Where I am. and where I'm going

This post would be better suited with the title, "Where I am, and where we're going.

I am with love.

We will be going somewhere like that which is beautifully described by my favorite web blog of a family sailing:

Sailing to San Francisco – Day 6

Sep 8th, 2011

by Sara. 

1 comment

We finally got a break from motoring this morning as we rounded Cape Mendocino, the last of the tricky spots. We’re on the home stretch now. If we can keep our speed up we may be in Sausalito by tomorrow night. Most likely we’ll stop at Drakes Bay in the late afternoon and then pass under the gate Saturday morning.

We had a lovely 15-20 knots from the NW for several hours as we rounded Mendocino this morning, really fun sailing. However the winds abruptly shut off as soon as we got around the cape and underneath the land. We’re back to motoring again in the fog, surrounded by undulating gray seas and a misty white sky. It’s been foggy for the most part of the past three days and we haven’t even seen the California coast yet and we’re only 5-10 miles offshore. Hopefully we’ll get a little scenery before we actually reach the Golden Gate.

When we’re traveling like this, hour after hour after hour you can’t help but think about how nice it is to have so much free time. I’ve spent literally hours just watching the sea go by while the children nap or play below. It’s been a long long time since we’ve had this much time to just be. I’ve even felt bored and that’s not something that’s happened in years. This morning while the guys were outside sailing the boat I cuddled with the girls in our bunk. Surrounded by blankies and stuffed animals and pink pillows we read stories for about two hours. No pressure to do anything else or be anywhere else because there just isn’t anywhere else to be. I could get used to this.

Of course, we’ll be in San Francisco in a day and a half; we’d better relish all this time while we can.

Total miles at noon: 568

Today....

.. went much like every other day, recently.

It ended as I told you [my BFF] in a message: with my daughter sleeping peacefully in my bed.

In the interim, however...

I was packing my books into boxes. There is one - and only one - that will not fit into a standard "box pack" box. It is the illustrated history of the United States Navy. The book is leather-bound. It has always had a place, albeit at the bottom of a stack of irregulars, perhaps fronting my normal bookcase.

For some reason, I leafed through it. Perhaps because it was so unique. 

Within the first cover - it's hardbound - I found email after email between Shina and her then-lover Dan. Dan, the Second. 

Because I had stolen Shina from Dan, the First.

These emails exposed my most intimate emotions, raw. Yet... so long ago. It seems like a decade ago. Perhaps it was.

And still I read them. Well, at least the first couple pages.

I was nauseated, all over again. Not like the first time I discovered them, but I was sick nonetheless.

I remember placing them there, for safe-keeping, when I moved from our home  -Ours to just mine - to one of so much doubt. A friend's. One that would ultimately betray me, and send my father's service revolver to the smelt of the Baltimore Police Department.

I can remember the emotion I felt. Certainly the emotion I felt when I printed all those emails out and buried them in that book, for... I want to say "safe-keeping", but I'd be wildly inaccurate. Who wants to "safe-keep" the treasure of their world being torn asunder? Not me. But I needed something that would later remind me of the pain. Perhaps I was prescient, deciding unconsciously that the pain would eventually recede, but for whatever reason I needed to remember this. The facts, unadulterated.

Having made-up with Shina and since fallen-out again... for the "permanence", I was struck - upon discovering them yet again - by the insanity, the fruitlessness of keeping them still.

The book - it was bare before me. I hadn't even bore the time necessary to leaf through its expected appeal to my service. I perhaps have just assumed there would be a time when I wanted to document it. Perhaps share it with someone who has no idea.

It hasn't happened yet.

But what did happen is my re-discovery. I scanned the first few pages of this illicit romance and was unimpressed, if not sadly circumspect: "Neither of you children knew what the fuck you were doing." But I did.

I found myself yet again at a cross-roads: should I discard of this pack of printed-out email that I'd absconded with when I was burned, mortally? Or should I keep it, as a marker of some sort?

I kept it. I placed it all back within the leaf of my book - knowing that when next I consult it I'll be either near-death or certainly in another, truly fulfilling relationship - at which point I'll casually disregard it and see it burned in the trash.

Yet... a very profound part of me... doesn't believe in the "pre-life." I don't think it will ever leave me, so I have this compulsion to keep it near me -forever-, as I would evidence of God. My first and only touch - my first and only evidence -- that something truly was bigger than I.

So it remains on top of my bookcase, an orphan. The bookcase has been sold. All its neighbors have been boxed, but for this obstinate book. And this one ingratiating book remains... an orphan, again. Sitting there. Waiting for me to decide how I'll deal with its existence.

