I've thought of a million and one ways to write this blog. I still haven't found the right way, and perhaps that's due to being a little rusty. My first blog in a long time, and certainly not only warranted, but desperately needed. I have no outlet right now. My girlfriend I wish could understand what I would like to tell her, and close friends I who can relate... well sometimes it's to be understood and get the nod of "I know how you feel."- however this is for me.
You don't have to read this, and if you do my pride, my ego, my care is all gone. Taken, sucked out over the last three years of my life. I sit here, drinking a whiskey and 7up, hoping that it can help to numb the numb. Pain is gone and I hope it to return. I sit here in my cell block crossing more and more off of the list of happiness and freedoms that I look forward to, and realizing that I'm not me, and you're not you. I thought that being back for almost half a year I would still be in good spirits. Instead, I'm lying to myself, and to you all. I'm not happy, especially with who I am.
I try and blame it on myself and get a rise of motivation to change, but more and more that becomes impossible. I sit and think, and drink and realize more and more that it's not me. It's not me who's made my life extremely miserable. It's not me who's taken all the fun out of anything and everything I do. It's the constant crash of the Army wave on my shore, never allowing a re gripping of my soil and washing me further and further out into the sea. The sea of despair and utter hopelessness. I try and stay optimistic, but optimism turns quickly and unconsciously towards ignorance.
How long has it been since I've truly been happy? Not with relationships that have nothing to do with work, or in the so called 'honey-moon' of redeployment? A year of bullshit looking back had one thing going for it above this half a year in garrison. The prospect of dying. I know that sounds a little odd, but it gave you something worth living for. Life. With all the bullshit and the politics and the stupidity in Iraq at least we had our lives to look forward to. But this place, Fort Bragg, in the time and now, no threat of roadside bombs or snipers. What does it hold? What promise does it have? What wind can it blow into my sails and the other thousand miserable folks who endeavor the insufferable loins of this place? It holds nothing.
Firstly, the time taken away is constant. Enough time is devoted to work, that even if it were given to the highest maintenance wife, she would be sick of it. Early calls, and late nights only to be interrupted by the two precious days that are supposed to be called a weekend. Training and training and even more late work, and 24 hour duties and 3 am wake up calls, and last minute Saturday training or work, and this and that, and everything under your hat. It gets to a point that you get back to your 8x16 room and wonder if prison wouldn't be better- or at least as good as this.
The beer and the booze of Friday and Saturday nights doesn't seem to put a dent into the gut wrenching feelings that Sunday morning hangovers bring as you realize that it's your last day. Last day before the work week. Monday mornings are even worse and they come with anxiety attacks and sometimes vomit. You look around at everyone else coming in at the grueling morning hours, and they aren't just tired, they're miserable too. You try and just tell yourself that you're projecting, but you get to talking and no one is happy. No one wants to be here. No one wants to jump into the grinder everyday to get turned up and chucked out with not so much as even a thanks at the end of the day. We just get to hear the "I Love Me" speeches and the word Nigger inappropriately stated once or twice at 7pm on Friday evenings and then are expected not to drive drunk, or jump out of a fourth story window. Don't say I told you so when the next big shooting in America happens in a little place called 2 P.
I sit, drink and think-therapeutic. There was a time in my life that even though the work week was tough, even though it wasn't exactly what I wanted to do, I had hope. Something to look forward to. I had time away from this place. I had people I looked forward to seeing, even at work. I had pride in what I did, and certainly what those around me did. I could play the game, and get through a work day, drink a beer and have some laughs. I haven't laughed in a long time. Smiling is even more beyond reach. Pleasure has evaporated under the Army heat lamp. I'm not the only one affected. Not the only one burned out and hung up to dry. Am I more miserable than anyone else? Probably not. Has it put undue strain on my relationships inside and outside of work? Of course. The problem isn't recognizing their is a problem. The problem isn't even being able to recognize a solution-there is one. The problem is.... I'm writing to you
