...his wife.

29 May 217

Today is Memorial Day. It's roughly 0200 as I'm typing this words, and watching them appear on my screen.

I once talked to a 1SG of mine whose name I won't mention because I don't have his permission to. He suffered from PTSD. He told me how when he came back from a deployment, he was torn up. He was drunk almost every night and almost lost his marriage. I asked him how he managed things, and he gave me some interesting advice.

He told me that he allowed himself a couple of "bad" days a year. Days where he would take a six pack to the grave of his lost soldiers and just cry. Get it all out at once. Then, when he starts to break down, he just looks forward to and reminds himself that there's a day coming when he will let it all out again.

I've tried to do that myself. It hasn't had as much success for me as it has him. Different people respond to different things. But, in an attempt, I've allowed myself three "bad" days in the year. Memorial Day, Veteran's Day, and October 15th. I won't go into why October 15th here. That's not the purpose of this post.

I was thinking of shaving my beard and trimming my hair to acceptable AR 670-1 standards, wearing my dress blues, and going to the local national cemetery tomorrow. And that got me thinking of another time I visited a national cemetery. And I want this blog post to be a happy one. So we're going to talk about that visit.

The tombstones at this cemetery had the usual markings. Rank, name, DOB and DOD. But in this cemetery the wives of the veterans were buried on the other side of the tombstone. And the inscription over the wife was, "his wife".

At first I was appalled by it. That the wife would get just those two words. His wife. Then I started thinking, and I pointed it out to my wife. Those two words, to some may not mean anything. But, to those who know, it means so much more.

If they were to attempt to put a description of who that person was, it would take up three or four tombstones. Supporter. Lover. Mother of his children. Financial Planner. Caregiver. Listening Ear. Patient. Someone who could hold a house together while he was away for six, nine, twelve, fifteen months, or more. Someone who didn't kick him when he was down. Someone who shared his darkest secrets that he couldn't tell anyone else. Someone who loved the person he was, yet pushed him to be the person he could be. Someone who stayed with him, despite all the troubles of a normal household, much less a military household. The woman who had to keep it all together when he was either absent, or couldn't keep it together himself. Someone who welcomed him home, and helped him through the transition from deployment to garrison life. Someone who held him when the nightmares started. Someone who calmed him when the thunder woke him up. Someone who understood when he was startled and acted out of training. Someone who acted as a liaison to help him reconnect with his children, who didn't know him when he returned from deployment. Someone who loved him, despite the changes that occurred while he was away. Someone who kept their marriage vows to him despite the hardships. Someone who showed him the good side of life when he could only see the bad.

So, yeah. "His Wife". Two simple words, that mean so much more. Those two words are the simplest, yet most profound things to read on a tombstone.

18 March 2017

    So, it's been about two weeks since my last post. That's been due to many reasons. Mostly because I didn't feel like it. After all, this is for me.

    I should have posted, though. Maybe I would have felt better. It's not a long story, but it's a dark one. But, I feel like telling it. So here goes.

   I had my deal with my fugue state that I talked about before, and then I just spiraled down from there. Things got bad. Nightly bad. I won't go into the details, but more than once I thought about surrendering my firearms to my dad.

   I have to interject here. Some people would immediately think, "Why the heck do you have firearms in your state?!". Screw you, first off. That's my business. Secondly, since I feel like explaining, when I think I need to surrender my firearms is way before I would actually do something to end my life. I think of giving them up when I think there's even a remote possibility I may have the thought to harm myself.

    Thirdly, do you honestly think not having firearms would stop me? I literally laugh out loud at the thought that it would. If I were to kill myself, I wouldn't choose a gun to do so. Too messy and traumatic for my family. Besides, without the guns, there's still pills, drowning, strangulation, car wrecks, falls, and this new thing called veins in your wrist. So, getting rid of guns to stop someone is laughably stupid.

   I think if I ever surrender my weapons to someone else, that'll be my cry for help. Kind of like, "I'm getting serious about this. Get me some help" kind of thing. So, if I do surrender my weapons, you can bet it's serious; but not that I was thinking of using them. Too messy.

   Anyway, I was depressed. Still am, actually. Trying to recover. But I listened to myself singing "American Soldier" on YouTube, and that didn't help. Just reminded me of what I've lost. I loved being a soldier.

   I'm still a soldier. That's the problem. I can't stop being a soldier. If I could, maybe I could be 'regular'. Maybe I could look at a woman in a hijab and not be reminded of the wars. Maybe I could see some wires across a sidewalk and not think that I need to cordon off the area. Maybe I could sit with my back to a door. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

   But, imagine a doctor, if you will. He spends years training to diagnose people. He practices medicine. Then he retires. Now, if that doctor sees a man limping down the street, his mind will diagnose that man. Or if he sees a person bleeding, he will help. He can't help but be a doctor.

   Now, imagine a soldier. Spending the hourly equivalent of a bachelor's degree in training for his job, crammed into a few months. Real immersion training. He's trained to spot threats. He's trained that a person wearing certain types of clothing may be hiding a bomb. He's trained to notice if a cargo truck is riding low on it's springs. He's trained to watch all avenues of an approaching threat. He's trained to keep an eye out for snipers. He's trained to look for disturbed earth.

   Now, take that soldier, trained in that fashion, and throw him into a warzone. For however long, I don't care. 6 months, 12 months, 15 months. (In my case, I did 12 months in Iraq, and 13 in Afghanistan.) Where every day, he has to use that training to keep himself alive. Where he has to sometimes sleep outside with his gear on for fear of attack. Where there has to be someone on watch at all times. Where one false step on the ground can be your last. Where stepping on a crack or not stepping on a crack could mean the difference between seeing your family again or going home in a body bag.

   Let him retire. Suddenly, he's expected to not be what he is, but it's ok for the doctor!? Double standard much?! People EXPECT the doctor to retain his hard taught skills, but they expect the EXACT SAME OPPOSITE of a soldier?! How does that make sense?

   I'll tell you: It doesn't. But that's the reality I face. But yet no one thinks anything of it. "Oh, you used to be a plumber, could you look at my toilet?" "Oh, you used to be an electrician, can you take a look at my stove?" "Oh, you used to be a lawyer, could you give me legal advice?" BUT "Oh, you used to be a soldier. Stop it."

   Now I've gotten all worked up and sidetracked. You'll have to wait to hear about the rest of my two weeks, dangit.

   - Sapper Woody