I like to think I can put it in a box - no matter how irregular - before I move. Before I say "goodbye!" to my current, convenient and comfortable life.  

But I don't know.

It is the talisman I do not know how to dispose of. It sits, and mocks me.

~Me

the end of S

Today is the end of the very Requiem that gave this blog its nature... and its name.

Though I've considered myself healed for some time now, today I pounded the last nail into the coffin that was my relationship with S.

Because I started this blog -- this Requiem -- with a letter I'd sent exposing every ragged edge of my freshly rent heart, I think it is fitting I end it with another letter, this one exposing to the world the mended wounds and puffy scars.

---

I don't think you -- or anyone -- will ever understand how extraordinarily difficult it is for me to read what you've written.

S. -- you're not dying. I died. For almost a year. A year, S.. I cannot -- for the life of me -- think of why you'd come to me a year after you left me in the way that you have. I feel foolish for even having devoted all that much thought to it, S., because it doesn't really matter, not in the end: I do not want to get back together. I want to say that I'm sorry, that I'm so sorry that I know it hurts you to see me write that, but I feel foolish. Because none of this is my fault.

None of this is my fault. Its not my fault that you left me. Its not my fault that you "hated" Nichole. Its not my fault that you were scared. Its not my fault that you cheated on me. Its not my fault that you let me suffer. Its not my fault that you let me let my daughter -- my blood -- depend on you and then suffer her own crushing disappointment because you left us. Its not my fault that Nichole trusts me as a father even less now. Its not my fault that I've had to pray to be a good enough father to Madison to explain that just because she's now twice seen people who say they love one another suddenly -- and in her child's mind, willfully -- disappear.

It isn't my fault, so I'm not going to say that I'm sorry. I have nothing to be sorry for. Lest you be convinced otherwise, though S., I am not angry, either. The only thing I am feeling is that I've moved on from the darkest chapter of my life.

And this is most certainly not about having found someone else, either. This is for me. And me alone.

Though much of what you wrote in this, your latest email bothered me a great deal. Because as I was reading your words, I had no control over the thoughts that sprang up inside me -- simultaneously as your words sped past my scanning eyes. Even my subconscious mind is aware of the senseless pain I suffered and works to protect me, even now.

You write of re-discovering your faith... yet I recall prayer books and Ketab-e-Agdas and Feasts and all the trappings of our faith being a very poignant part of our relationship, but no matter how many Feasts we attended in any of three states, you still did what you did. I cannot imagine how going to a conference now is any different than what you -- and we -- had already been doing.

Oh -- but there is one thing I will apologize for. And sincerely, too. I did, in fact, forget your birthday, S.. I'm sorry. Yet there will never be words that you can understand to explain what it was that I was doing or experiencing or feeling that day -- the 11th, that made it just another day in this hell hole. That it was the birthday of the woman that tore my heart out nearly a year ago was the last thing on my mind. Still, you remembered mine, and I didn't give you the same courtesy. Again, S., I'm sorry.

You tell me that you've been re-reading emails and letters and re-watching old videos and rummaging through your memories bag and pondering all it was that you had. That is the point... had. You had them all and you chose to live without them. All they are now are memories, S.... they are not the present, as they were then. That bag of memories stored in our office closet was within an arm's reach while you were writing letters to Dan. They didn't mean anything to you when they were right next to you.

Because I've spent so much time deployed this year, it was all that much more important to me that you loved Madison in my absence. You've told me about watching that old video of her and me playing together in the living room... yet for me, my only consolation in being separated from the both of you was that you were together, even if only sometimes. Yet now -- despite all the efforts I'm making to be her dad -- I've had her for likely not more than 15 days all year. Her soon-to-be stepfather has been more of a dad to her than I, and part of the reason for that is because my most significant link to her -- you -- marched out of our lives.

You've written about all these questions you suppose I have... oh, I do have them, but I no longer need an answer to them to survive. More importantly, I have come -- over time -- to painfully realize that there aren't answers to those questions. The "whys" that haunted me all that time will never be explained to me, and I'm okay with that, now. Certainly you'd make your effort to explain things, but even you, S., don't know the real reasons. Only that your actions led to me being gone...

