Who do you tell

First time writing since my injury.  It's like riding a bike, right?...~wendy

Ten years on this journey.

But who to share it with?  Who can know?

Not the feel good, funny, homecoming, brotherhood side.

The dark. The ugly side.

Ten years of war and it is easy to pick out the soldiers. The warriors.  But there are others equally scarred by its destruction. They are in the background. Families.  Friends. Lovers. The volunteers. Those nameless people doing all they can to help contain, in some small way, all that destruction. But that means letting the destruction in to your own soul as well.

Who tells our stories?

Who knows what we have seen?

What we have heard?

What we have felt.

The things we do not talk about.

You cannot share them at the time.  

We must-- "Keep all communications positive.  To do otherwise is to put your soldier at risk.  Do not be a distraction.  It can get him killed. Listen. Do not judge. Remember your smiles!" 

"Send a themed care package once a month. Make it fun."

"My Hero. Thank You for what you are doing. We support what you are doing.Thank you for your service. You are a Hero." 

What happens when the words have lost their meaning?  When you can no longer ignore the messy darkness shoved behind the boxes and no longer stand the platitudes you are supposed to spout? 

When you can no longer ignore the things that are real.

The killing.  The dying.  The wretched wounded.  The souls torn open.  The shattered minds.

The unrelenting never-ending fucking wastefulness of it all.

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.

Ten years is a long time and it all has to go somewhere.  Buried deep. Maybe too deep.  But also right there, just under the surface, if you care to know where to look.

It is all there in the silence.  Bursting out of the footlockers in the garage where I try to leave it.

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.

Don't let things get too heavy.  Lighten it up.

Smiling soldiers with puppies are good for slideshows. No one wants to see the screaming, bleeding ones at your presentation.

Remember, Baking cookies is easier to deal with than the sobs of grown boys.

Do you hear it? 

(The weeping. He killed a man today. His first. I can hear it, ragged breath coming through the ripped open pieces of his soul. The broken pieces spilling out over the phone line to cover me. I hold them in my hands but I do not know how to put him back together.) (The sobbing. Helo crash. A spinning rotor blade will cut right through human flesh.  It doesn't care if that piece of flesh happens to be the face of his best friend.) (The crying. I love you. Jess is dead.)

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.)

(Two days spent waiting for word. Success or failure? Can I live with failure?)

The flags.  The funerals. Their mothers. 

(I sit sometimes, at your grave, W.  I try to tell you these things. But I can't. I'm always empty. Like this place seems empty. I stare blankly at the granite.)

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. 

All of these things...who do you tell? 

And how do you walk away?

I made him a promise. Without this I don't know how to keep it.

Perhaps, it is time, though.

All that is left is the doing.
“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

Welcome Home

With a deep sigh of relief:
Welcome Home, Marine.

Welcome Home.

Oh, how we have missed you.

Haunting us, Daunting us, Taunting us

A powerful piece that struck a chord, hat tip to a certain accented gentleman.

Thomas Hardy’s 1899 poem – 

The Going of the Battery [Wives’ Lament] 

O it was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough
Light in their loving as soldiers can be
First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing them
Now, in far battle, beyond the South Sea! . . .

Rain came down drenchingly; but we unblenchingly
Trudged on beside them through mirk and through mire,
They stepping steadily--only too readily!
Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time nigher.

Great guns were gleaming there, living things seeming there,
Cloaked in their tar-cloths, upmouthed to the night;
Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe,
Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight.

Gas-glimmers drearily, blearily, eerily
Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss,
While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to them
Not to court perils that honour could miss.

Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded these eyes of ours,
When at last moved away under the arch
All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them,
Treading back slowly the track of their march.

Someone said: "Nevermore will they come: evermore
Are they now lost to us." O it was wrong!
Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways,
Bear them through safely, in brief time or long.

Yet, voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us,
Hint in the night-time when life beats are low
Other and graver things . . . Hold we to braver things,
Wait we, in trust, what Time's fulness shall show.

Continuing and Beginning Again

Bestie is back is the sand.

The weight that I felt lift when he called and said he was out of the country and on his way home for leave has settled again on my shoulders. I am sad that he is back there, away from his wife and all of us who love him. I am already miss not being able to pick up the phone and harass him with the the trivial details of my day.

