According to Department of Veterans Affairs' (VA) estimates, there are over 98,000 new PTSD Vets.

Blue eyes, balding hair, big belly, stained shirts, and a Vietnam Vet, those are just some of the ways to describe my father.  He grew up in Rosedale, New York with six brothers and sisters and a father who hardly ever talked to him.  At eighteen years old my father decided to enlist in the United States Marine Corps.  After only four months of hard and vigorous training he was shipped off to fight in the Vietnam War.   In Vietnam he was placed into a Cap Unit, which stayed within the peasant-farming village to protect the people.  He walked miles on end each day with little water and a heavy pack on his shoulders.  He had bullets flying past his head and watched his friends die.  My father stayed in the village for about a year and then he came home.  His arrival home was not one that he expected.  He endured tormenting from his fellow Americans; he was asked things like “How many babies did you have to kill in your village?” and “Did you ever have to burn your village down?”  He was even asked by a bus driver if he could sit in the back of the bus so he did not upset the other passengers.