I never thought I’d be one of those people. Those people were the ones who saw action, watched people die, saw real combat. The closest thing I ever got to the action was listening to some indirect fire impact on my FOB the first day I arrived. At first I didn’t even know if it was a controlled detonation or the real thing, so we didn’t take cover until the 2nd or 3rd one landed and the sirens went off. Even then we stood in the doorway of the T-building listening to them impact and watching other people run down the street toward us and away from the DFAC. One person died. One or two wounded. All I heard were the booms. There were a few more attacks during the year, but nothing major. No more people were killed or injured by them. Why then did I find myself sitting in the office of a social worker listening to her tell me that it was going to be okay, that they were going to get me the help I needed and that I could heal. Why was it a relief to hear her say that I could heal? Heal from what? I haven’t seen anything; I haven’t done anything. Why do I need to heal? But she saw the tears that were burning my eyes threatening to spill over; those tears that weren’t for anything at that moment, but yet were never there when I needed them. Those tears that weren’t there when I let down my guard and allowed myself to think about the past and the family and friends I loved who I was so far from, about the past, and about everything that had happened.
Don’t reflect on the past. That was a skill I taught myself at West Point. When I was younger, after a vacation or some exciting event, I would marvel at the passage of time and allow myself to count back the number of days prior that it occurred and think about how different my current situation was compared to what had happened. I enjoyed reflecting on the time I’d had and the memories made. After I arrived at West Point I found that if I allowed myself to count back to the last time I saw my parents, or the last time I was home, the homesickness would overwhelm me. I quickly learned to stop thinking about the past, to stop counting the days backwards, and to stop comparing my past and current situations. If the past was better than the present then it was painful. If the past was worse than the present, then it was painful. Therefore, don’t think too much about the past. Short dosages of memories were okay, dependent on the memories and situations, but nothing more. I trained myself well…too well.
I also learned how to control my emotions to a greater extent, though not so much as control them as bottle everything up. The hardest night of my life, the night that stretched into day and wouldn’t end, I knew I couldn’t hold those emotions in much longer. That night amidst everything else I was fighting for control of my emotions. My reward became telling myself that when it was all over I could go back to my room and cry. I hadn’t cried for a while and it was a relief to know that this time tears would come. After it was finally over and I was safely back in my room I allowed the tears to flow freely and they didn’t stop for hours. When I thought I was done with the crying I would remember the look on the woman’s face as she pleaded for me to tell her what was going on and the tears would come back, along with the doubt about if I had recommended the correct course of action in having her detained. Alone in my room I relived every moment of that night, but in doing so it also took away a lot of the sting. I’d already cried over every moment and the weight of it was lessened. I worried that it would come back when I went to testify before the judge, but it didn’t. Perhaps it was the prayers of my family and friends, though they didn’t know exactly what they were praying about, or the fact that I’d already grieved about that night, or both. It taught me a new lesson: Perhaps it’s time to start facing the past again.