War is freaking painful.

I spend a lot of time trying not to think about the possibilities and the emotions. I want to ignore risk, fear, and the ache that settles somewhere in my heart. The one that will persist until he leaves Afghan airspace for good and touches down on US soil.

At the same time, it is easier this time than other times. Maybe I have toughened up. Maybe it is just a internal protection mechanism that makes me think that. Maybe it is because I know he has more support this time around and that makes a substantial difference.

What I do know is that even if it is easier, it still hurts.

The lump in my throat as I told him to "travel safe" as he prepared to reenter bad guy land was the size of a softball.

That hasn't changed.

He is my best friend. My brother. I love him and want him to be safe. To be happy. To not carry the weight that I hear in his voice.

We are halfway done.

So much time has passed.

Yet so much remains before this one comes to a close.

Miss you brother bear.

Be safe.

The Silly Things

I have a bag of Jelly Belly jelly beans sitting in my room.

The bag is two thirds empty but plenty of jelly beans remain in the bottom that I never got around to eating. They've been there since Christmas, so they are rather stale at this point.

The bag itself is getting ragged, the plastic starting to pull away from the zip lock top. It is covered in duck tape which prevents any holes from forming.

It still holds the sweet scent of sugar when I sit down to the computer or pass it as I grab my make up bag in the morning.

I really should throw it away. After all, isn't that what you are supposed to do with stale jelly beans that have no hope of being consumed? But I can't bring myself to put it in the waste basket because Bestie gave it to me.

A bag of jelly beans from my best friend who is so far away.

Is it superstition? I'm not sure. I don't really believe that changing the location of a bag of jelly beans will, like the mystical butterfly that flaps its wings in China, alter the course of events across the world. By holding on to that bag I am not keeping him safe from harm. But isn't that an awesome concept...a magical bag of jelly beans blessed with the powers of protection.

Yet I cannot get rid of it. I can't throw it away. Not yet.

Maybe not until he is back for good.

Because he gave it to me.

He gave it to me.

So the Jelly Belly jelly beans bag remains on the desk.

A reminder of one who is away.

R&R Leave

The Bestie is on his R&R leave, enjoying a vacation with the Bestie-in Law.

I am hoping that this time away recharges his spirits and allows him to get some rest. It has been so good to hear from him consistently and to be able to talk to him whenever I want. I don't have to worry where he is, what he is doing, or what is going on in his part of the world.

He sent a picture. His smile said it all.

I wish that this was it. That he was home for good. But we are only halfway done.

When he goes back, my phone is going to feel unloved with out all the texts he sends.

The thought of him going back makes me miss him all the more.

Love ya Brother Bear.

WTF Moments Bestie Missed List

2. Elvis is on the escalator. Really. White jumpsuit. Beer gut. Sideburns. Too much hair gel. The King lives.

WTF Moments Bestie Missed

I will be so happy when Bestie is back and I can just pull out the cell to text him about all the ridiculous things that happen in day to day life.

Nothing funnier then getting halfway through a text before going CRAP! Yep, he's not going to get that. After all, what is a Bestie for if not to be the person one texts when they need to quote random movies or share the most ridiculous things they've just seen at the mall.

Instead of just joking about it, I am actually starting it now in honor of all the stupid things he has missed that just have to be shared. That way, he has a record of them to read over when he is bored.

This is for you, Bestie:

The Best WTF Moments You Missed List:

1. Location--Mall. Situation: Epic Mullet.

You know the ones. Beer gut. Sleeveless shirt. Burt Reynolds circa 1970 in the front. Billy Ray circa Achy Breaky Heart in the back. Two-toned even. Brunette with a little bit of blond highlight. Epic.

Distance

It is easy to forget just how long a deployment is.

In the last few weeks the length of this seems never ending.

I don't know how to explain it other than to say it is the distance. A lot changes in the course of a week, a month, six months. 365+ days? Wow.

I try to keep him updated on the day to day happenings of my life. Sometimes it is easier than others, depending on how regular the contact is. But it is hard to decide what to share and what to leave out. How to pick and choose what is noteworthy, or exciting, or funny when he wasn't here to share it? Is it still noteworthy, exciting, or funny now?

