As Dear JPo Would Say: "Shambles. My Life Is In Shambles"

I dislike how everything I write now stands in contrast to anything written before I left for Iraq, or during. I dislike the idea of periods in my life because they very rarely feel like periods when I'm in the midst of them. Its not until some silent and massive door swings shut behind me that I realize things have changed. And while I think its true of everyone's life I also know I have a penchant for burning bridges while I lament the fire.
In any event Life Goes On and so shall I.
I've been drinking a lot. SUPRISE! Its hard to describe how I am in full understanding that I drink too much, yet am not bothered by this revalation, but that's where I stand. All I know is that it helps.
When I'm bored it gives me something to do. When I'm tired but can't sleep it puts me down. When I'm beaten down by my own life it picks me up. When I feel like being anti-social and alone it sends me into conversation with rando bar girls. When I feel like shit it makes me feel like gold.
And some people (most people?) think that't not ok. Army therapists, R&K and so forth cast stones. I'm ok with that; cast away kids. We all only understand our own lives; our own shit. No matter what anyone thinks they know about me, or you, they don't. They know them and guess at the rest. And they may be right; they may know what works and what doesn't. They may have proof and numbers and rational thinking on their side, but who gives a fuck? Call me a product of my enviroment but I'm young, dumb, strong and American. And just like most of us I've got an underdog complex. We love Rudy and Rocky and grew up learning we were born as a nation facing the odds. We play the Lotto and don't give a fuck. We think anyone can be President, and we all can change the world. So who can tell me I'm an alky? Who can say I'll die of cirrhosis of the liver, or that when I do its a bad thing? Who can say that my life has to be long to good? Who the fuck can tell me that growing old, shitting myself then dying in my sleep is a better end then buying the farm while robbing a bank? Or driving a motorcycle or fighting in a war or a monkey knife fight?
Alright I admit I went a bit off the reservation just there. My point is society pressures me to be who they want me to be. Sober, well-adjusted, monogamous, responsible, ect. while all I want to be is me. And all me wants to do is what ever the fuck I want to. And as long as I don't drunkenly stab you (and you didn't deserve it) then who gives a shit?

Stick A Fork In Me

I would have never guessed being home would be this hard. Sure Iraq sucked and things happened and whatever, but I figured it was no big deal. I've been back for over a week now though and things just seem not-normal. Maybe I don't know what normal is, or I forgot while I was gone. Maybe my stomach always ached and my mouth always had this taste in it and I was always tired. Maybe...

We have had to fill out half a dozen surveys since our return. Checking boxes and filling bubbles rating how we feel and if we're likely to kill ourselves. Have we noticed we're sleeping less or drinking more? Are we less interested in things or on edge? Do sirens and loud noises startle us?
The part I have difficultly with when signing and dating and filling out my forms is simply that I don't know. I don't know if I'm not sleeping because I can't or because maybe I'm jetlagged from our 20-hour plane ride home. I don't know if I'm drinking more because I have barely been able to drink since NOVEMBER. I don't know if I don't enjoy the things I used to because I've been working almost every single day since I got back so I haven't had the chance to do them. And if I feel isolated and alone it might just be because I have been given ZERO chance to see the people I care about and the home I don't believe even exisits anymore.

So forgive me Big Army if I simply check all the NO boxes on a survey and UNINTENTIONALLY use very foul language when getting my pre-evaluation with a shrink. Its just when some asshole with a clipboard tells me to be honest and I tell her that honestly she's wasting my fucking time with this Mickey Mouse bullshit because OF COURSE I think about hurting other people, I wouldn't be very good at my job if I didn't, (MY JOB IS TO HURT OTHER PEOPLE) I get frustrated. I get angry and tired and fed the fuck up and I would really love a little leeway here. Its hard to know the status quo when you've been so far gone, and its harder when you're not so sure you ever really had a handle on it anyway.

I'll Always Have A Story To Tell

I'm a gambler. At first glance I don't look it, but who really does? I don't go to casinos much or have an afinity for the ponies. I abhor poker (especially Hold 'Em. I mean jesus fucking christ who wants to play a game where half the cards are face fucking up?) and can barely stomach Black Jack. Craps is just that and Roulette is for people who like shiny objects. Gambling for money just seems so blase to me because I don't like money much. If I loose then who gives a fuck and if I win then who gives a fuck. I'll never bet enough to really risk something and thus never risk enough to win anything.

