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Published On: Apr 26, 2006 10:02 PM
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Published On: Apr 26, 2006 10:02 PM
When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again
Everybody has more experience at something than
most people. For me, that experience is in going off to war zones. I do it
more than most people (excepting Geraldo Rivera, of course. I think I'm neck
and neck with Dan Rather, which is actually physically impossible due to the
girth of his head, but I digress), and there are things you come to realize.
The main thing is
this:
Going to war is easy. Coming home is the hard part.
It's sadly true. Everyone's always excited about going home. Myself included. However, due to various bad experiences, my excitement is at least half trepidation.
In 2000 when I came home from Bosnia, my parents picked me up at the airport. I'd lost 30 pounds due to stress and other factors. The first thing my parents said "Oh, you look HORRIBLE!" Later I found myself screaming at them over something tiny and insignificant (I'd rather not say, really, just what it was, because I don't remember why, although I do remember what), like a man possessed.
When I came back from Iraq this past August, I thought I was fine. I really did; I told the counselors that I was required to talk with that I was fine, and I didn't think I was just saying what they wanted to hear -- that you go through some very rough shit, and then it's over and you move on. That's what I thought I had done, until I found myself alienating one of the oldest and dearest friends I have. I was withdrawing, and doing badly. I had to get drunk to fix that (that sounds bad, I know. What I actually had to do, since I still couldn't really feel that there was anything wrong with me, was knock my head off-balance enough that I would have to compensate for it, and hopefully return to a normal position in the process. I chose to do that by getting drunk, and it worked). And yeah, it was fun. Ask Erich, who had to deal with a drunken Ash wandering around George Washington University chattering at him on his cell phone. Heh heh. A good time was had by all. Or at least, he SEEMED amused. My recollection is slightly dim.
This time, I'm just kind of scared. I've not had a cigarette in over 3 months. I'm afraid that, going back to the States, I'll slip back into those old habits. Also, I know that my brain isn't completely screwed on straight right now. What if I can't find a bar? OK, that second part was only half-serious.
Right after I get home, I have to file my income taxes and finalize my decision to buy a Jeep by... buying a Jeep. I'm sending my parents off globetrotting to Scotland. Once they're ready, I can begin Asatour 2004.
I guess I'm thinking, in the words of David Wilcox, about what will be the same, and what will never be the same. I, in the words of Melissa Etheridge, will never be the same. My father has retired now, and my parents will never be the same (my mother's exhausted, trying to keep up with him). They're going to Scotland! They've never left the continent before. I have to teach them how to travel by plane, how to go through Customs, all those little things.
Everyone in my life will of course be different. People aren't static just because I'm gone. I have to accept that, and face it. I've faced it before; it shouldn't be a big deal. It will be, though.
Don't get me wrong. It takes some courage to go to war; I'm not disparaging myself and every other person who's made that trip. I remember when I was going to Kuwait and Iraq, I was going through the motions of getting ready to go and making like it was no big deal. I remember the day I realized I was scared shitless. I had to apologize to everyone I had told it was no big deal, which I realize now was just another stupid way of not dealing with the underlying problem -- that I was scared shitless. Getting ready to go was hard, at least until the travel began.
Going back, though... that's the really hard part.
Bear with me; I'll need to heal. Consider that melodramatic if you want, but that's down to what it boils.
Going to war is easy. Coming home is the hard part.
It's sadly true. Everyone's always excited about going home. Myself included. However, due to various bad experiences, my excitement is at least half trepidation.
In 2000 when I came home from Bosnia, my parents picked me up at the airport. I'd lost 30 pounds due to stress and other factors. The first thing my parents said "Oh, you look HORRIBLE!" Later I found myself screaming at them over something tiny and insignificant (I'd rather not say, really, just what it was, because I don't remember why, although I do remember what), like a man possessed.
When I came back from Iraq this past August, I thought I was fine. I really did; I told the counselors that I was required to talk with that I was fine, and I didn't think I was just saying what they wanted to hear -- that you go through some very rough shit, and then it's over and you move on. That's what I thought I had done, until I found myself alienating one of the oldest and dearest friends I have. I was withdrawing, and doing badly. I had to get drunk to fix that (that sounds bad, I know. What I actually had to do, since I still couldn't really feel that there was anything wrong with me, was knock my head off-balance enough that I would have to compensate for it, and hopefully return to a normal position in the process. I chose to do that by getting drunk, and it worked). And yeah, it was fun. Ask Erich, who had to deal with a drunken Ash wandering around George Washington University chattering at him on his cell phone. Heh heh. A good time was had by all. Or at least, he SEEMED amused. My recollection is slightly dim.
This time, I'm just kind of scared. I've not had a cigarette in over 3 months. I'm afraid that, going back to the States, I'll slip back into those old habits. Also, I know that my brain isn't completely screwed on straight right now. What if I can't find a bar? OK, that second part was only half-serious.
Right after I get home, I have to file my income taxes and finalize my decision to buy a Jeep by... buying a Jeep. I'm sending my parents off globetrotting to Scotland. Once they're ready, I can begin Asatour 2004.
I guess I'm thinking, in the words of David Wilcox, about what will be the same, and what will never be the same. I, in the words of Melissa Etheridge, will never be the same. My father has retired now, and my parents will never be the same (my mother's exhausted, trying to keep up with him). They're going to Scotland! They've never left the continent before. I have to teach them how to travel by plane, how to go through Customs, all those little things.
Everyone in my life will of course be different. People aren't static just because I'm gone. I have to accept that, and face it. I've faced it before; it shouldn't be a big deal. It will be, though.
Don't get me wrong. It takes some courage to go to war; I'm not disparaging myself and every other person who's made that trip. I remember when I was going to Kuwait and Iraq, I was going through the motions of getting ready to go and making like it was no big deal. I remember the day I realized I was scared shitless. I had to apologize to everyone I had told it was no big deal, which I realize now was just another stupid way of not dealing with the underlying problem -- that I was scared shitless. Getting ready to go was hard, at least until the travel began.
Going back, though... that's the really hard part.
Bear with me; I'll need to heal. Consider that melodramatic if you want, but that's down to what it boils.
Posted: Mon - April 12, 2004 at 04:28 PM