I know, that's a vague title. But I promise, it's quite simple. This is a follow up to my last post. Yes, it's four years later, but there's a reason for that too.
Though I do enjoy time jumps, I'm going to start at the beginning on this one. I've described in short form, my time in the Army. This time I'll go a bit more in depth. My active duty career began(and ended) at Fort Carson in Colorado Springs. As I've mentioned before, upon being assigned to 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division, I was placed in the rear detachment. I was scheduled to deploy to Iraq with the next group of soldiers, but ultimately I was held back to let an injury sustained in training heal.
Now equipped with a walking cast, I was placed into the S2 office(Security). The NCOIC of the office was also the unit's acting Public Affairs Officer and I was to work in coordination with him. Meanwhile, I was cross trained as a security manager and felt like I found a place to fit in with my unit. I was of use. I learned the basics of security management and was receiving training on public speaking, among other things.
Less than a week into my time in the office, began the worst part(or what I thought was the worst part) of my service. I say this with the caveat that it was also probably the most important part of my service. I was to report to the chapel to serve as a media liaison for my first memorial service. The first, of many. 82. Over an 18 month deployment, I was a media contact for 82 memorial services. 82 of my brothers and sisters that never made it home. 82 men and women who knew what they signed up for. But knowing what you sign up for doesn't mean you expect it to end that way. This was the beginning of my years of questioning my own service. Did I do enough? I know the answer, whether anyone else agrees or not. I sat at home, in an office. I sat there under orders while 82 soldiers died. Want to feel useless? Answer the same questions from the same people week after week while a picture of another one of your family members is all that remains. A picture, a rifle, and a pair of boots.
In December of 2007, the unit started to return. My hell was placed on hold for a brief time. At the time I didn't really know what the mounting losses were doing to me. I was doing my job. I was doing what I could to be of service. It's amazing how the brain tells you what you need to know in order to go on.
By the summer of 2008, my injuries had caught up to me. Months of non-treatment created a domino effect that ended with a spinal fusion and an order. Retire. Retire? After not even three years? After I finally got to work in a PA shop? After I finally thought I would begin training with the unit to leave for Afghanistan?
The simple answer...yes. Forced into a surgery i didn't need. Then forced into a retirement I didn't want all because the doctor they chose did a piss poor job and they didn't want to wait for me to recover. This is where the hell returns.
I watched as my unit trained for the next deployment. A deployment, once again, I would not be allowed to join them on. In the months that followed, I watched them leave, and then, one by one, I watched as more were killed. More of my brothers and sisters I wasn't able to protect. I wasn't even give the opportunity. No matter what anyone said, I kept asking the question, "Why wasn't it me?" I should have been there with them. I should have been next to them. Instead, I left. But I didn't actually leave. I watched from afar as more and more of my soldiers were added to the list. I became obsessive. I would go everyday to the department of defense website to look at the press releases and count the names I knew. It took years. 4 years before there were finally more promotion announcements than death announcements. 5 years before I finally stopped seeing names I knew. FIVE YEARS.
As to why I never continued after my last post, well it's simple. I thought there were only two options. Turns out, there was a third. I was told, basically, that I was no longer injured, but I was still too injured to be in the Army. I wasn't fully retired. Instead, I was separated. Lost my health insurance. Lost my retirement. Left out into the world as a civilian. Something I hadn't truly been in years.
Now, 9 years and 6 months later, I'm fighting a different battle than I ever figured I would. After I got out, I went to doctors for a while. I explained what I did with my time during the day, just waiting for the next name to appear. Survivor's Remorse they called it. With every death of a person I knew, I died a little bit too. That's how it felt. That's how it still feels. I lost a lot during that time. I lost jobs. I lost my family. I lost my friends. I pushed them away. I pushed them away because I was ashamed. I never even left my base and here I was feeling sorry for myself. But it was more than that. Because the doctors were right. I died a little bit every time. And that never comes back.
It was only after I lost everything that I began to try to fix myself. But how do you fix death? I buried myself in work. I did everything I could to get back to where I was in the Army. Back to being able to tell the stories of those people that deserved to be acknowledged. Two and half years ago I finally got back to that place. It was glorious. I felt true pride in being able to tell stories again. Bringing those stories to life and getting a reaction. But there's one time of year that really puts me back in that place. Memorial day is one thing. We remember those we lost. I do that every day, so a day when everyone does it is just one day they get to see how I live. But Veterans day(which has become Veterans week now). I sit there and watch as fellow veterans remember what they did. Remember what they won. And remember what they lost. I envy them. I don't feel the connection to them that I used to feel with my unit. I feel like an outsider looking in. I respect the hell out of those men and women. But this week. These stories. I find myself wishing I could skip it. It's not that they don't deserve to be told. They do. It's that I can't bring myself to tell them knowing that I didn't do all I could do be there for them. It's a pain I can't heal. And one I can't complain about. Those men and women have scars I'll never know. So who am I to complain?
I know I've rambled on for quite a while here, so I'll wrap this up by saying this. Every man and woman who stands tall, raises their hand, and swears an oath to service deserves all the respect and admiration they can get. I will always love those men and women. But I don't know that I will always be able to tell their stories. Sometimes, it takes a better mind than mine to do it justice. And they deserve justice.
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