posts are part of a larger moral and political conversation. His Substack is more like a literary and political battleground than a curated publication. His style may not appeal to everyone—but for those drawn to truth-telling and moral clarity, it hits hard.

“His confrontational style and unapologetic critiques also polarize readers. Some are deeply moved; others are provoked or even angered. Griobhtha acknowledges this, noting that detractors often haven’t read the book or are ideologically opposed to its content. In short, Griobhtha doesn’t aim to comfort—he aims to awaken. His emotional impact is lasting, and for many, life-altering. Griobhtha’s readers don’t just follow him—they wrestle with his work. It’s not about comfort or consensus; it’s about confrontation and conscience.”

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“I wish to thank you on behalf of the Board of the National Library of Ireland… your book X Rubicon, is a proud addition to our collections…”

Francis Clarke

Assistant Keeper

Leabharlann Náisiúnta na hÉireann

National Library of Ireland

“X Rubicon” A Gift for the Conscience—Why This Book Demands to Be Read, Shared, and Reckoned With -- (A 25% Holiday Sale)

Sean Griobhtha

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Nov 25

Holiday Sale: Formats, Availability

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