I send the notes. I pack up the care packages. I am on a first name basis with the people at both the post office and B-Dubs--gotta send the sauce, ya know?

I think I got spoiled on the last one because it was shorter. We both feel the distance more this time, both geographically and emotionally. He has much less time to check in. I have a lot going. It all leads to distance.

He summed it up best: ."... it's just... easier to remain disconnected to a point?"

Sometimes it is easier to pull back. Try and forget (not possible) where he is and what he is doing. I am sure it is the same for him--easier to put some distance between his current world and home.

The acute feeling of distance makes it more apparent that someone I love, my family, my brother, isn't around.

It miss him.

Be safe Brother Bear, I'm thinking of you.

Road Trip Lessons

I am recently back from a cross country road trip with friends, which was a fantastic and badly needed vacation.

One of the goals of the road trip was to get away from everything I do and deal with on a day to day basis. No cell, no email, no news.

I also took a break from all things war-related, as much as that is possible with Bestie still over there.

What I learned is that the war, the wars, are in inescapable.

A lot is made about how much this war is different from others, how detached the general population is, how the American public isn't at war, the military is. That is true to an extent. What I found on my road trip is that while America generally may be able to ignore the war, it has slowly become a part of the fabric of a thousand small communities.

It is in new, shiny signs that declare a patch of interstate or highway a memorial to a LCpl, a Pfc, a Sgt in Illinios, Missouri, and Kansas. It is in the newly unveiled GWOT memorials that have sprung up in front of VFW posts and downtown next to WWII and Vietnam memorials.

It is in the somber passage of family and friends headed to a funeral in a city in Colorado on the day I passed through. A Marine was laid to rest and I couldn't help but think of Bestie. May you rest in peace, Cpl. Harris.

In a few months, a few years, maybe there will be a stretch of highway bearing his name.

Maybe there will be a banner with his picture on it in a town just off the interstate, his name added to the list on the plaque honoring his state's lost in the rest stops.

These wars are a part of us now.

Just Another Day

Bestie is now 65 days away from his mid tour R &R. He and Bestie in Law will be going on a getaway, which excites them both to no end. I know that they will both be so happy to have the time together.

This is the lighthearted stuff. If you look close, if you are let in, you can also get a glimpse into the darker side of this struggle.

I hit a breaking point this month that Bestie was able to talk me through, for once. I'm not particularly proud of it, but it is what it is, for both of us.

I had a series of run-ins with people who I call "mall people," referring to the quote "The Marines are at war, America is at the mall." These mall people have to tell me their opinions on the war, on strategy, on how those boys should just come home because why are they over there anyway. If you continue after my hostile response of "gee, I don't know, maybe cause a bunch of ideologues in Afghanistan attacked our country (again) blew up a couple of our buildings (again), killed (again) a few thousand people, and decimated the FDNY," well, you deserve whatever happens after that. I cannot escape the war, I see it in everything. The mall people only see it if it inconveniences them in some way, if they trip over it, and even then, only see the tip of the iceberg, if they see it at all.

I had a run in with a couple of groups on the 4th of July who wanted me to do tributes to the troops, but "you know, keep it light. Don't focus on death or fighting, or any of that stuff, it is too depressing. We don't want to see that, it's a downer." My usually contained temper exploded at that point. I saw stars. My ears turned red. I got tunnel vision. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. A friend later told me she had never seen that look on my face before and she sincerely thought I was going to punch someone. I wanted to. I didn't. I just walked away. But some cosmic shift in the universe must have taken place because Bestie's spidey-sense was tingling. I get an email that night asking if everything was ok.

No. No it was not ok. It hasn't been ok since G took a round to the head, since J left his left leg and half his blood volume in the desert, since L hung upside down and bleeding next to her dead Sgt for an hour after an IED while they tried to extricate her from the vehicle, since C killed the man shooting at him, since J went down in the helo crash, since S's 12 year olds with RPG launchers, since J had a mortar land on his chest, since BD held the hands of a hundred dying soldiers, since M spent 18 months driving up and down the roads of the the Sunni Triangle, since Bestie was ambushed and tried to keep the blood of a fellow Marine from seeping through his hands, since an AK round collapsed W forehead, since a thousand Phils, Rays, Michaels, Chris', Ambers, Kellys, Shellys, Jacobs, Mikes, Glenns, Donalds, Dereks, Stevens, Brians, Kathys, Maggies, and their stories.