But when it comes to unconventional things I'll take the bet. I'll play Plane Delay Poker. I'll step up to Stay-Up-All-Night-Drinking-Before-A-Test Roulette. I'll run around a pool deck in a thunder storm with an umbrella pole or gun an MRAP with no helmet on or cross the border with a little something extra in the trunk. Fuck lightning and snipers and Border Patrol, I do what I want.

Sometimes I lose. Sometimes I get caught up, I get beat-down, I lose. But it is always always worth it.
I'm about to set off on another gamble. A long-term, high-stakes deal with enough risk that conventional-thinking people tell me to use my god-damn senses and slow my roll. But as any of those people can tell you, that ain't gonna happen. I don't listen to reason and I don't let risk or fear stop me. This might pay off big or it might burn me, but at the end of it all I'll be able to take pleasure knowing I went for it.

1,975 Miles

Time to go home. Or something. Not home, home's gone. It snuck away from me somewhere between 2006 and Monday. Dirty bastard. Can't really blame home though, I knew it was happening and honestly who wanted to stick around with me anyway?

You can't go back, but what do you do when you can't go forward either? I can't. At least not for a few months. Time. Give shit time and it'll work out. Bullshit. Fucking stupid ass old person, Hippy bullshit. Not everything works out and not everything is worth it.

Times like these call for whiskey. And it just so happens that in the United States of America whiskey is abundant. And it abounds within my cabinet. Don't mind if I do...

"I'm Dying Leon..."

I'm back and I don't want to write. If I start a lot of bad shit will come out. And I'm so sick of it. I'm sick of fucking people 'understanding' and telling me I need to give shit time. I'm sick of this world of shit I live in.

Disregard The Counter

What do you do when you want to get something out but its already out there? What do you do when you've said before what you want to say again? What do you write when you've already written? Why do I feel the urge to even do so?

I'm five days out from home and I'm scared. Its really hard for me to say that. I don't like being scared. I haven't been scared of anything in so long because I've spent years making myself numb. If you don't care about anything then you can't be afraid. If you don't care if you get hurt, then you're not afraid to get in fights. If you don't care if you're loved then you're not afraid to be alone. If you don't care if you succeed then you can't be afraid of failing. And If you don't care if you're alive then you're not afraid of dying.

But I care about coming home. And I care about being loved. And in five days when I get back and I get to hold her I know I won't be afraid. Everything will be ok.

One Day You Be All Alone, Way Out There In A Combat Zone

Today I was awarded my CIB, or Combat Infantryman's Badge. It is an award given to only to infantrymen who have been in combat. It cannot be awarded to non-infantry soldiers, nor members of any service besides the Army.
For the last 30-some months earning my CIB has been a goal of mine. It is the goal of every infantryman because it denotes proficency and practice in our job; to engage the enemy in combat. If you have a CIB you have been to a war, you have fought in a war, you came home from a war. Everything we do is to prepare for war and win at war, no secondary task or more complex directive than that.
So now I have it. A 3-inch piece of black metal on my chest that tells those who know what I did. Make no mistake, I am proud to have earned it. I am proud of my job, proud of my choice to serve and proud of myself. I don't regret anything involved with my time in the Army in the least. But against my will I think; is it all worth it? Is the money and the pride worth spending three years of my life in a series of deserts? Strangers trying to kill me, people making me feel awkward in airports, crippled friends and watching the world pass me by? Is it worth a handful of cash and a matte black scrap of metal?
I can say no, it is not. But its ok because the more I think about it the more I realize I'm forgetting something. I'm forgetting I didn't decide to join up and come to Iraq for money or medals. I came because I wanted to. I had an urge, I felt a pull deep in my soul to go forth and take from this world what I could, for good or ill. And I have done that. I have followed my heart and taken a right turn off the beaten path so readilly layed out for me.
So to me my CIB means more than the combat it certifies. To me it means that in spite of my fears and uncertainty I can do fucking anything. And I'll be ok.