"Send a themed care package once a month. Make it fun."
Who do you tell?
Very few people want to see the darkness. It doesn't fit well into their world views. It is messy. It isn't nice to look at. It might make them hurt too. It is too hard. Some may ask, but then they get that stunned shell shocked look on their faces, so unprepared for the truth.
If you do it right, it is more than you ever expected to see. More than you were ever prepared for. More than you know what to do with yourself. But no one wants to hear about that part.
Squirt guns and school supplies make better stories than talking the rifle out of a man's hands. (Pleading. Praying. ohgodohgod Swearing. putitthefuckdown. Begging. please.please.please.please.don'tdothistome.please.)
Broken bodies trying to put broken minds back together.
Even when they make it home it isn't always better. Too many still fight the war. BD. CJ. Too many lose. The number keep rising. Justin. Mac. It hurts. Oh God. It fucking hurts.
No one tell you that you when you start this that you will get broken too. You will make promises you can't keep. There are things you cannot unhear or unfeel. The Loss. The waiting and the helpless watching. No ones says you will also touch the black and it will gut you too.
When we started none of us expected to still be doing this 10 year later. But it didn't end.
I made him a promise. Without this I don't know how to keep it.
Perhaps, it is time, though.
“The war was a long way away. Maybe there wasn't any war. There was no war here. Then I realized it was over for me. But I did not have the feeling that it was really over. I had the feeling of a boy who thinks of what is happening at a certain hour at the schoolhouse from which he has played truant.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms