Every day I struggle with my own inner daemons. Some days it all fades to wispy edges framing an otherwise glorious day. Some days it is a haze that mattes and obscures the beautiful details. Some days it is horrible despair as I stare into the abyss, not afraid, but weighing the consequences that others would have to deal with. I have not feared death or even injury for a very long time. Yes, discretion is the better part of valor, and recklessness is the immature brother of a lack of fear. Nonetheless, I still have fear. Not for myself or slipping loose this mortal coil, but of the second and third order effects of my own actions – past, present and future. It is a heavy burden to be trapped inside a mind that rails against accomplishments past and derides former success as proof of present failure. It is a heavier burden still to weigh one’s legacy against the agonizing despondency that neither mind-altering concoctions nor physical pleasure seems to erase – they only mask and hide it for a short time. Eventually one realizes that the soul is burdened far beyond any pain that the body or mind feels or pushes aside. How does one heal a heart – a soul? Like most other maladies, a condition of the heart is one that must be met with a full frontal assault. There is no clever ruse, no cunning maneuver, no exposed flank that can be exploited to insure a quick and easy victory. The grinding attrition of demanding to be healthy, happy and secure has to be fought every single day – every hour – sometimes every minute. One has to continue to trudge up the hill. One has to navigate the pitfalls and obstacles that appear. One must be willing to take two steps forward and backslide three in the slimy uneven footing of recovery. One must *believe* that somewhere, near the crest of the hill, the sun will break through the fog and smoke. One must be willing to accept the helping hands of friends, family and loved ones. One must be willing to accept the helping hand of someone barely known or even unknown. One must shed a bit of the pride and self-reliance that was part of the strong laminate armor that allowed him to survive thus far. Hence, you will see me stumble…you will see me fall…you may see me self-destruct a bit. But know that I am trying. I know all too well my own faults, failures, and evil that I myself and no one else may claim. I am no saint – nor the shadow of a great man. I am simply a Soldier. A Soldier that has made mistakes, and had to live with those stains on my soul - mistakes that were mine and no one else’s. A Soldier that has seen Charon and returned with silver still in my pocket. All I ask is that you, dear reader, do not feel pity for me, for us – we chose this profession. We knew what we were getting into, capricious youth notwithstanding. We chose to fight for our families, homes, states, nation, gods – and finally realized- each other. In spite of our own hubris, we could not imagine, as you cannot, the horrors of war – from sounds and noises to blood and death, to smells and constant hyper-alertness. We were lucky - we lived through it. We lost friends, suffered injuries expected and unexpected, and left a bit of our soul in the sand or on the mountains. So yes, we are damaged, we are struggling. But we do not want, nor need pity. However, a bit of understanding, a kind word or a reminder that you are paying attention means the world to us – you may help us take another step up that dicey slope and a step away from the crevasse. To those of you that have reached out, I offer my must appreciative thanks. Always, your most humble and obedient servant, ~M
Posted on: Fri, 01 Nov 2013 17:50:20 +0000
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