I can't put it away. I can't go to the mall. My heart, my soul, is with the Marines, with the Army, at war.

I keep all of this inside me somewhere. I push it to the back and it sits there most of the time time. But it is a darkness that seeps into your very soul. It is fear and anger and anxiety and helplessness. It is there and it is something that you have to deal with eventually, even if you don't know how to begin. It eats away little pieces of something unknown. Most days it is a non-factor but once in a blue moon, you find only your nose above water and it is all you can do to breathe.

That is when my Bestie throws the life ring.

It is what we do for each other.

He also knows the darkness intimately, for he too, has feared drowning in it.

I can share with him and he will give me neither the blank stare nor the horrified look of the sheltered.

He goes where others fear to tread or are simply not welcome.

My best friend returned the favor this month, for the many times I have thrown the ring to him.

He jumps into the darkness with me and says, 'I have been there and we will get out together.'

He empathizes:
"this is, believe it or not, still a war. sure, it's different from any other war ever fought by our military, but it is a war nonetheless. bad things happen to good people, and not bad enough things happen to the bad people. if you want to talk about being cynical, i sit here some days and...i laugh at these little people on the screen... but still, that i laugh at watching people die, other human beings... it's just something i never thought i would do."

He consoles:
"i'm here with you on the boat across the river to senility and cynicism. maybe you just need a break? and it's alright if you do. you don't always have to push yourself 120% for this all. you have earned your right to take time to yourself when you need it, or take time away from thoughts of these places and these people. no one can blame you, and no one who truly knows you like i do, or who truly respects and loves you the way i do, could ever think anything less of you. you're a heroic individual, and you're worth more to the world than any of these people who don't understand you, kid. Keep breathing."

We turn off the chat, get off the computers.

He begins another day in Afghanistan, one closer to being home.

I head to bed and say my prayers of safety and thanks, hoping my sleep is dreamless.

Maybe I need a break.

Maybe he does.

Just another day at war, at home, and abroad.

Happy Birthday, Bestie!

Bestie is spending yet another birthday in a combat zone. Instead of celebrating, he is working 16 hour days, every day. He is feeling a little under the weather, but doesn't get to spend the day in bed.

No, on his birthday, he is protecting our nation. Protecting freedom.

But strip away the gun, the uniform, the desert, the jarhead, and he is still the awkward, goofy kid who somewhere between Ring Pops, AP Lit, and Batman rollercoasters, became my best friend.

Happy Birthday, Bestie! Wish you could be here and we could have a proper celebration.

Know that we miss you, we love you, and we are so proud of you.

Be safe.

Be happy.

Love and Brotherhood

E.B. Sledge on war in With the Old Breed at Pelelui and Okinawa:

"War is brutism, inglorious, and a terrible waste. Combat leaves an indelible mark on those who are forced to endure it. The only redeeming factors were my comrades' incredible bravery and their devotion to each other...it also taught us loyalty to each other- and love (315)."

Photo from 9 June, 2010 The Wall Street Journal

Hat tip: Rich Lowry

103 Days

We are now 4 months, about 103 Days into this deployment. It always amazes me how much time really goes by and how many things change in that time. I know I try to keep Bestie updated on the happenings on this end, as does the Bestie-in-Law on hers, and he to us and his dad, but there is no way to cover everything. Our worlds keep turning. So many significant changes have already occurred since he left.

He misses his wife deeply, with an intensity that at times has surprised him. He says deployment is significantly different with a spouse waiting at home. He wishes he could keep her from worrying and wishes he were there to take care of the life little challenges, like fixing the truck and sorting out problems with the phone company. So much of deployment is distance and fear of the changes distance can lead to.

Overall, Bestie has had a better couple of weeks and I am happy to report that communications have been more consistently restored.