Of course you remember my Pinning night and the fight that resulted from your unbuttoning that random guy's shirt. Its very much like the situation with Dan, or with so many other things... the fight never really properly ended because you honestly didn't know why you did what you did. Only that you had. And for so many hours I was unwilling to accept it. That you just had to know. But you didn't. In the end, of course, I just decided that I loved you too much not to forgive you, even without a reason. That by placing my heart in your hands despite you having almost willfully wounded it -- by trusting you -- that somehow -- someway -- you would realize something about yourself... you would recognize something within yourself... and you would deal with it, forever erasing your ability to hurt me like that. Certainly, though, it was just a sign. Of so many things to come. Yet I don't regret my choice... I don't regret chasing you down and insisting you get in the car so I could take you home. It's not my fault. And as I've said that that memory is very much like this... well, its because though you may now regret everything that has happened, I am certain you still don't know why. But what is important is this: I have accepted it. It's okay that you don't know. And it's okay that I'll never know.

Its a little amazing to me that you still remember the mug... and that you were tried so hard to get it fixed. It doesn't matter, S.. What matters is that while it sat unattended in a box, you were leading a love affair with another man. It could have sat there forever -- and I would have been disappointed, but not crushed -- had it just sat there while you lovingly pined for my return and afforded me the same loyalty that I gave you. But its a symbol for me; I hope you understand that. A symbol. Something that was so dearly important to me gave you no pause while you pursued someone else. Like me, I feel it was violated.

You wrote about that first time telling me that you love me... and as I read it, do you know what I remember, S.? Sending you that email describing my memory of you telling me that you love me. And your response to it... how it seemed wrong. But the part that kills me about this memory? That I later came home to discover that on the same day I'd sent it to you -- the same moment that I was pouring my heart and soul out and into your hands -- you wrote Dan, and lovingly. That memory, now, is forever tainted for me. Forever.

Another memory for me is also ruined... you write about Baha'u'llah telling you something? Showing you something? Do you know that it took me months, even after you'd left, to delete that text message you sent me from Israel? That loving, beautiful, poetic message you sent me after morning prayers on the mount? Yes. In it you wrote about your belief in Baha'u'llah having fated us together. Oh, and I believed it, too, S., I did. But somehow this divinely-ordained fate we imagined was not to be... this inspiration you found while facing the new day's sun over the most holy of our sites was forgotten. Invoking His name now in evidence of your feelings for me almost physically hurts.

The loudest voice, though -- the emotional defense which just swept over my body as would rage -- is reserved for your notion that I understand you. For so many reasons this is hurtful... I most clearly did not understand you. And the idea that I'm the only one... well, it doesn't fit... not even for you. You'll remember, S., that shortly before I left for this deployment you so cavalierly told me that Dan understood you as "no one else ever will." No.one.else.ever.will. That would be me. But I'm okay.

You write of crying for weeks after leaving me. I don't know what this is supposed to mean to me... because I cried for you months after you left me. I would go on a mission and be shot at, S., and I would come back to Camp shaking and furious and my body and my will and my heart would just break and I would have to shuffle off to some place no one could find me and I would just lose it. Months. You will never, ever know that kind of pain. I say kind, S., because of all the things I do know about you, I do know that you have suffered tremendous pain. My point is that they are all different... all that pain you suffered -- though no less significant, it wasn't because your then-thought soul mate discarded you. I hope, at least, that you never come to know it.

Ah, another voice inside my head... that your email is supposed to be validation of a sort of change for you... that your love for me has transformed things... only a week or so after you sent me an insulting email in which you derided me for being a "grandpa." S., among all other things -- and something that I lovingly tolerated and ignored because of my love for you -- you were, sometimes, uncontrollably mean. You said terrible, terrible things to me when we were together... and every time, I forgave. I still forgive. Even "grandpa" -- though that is certainly the tamest insult. But I know you remember. I know you remember me coming to you vulnerable and open and hopeful and telling you how you were making me feel.

In those brief six weeks I was back in the States over the late part of Summer, I attended a work barbecue. There was a guy there that I was introduced to, and I was very interested in him, because he had recently gone through a course that I'm scheduled to attend, myself. In passing, he later mentioned that he worked for the same agency for whom you work. I asked him if he knew you, and of course, he did: "Oh, God, man, yeah I know her. She's fucking hot." He asked how I knew you, and I told him, briefly, that we had been together for nearly two years before you left me. I wasn't proud. His response? "Man, I hope you got one last one in; I would have." I was fucking. sick. I wanted to kill him. He, too, S., is a symbol. A symbol of the endless litany of men that paraded themselves past you hoping to attract your attention, attention you often gave. Especially at work. And in at least one notable case, you consummated. To be told, now, that pictures of me and you and perhaps my daughter adorn your computer makes me very uncomfortable. Because now, S., those pictures don't mean what they were supposed to have meant when we were still together. Now they're just some sort of tribute. Before, though... they were supposed to be a sign of the family whom you loved and to whom you were loyal. Now they are but images of the family to whom you weren't loyal.

