As was stated to those within the "circle of trust", I had a complete and total mental meltdown, a couple weeks ago. I'm better, now, but it's time I talked about it.
To those of you who are new, here... in case you didn't know, I am a combat veteran. I'm nothing special. I wasn't in any "black ops" crap, or anything crazy. I deployed with an Active Duty Field Artillery unit, and worked for a National Guard Infantry unit, while in-theatre.
I saw all the standard stuff everyone else saw, in 2005 and 2006. We got mortared, rocketed, and shot at. We returned fire, sometimes.... other times, there wasn't shit we could do about it, because the enemy was gone, before we even figured out where the shot came from.
I can count the number of times I was nearly killed. I remember every single one. The most prominent two incidents being:
1736 hrs, 7 July 2006: A 120mm mortar lands 150 feet away from where I'm standing. Literally. I could have spit on it, it was that close. The round, of course, was a dud, or I would not be typing this, and many of you would have never met me. I heard it launch, and I heard it fall. They don't whistle, by the way. It sounds more like a piston engine airplane that is about to stall, in a steep climb. I will never forget that god-awful sound. I hear it in my dreams, many times, and I'm startled awake. I remember shouting "INCOMING!", but refusing to seek cover, or lay in the dirt. I remember thinking to myself "I am going to die, and I am going to die, on my feet, with dignity."
0710 hrs, 2 Sept 2006: I am sent out by my QRF NCOIC to go shut down a floodlight generator, after sunrise. I am outside "the wire", on foot, and mostly in the open. Alone, except for being within sight of a manned guard tower, and a machingun pillbox. This was never the NCOIC's idea, and he always thought it was stupid. But, our weapon-sampling Fobbit SOG (no shit.... the guy would draw a different weapon, every day... once, it was a shotgun, the next day, an M16A4 with a scope that belonged on an M14 DMR... I don't even know where he got these things from) who only left the camp twice... once to go on leave, and again to go home, thought it was a great and efficient idea to have the QRF's lowest-ranking guys do it.
I shut down the floodlight, and began to walk back to the gate, when I heard an all-too-familiar "zzzzzzzip!" past my right ear, and immediately developed a splitting headache. A splash of dust, on the ground, and a split-second later, a distant "CRACK!"
The sniper missed me by only a couple inches.
Said Fobbit SOG... that douche of a Staff Sergeant that never deserved the privilege of telling a Soldier like me what to do... took my report, immediately determined that I was lying, and tried to have me punished for filing a false report. The next day, an Iraqi Policeman was shot through the back of the head, by a sniper, firing from the EXACT location I had reported. Young Iraqi boy... your father is dead, because an American SSG who never left the safety of VBC thought he new better than a PFC that put his life on the line, every day. I don't know why that sniper missed me, but hit him. I'm glad it turned out that way, however... but I feel like shit for feeling that way. I don't know why.
Did I kill men? Yes. Early on in my deployment.... midway through, even. We're not going to talk numbers. Who the hell cares about numbers, anyway? It's not like I'm telling you how many women I've bedded, during my lifetime... there is nothing to brag about, here. Screw anyone that thinks I never fired a shot in anger. I understand being misinformed as to exactly what I was doing, when I was separate from my unit... but to flatly refuse to believe that I had anything to do with the shooting... I'm sorry, but you're just wrong.
I'm famous for saying "I kill the enemy, but I refuse to hate them". And, yes, I realize a character in Halo Reach says something similar... but I said it, back in 2007, to a therapist on Ft. Sill, and I meant it, from the bottom of my heart. My enemy is just as much my brother as my Battle Buddy, and I respect both, equally. I am not reluctant to kill my enemy brothers, and I expect them to try just as hard to kill me. We are warriors, living by the sword, and dying by the sword. Every man woman and child that picks up a weapon, and fights, deserves my respect.
However, I detest hearing those who brag about what they've done, in combat. I hate that talk. It's a sign of a sick and twisted mind. To take the life of your own brother, is not something to be proud of. Be proud that you came home, alive... but be ashamed that it was at the expense of a fellow warrior. Remember the men who died, that you might yet live. Remember them with the same fondness as your buddy who wasn't standing next to you, anymore. Because, some day, you'll see them all, in the Warrior's Rest. You will laugh, and joke, and drink with them. You will no longer be enemy brothers... only brothers.