Bestie and Co. are recovering from the large fire that broke out at the main base last week. It is very fortunate that no one was killed or severely injured in the attack, though supplies were lost. After the recent attacks in Bagram, I am thankful that he is safe. Like many people, I want to create an image of the bigger bases as being invincible, but this is another reminder that nowhere at war is completely safe.

Bestie is trying to remain focused on the future to remind himself that this deployment is only temporary. He has asked for music theory workbooks to be sent to him so he can begin preparing for life after the Marines. He is working with the Bestie-in-Law on plans for their church wedding and his mid tour R &R.

He has been a great encouragement to me in the past week after some difficulties. There is nothing like knowing your best friend has your back. It is even more comforting when that Bestie happens to be well armed at the time he is offering assistance. Just adds a little extra something.

As in Iraq, music is his outlet and his way of filtering and processing things. This past week, he sent the lyrics of a Camera Can't Lie song. He had a chance to see them open a Straylight Run show before deploying.

Since he sent it, I haven't been able to turn it off. It really applies to all of us who are counting the days. For the extended military family, there are always days to count, be it towards leaving, towards coming home, towards getting out, getting better, or something else.

I am counting the days until my best friend comes home. Counting the days until I call him up whenever I want to talk about the important things in my life. Counting the days until he is reunited with his wife and they can begin the next chapter of their lives together. I am counting the days until my cousin joins him in Afghanistan. I am counting the days until Memorial Day, when I will head to Will's grave to remember and count the days since he was KIA. I am counting the days since Pfc. Gunnar Becker was killed-- a young man who taught me the meaning of sacrifice.

I am counting the days since I sent my first letter to a soldier at war, since I got my first response, since I made my first friend who was fighting a war.

One hundred and three days have passed since the Afghan Adventure began. Two hundred sixty two days, give or take, remain, God-willing, until it is over.

Days and Days- Camera Can't Lie

I've been missing you for days and days
I don't know how much this heart can take
A kinda feeling you can't explain
Like I'm lost along the way
Like I'm lost along the way
Come take me home
And unchain my soul
You could break my heart
If it meant that you would never be alone
Come take me home

I've been thinking about this game we play
Its a silly thing with much at stake
I don't know why we choose this pain
Without you I'm lost along the way
Without you I'm lost along the way

So, come take me home
Unchain my soul
And you can break my heart
If it meant that you would never be alone
just take me home, home
Just take me home, home
Just take me home, home

Come take me home
Unchain my soul
And you could break my heart
if it meant that you would never be alone
Come take me home
I've been missing you for days and days
I don't know how much this heart can take.

Troops Who Fade

Bestie has had a tough couple of weeks. If you pray, now is a good time to send up some words to encourage his spirit.

"I'm pretty sure I'm reaching the breaking point emotionally... mentally..."

The things that cross his path, every Marine's path, are things that haunt. Washing the blood out of a Marine brother out of a vehicle. Analyzing the aftermath of a battle in an outpost somewhere. The devastation war brings to the innocents...and the not so innocent. Traveling the roads, limbs pulled close to body armor, like a turtle, waiting...waiting...waiting to be hit. Shoot? Don't shoot? Take a mission? Send a subordinate...what if he is wounded or killed and it should have been me? Saluting the bodies, the flag-covered transfer cases of Marines and ISAF as they begin their final journey home....

All things we would protect our loved ones from if we could. All things, if we are honest, we want to protect ourselves from.

Isn't that why most Americans switch the channel when the war comes on? Can we be bothered to look through the window at their lives?

The Afghan Adventure is moments of terror, ugliness, and fear. Then it is long days, weeks of repetition. Same bad food. Same clothes. Same scenery. Same ache of missing family and home and friends. A roller-coaster of ups and downs. It is the slowly shutting down of emotions and humanity in order to get from one day to the next. To get home.

Wilfred Owen, Eugene Sledge, and a hundred other soldiers have said it..."Compassion for the sufferings of others is a burden to those who have it...those who feel the most for others suffer most in war." E.B. Sledge, With the Old Breed

Insensibility:

I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance's strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies' decimation.

III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.

Bestie has compassion in spades...

War is helplessness. There is a nothing a person can do back here for their best friend or their spouse but pray. Send a package. Send a letter. Hope that it raises his spirits. Hope that it eases your own fear for that person. Hope it eases your own desire to take away their pain, their struggle, in some way. Because you cannot see his face, or hear his voice, you cannot tell if he is feeling better after venting, or still struggling. Somehow, you must make peace with the helplessness.

"One of the LCpls is singing the 'Oompa Loompa song from Willy Wonka and the chocolate factory. The movies got the soundtrack all wrong. War isn't rock...war is nursery rhymes, TGIF theme songs, and Nirvana tracks. War is the music from your childhood. " Chris Ayers, War Reporting for Cowards

War is the tv shows that acted as your babysitters. Marines gathered around a laptop watching Boy Meets World, crying when Chet abandons Shawn. Laughing at the cherry bomb episode. Fee-eee-heeneey!!! calls. Back to a time without war, without worry.

"Because war, when it's not making you kill or be killed, turns you into an infant." ..even as it turns you into a man.

3 Months down.

Bestie's Adventures

Bestie is now well over two months into his deployment. He has settled into the routine and his responsibilities. I have actually had a chance to talk to him for a couple of lengthy periods of time recently, which was comforting. We talked about the things all best friends talk about-relationships, worries, future plans, our favorite childhood tv show, the current projects of our favorite bands.

Then, as is inevitable, we turned into us. We discussed Lt. Col. Grossman's book On Killing: the Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society. It is one of his favorites and I had just finished rereading it. It served as a segue into more serious topics, like "how are you." The answer is, as good as can be expected. He talked about doing missions and standing guard. The potential of orders that could end the lives . He of the responsibilities of his job and its outcomes. He spoke of courage and cowardice. He stated offhandedly that he doesn't feel much of anything out there in the way of emotion, just numb.

Delia Falconer wrote in The Last Thoughts of Soldiers, "There was a part of his soul that would always stay out on the plains. It was so frozen he thought a little bit had been torn off." These are heavy burdens we ask our men and women in the military to shoulder. And we ask them to take them up again and again. Then we ask them do it one more time. To paraphrase Sgt Cruz-- What is a Marine? His uniform? His stature? A Marine is a human being, a man or woman--one asked to do extraordinary things, and then move on from them. Robert Leckie wrote in his WWII memoir, Helmet for My Pillow, " It is to sacrifice that men go to war. They do not go to kill, they go to be killed, to risk their flesh, to insert their precious persons in the path of destruction." What then, do we owe these men who have inserted their precious persons into the mountains and plains of Afghanistan and now risk their flesh on our behalf, on our request? We owe them a debt we cannot pay. We owe them our attention. We listen to their stories with compassion, not judgment. We send the letters and Ring Pops when requested. We take a moment of our day to read or write these dispatches so our friend overseas knows that we remember him. That we love him. That he is not invisible, nor has he disappeared. We read, and write, and send to reassure him that he is still in our hearts and minds. And that we will be there for him when he returns home.

Milestones

Two months down.

I had a chance to speak pretty extensively with the Bestie this week. It was such a comfort to talk to him, catch up, and in general just have my best friend back for a few moments. We didn't even speak about anything important, just the little things like bands reuniting, news events, and developments in the lives of mutual friends. But for a moment, it was easy to forget that he was far away and in a dangerous place.

Deployment always carries that weight of distance and danger. Yet it is something that you cannot dwell on. There is nothing you can do to change either. Life does not stop just because someone you love goes to war. The world keeps spinning, the days keep passing, and things keep changing. You have to keep moving forward with it and do your best to stay in step with the ones you love who are so far away.

My world changed again today.

I wish I could just call my best friend up and tell him my happy news. I sent an email, but it is just not the same. It is hard to convey the sheer joy (not to mention the squealing and jumping up and down that ensued) in an email.

I know when he reads it that he will be jumping up and down with me.

I have taken a major step forward. It is scary and exhilarating at the same time.

I have achieved another major milestone in my life and I can't wait to share it with the Bestie.

Seven Years

“For all his attention to my historical education, my father had neglected to tell me that history’s terrible moments were real. I understand now, decades later, that he could have never told me. Only history itself can convince you of the truth. And once you’ve seen the truth — really seen it — you can’t look away.” from The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova pg. 37

Recently, the 7th year of the war in Iraq passed, with some, but little reflection. I have been thinking about it since then.