I feel tremendous guilt that I have been on friendly soil, for so long. When so many of my brothers have gone back to the fight, and I'm still here. I feel guilty that I enjoy my life. I feel guilty that I'm allowed to see my children so often. I feel guilty that I've seen so many American sunrises and sunsets, and driven on so many American roads.
I feel sadness and depression. For the friends I've lost, the men I've killed, and the shreds of my sanity I've left behind. I both regret and feel pride in my choice to become a Soldier. My service has somewhat defined me, but I retain, deep within, my own identity. I never gave that up... I just stuffed it away, as much as the Army asked me to.
It's not just my wartime experiences that contributed to this breakdown.
I am a child of a physically abusive father, and a mentally and emotionally abusive mother. Both of them, alcoholics... both of them, selfish and unrepentant. It is said that the pattern of abuse is continued, in such children, when they become adults... whether by becoming abusers, themselves, or by unwittingly seeking out abusive partners. I was the second example.
I married a woman, because I promised to help care for her unborn child. She was alone, and helpless. She had no home of her own, and I could not bear to see someone 5 months pregnant, resorting to such couch-surfing. When that child was born, I loved and cared for her, as if she was my own. For all intents and purposes, in the eyes of the law, and the hearts of both myself, and that child, she is my own. Some day, I may yet tell her the truth, and hope beyond hope that she doesn't reject me.
The thanks I get, for doing all this for the woman I married? Affairs. Neglect. Insults. Violence. Lies. Heartbreak. Deliberate emotional injury. False accusations. Manipulation. Threats. I put up with this, for 8 years. I endured the anguish of having to wonder, for all 9 months of the pregnancy, if my only flesh-and-blood daughter (the youngest) was even mine, because Heather slept with one of my close friends, and threw me out on the streets, when I caught on. Knowingly pregnant with my child, and ejecting me from the house, so she could screw him, whenever she wanted, without worrying about if I was coming home from work, early... or if I would wake up, in the middle of the night. And, she expects me to "get over it", or "move on".
I have been waiting for the chance to leave her, ever since that happened, 7 years ago. We hadn't even been married for 6 months, before she hauled off and got naked with someone else. The only thing that was stopping me, was the fact that I will never allow her to have sole custody of those children. I will not allow her to have the only say in how they are raised, or what kind of men they are subjected to... because with behavior like hers, she will turn a blind eye to molestation or abuse... highly likely she would put them in such a situation, because she likes scumbags. I guess that's why she never really liked me. I'm too good for her.
Now, I have finally nailed her to the wall. Of course, she tells everyone it's all my fault. I'm the one to blame... I'm the abuser.... I'm such a horrible person. I drove her to affairs with my constant abuse. Blah. Blah. Blah.
I don't care, anymore. She is gone, and I have the children. That is how it will stay.
Recently, I met the only decent woman I have ever found myself involved with, and I find opportunities to tell her so, all the damn time. I'm happy and healthy, for the first time in my life, when it comes to my dealings with a woman. For once in my life, I picked someone that has nothing for me to rescue her from... a driven woman with ambition and goals... someone who takes pride in herself and what she's done with her life.
I'm at a loss for how fast or slow to move, at times. There are times when I want to "take charge" and guide these awkward beginnings of what might possibly turn out to be a relationship... but there are many more times when I just sit back, and let her make those choices. It's frustrating, but it's worth it. She is worth the waiting game.
My best friend of 15 years, and prospective business partner, became jealous at this. He flipped out on me, and told me "forget about her, or I walk out". So, I let him walk. Screw that guy. He's done nothing but drag me down, mope about in self-pity, and insult me for my choices and sense of purpose, ever since I moved out here. Easy decision, if you ask me.
Cliche, though it may be, I have become a phoenix. I am rising from the ashes of my own "death", and becoming stronger, and better than I have ever been, in my life. I'm getting help for my PTSD, I'm finding new motivation and confidence in life, and I'm smoothing things over with the good lady and breaking the hold the bad one has had on me for 8 years.
Where will life take me next? Wait and see, friends. Wait and see.