I have been thinking about how long seven years really is. About how long 9 years in Afghanistan is. I have been thinking about all the things I have done in those years and all the ways I have grown and changed. It occurs to me that we are creeping up on something that is rather disturbing. My country has been at war almost half of my life.

Some people say that our war, the GWOT or OEF/OIF, whatever you want to call it, isn't like past wars. We have a voluntary military and a smaller percentage of people serve. It is true that people perhaps have less of a connection to the military and its actions than in the past. It is true that we, the protected, do not ration our gasoline or produce. It is easier to forget about what is going on far away, if you want to.

But what has struck me the past few weeks is just how much a part of our lives the war has become. Among my peers, it has become woven into the fabric of our lives. Maybe that is abnormal. Perhaps it is more a reflection on small-to-medium town USA. But at least for some, it is the truth.

I was at work when a moment of powerful recognition hit me. I was standing around with my coworkers, most of whom are close to my age. I work with a former high school classmate of mine and we were talking about mutual acquaintances. We started talking about someone we both knew who is serving in Afghanistan. That led to updates on other people we know who are in the service, and where they are and what they are doing. I have a friend in Ramadi and my coworker remarked that they knew someone who spent some time there. About six or seven of our other coworkers wandered into the conversation and we all compared notes on friends and family, high school buddies, and friends of friends who are serving or have served in Iraq or Afghanistan. We talked about those we knew of who had been wounded and those from our hometown who had been killed. Someone mentioned that we needed a memorial for our war, like there is downtown for Vietnam.

Then the conversation drifted to other things like new movies, music, and if the economy would ever get better so we could find better jobs.

The moment of recognition came before that though. It came when we noticed we had an audience. Five of our coworkers, including our two supervisors, had stopped what they were doing, gathered together, and were listening to us talk. They were all older and grew up after Vietnam and before 9/11. They were staring at us kind of funny. One finally said, "You guys say that like it is so normal. You say, M spent some time there, like Iraq is Florida or something. You just transitioned from Iraq and Afghanistan to a show at the place and the merits of the newest Twilight movie without pause. Like it is just another part of your day to discuss which of your friends are over there."

I guess we did. We transitioned from updating each other on friends and family at war to the other general topics you discuss with people you work with. It was just another thing, just another part our lives, to have friends fighting a war someplace sandy. After all, my best friend is on round two-Afghan Style. By now, so many people I know have joined the service, gone overseas, come home, gone back, come home, gone back, come home, got out or reupped that it is kind of normal.

The war is something we have learned to live with.

The idea that some people, somewhere, wish us harm is something that has almost become normal.

There is something sad about that.

There is that old saying, I think it is a curse, "May you live in interesting times." It seems my peers and I do live in interesting times. We have seen life changing moments of history and been changed by them. Some of us have had the course of our lives changed by them.

Sometimes you don't realize the significance of your own history and the realities of what those historical moments have wrought until something happens to make you reflect.

I miss my friend

I miss my best friend.

Funny how things happen when it is most inconvenient.

I could use his perspective tonight.

Oh, the joys of deployment.

Tomorrow, off to find the Grippos.

Time to visit all the lovely people again at my favorite post office.

Illegitimis non Carborundum

Well, that happened sooner than I thought it would.

In every deployment, there is a moment when something happens. Whatever it is, it makes you reach for the phone to call the person. Sometimes it is a funny thing, sometimes it is a sad thing, sometimes it is a happy thing.

Yesterday, I lost my job. "Downsized" after 5 years of loyal service. Completely blindsided.

Stunned, upset, and anxious all I wanted to do was call my best friend and talk it out.

But I couldn't do that.

I can't do that.

I'll tell him, at some point, when he is able to communicate. And when the time is right for him to hear it.

But I can't just pick up the phone and be reassured that everything will turn out ok- by the person I turn to when I need to be reassured that everything will be ok.

That's what sucks about deployment.

Yesterday I was stunned. Today I am wallowing. Tomorrow I turn on the determination and figure out my next step.

Miss ya Bestie.