...could you look at me and never question?

No, S., I could not. I can forgive you, but I could never, ever not question. And I won't put myself in that position, ever again. I don't deserve it. Nothing could ever happen between you and I that would convince me that it would be okay. For me to deploy again. For me to go to my work while you went to your work. For me to sit at home making dinner while you were on a weekend TDY. That I could leave the country safely knowing that my family, my love would be honored and cherished. I cannot trust you, S.. It is forever gone. And I'm sorry for that, but not to you... I'm just sorry. Which is funny... given that I started this letter saying that I wouldn't be.

Forgetting. Living. And Fourogh Farrokhzad

Alas, another night in which it was my first intention to forget. Everything else - and anyone else -- a bonus.

I sat alone at the bar. I was not uncomfortable; this is my place, though it may be ridiculed by those that know me.

It permits me a quick exit (on at least most occasions): I'm  just sufficiently  attractive that I will draw to my attention by those whom subsequently ape the stereotypical Sorority Girl... worse, the ... desperate Sorority Girl , clearly shaken by the life she now leads, and seeing nothing that fit within her 15-year plan. Lastly, there are the drags of Irish Bar civilization in Arlington - or as close as we can get it. Sorry. I was all of those, though all of them are a part of me, intrinsically and inexplicably.


My BFF (female) left the night - at my encouraging - with a meathead physical therapist that apparently pushes her buttons enough... All the while being bombarded by someone - Mike - that has made every effort to be her Beta conquerer. This never works well - and I suspect he knows it... but it would seem he's in in for the long game.

My .022: unquestionably, I'm in love with her. She's so called me out on it, months ago. Yet I am old and observant enough to (1) know a friendzone for what it is; (2) her particularly ill-informed and ill-advised choices when it comes to suitors whom do not meet at least the minimum of so many variables - previously an insidious skill only in the quiver of the one man that broke her...

A public shame.

Lots of us have been cheated on. Some - like myself- accepted step-Mom back after a good, silent track record.

At that time, I had deluded myself into thinking that whatever I'd become would be good enough. It wasn't. Despite my best efforts.

I haven't found this - ever - since I stared looking specifically for it. It evidently falls in your lap, or so I am to believe both from observation as well as participation.

So, really... I've stopped trying. I'd rather spend my working performance tix at the Kennedy Center with someone that would enjoy the music rather than my company.  That person is likely myself. These are unforgivably bead odds. I've resolved to them.

Her - on the other hand - is still feeling what it is to be alone, all the goods and bads.

I bleed for her, as do I bleed for myself. Fortunately, I do not have the self-discipline she does. Bulleit Rye bourbon, please, straight up!

I am compelled to end this self-pitying post with some poetry, from Fourugh Farrokhzad:

The Gift

I speak from the deep end of night.

Of end of darkness I speak.

I speak of deep night ending.

O Kind friend, if you visit my house,

bring me a lamp, cut me a window,

So I can gaze at the swarming alley of the fortunate.

A window into my psyche

Tonight, I abandoned all pretexts of not drinking alcohol during the week - otherwise an effort against calorie consumption, not out of concern of alcohol abuse - and I went to my neighborhood wine bar. It is a short walk.

Between then and now - as I write this - very little genuinely remarkable occurred. But for two things:

1) Before deciding to generate this post, I observed that my last was in August - and that it proclaimed that I may have met someone. How silly of me. I did not. Such is my story, I suppose.

2) On the long walk to my apartment down a winding corridor in my building, I heard - much before I actually arrived at it - a woman (a girl? I still call them that, because "woman" seems so mature, so old, so plain and librarian-shoed) arguing vehemently with (presumably) her boyfriend.

The reason for my post. Insight.

I liked her voice. I was dismayed at her protests. The closer I got to her apartment - I've never met her, mind you - the more enthralled I was. Once I'd passed it, and was sufficiently out of her door's peephole's field of view, I leaned against the wall and just listened.

She was angry, and disappointed. I gleaned that from her tone, and from the occasional word I could make out. Whoever the recipient of her anger was, he had clearly not met expectations. Though - to be honest - I couldn't make out her actual argument. I don't know the impetus, the subject.

I listened for only a pause. Then I left - home perhaps six doors down.

But while I listened - I was so close to being that Alpha. That White Knight. I imagined in my head, in a flash of craziness, that I would knock on her door, interrupt her argument - ("I've gotta go. Someone's at my door. Goodbye.") and say something like, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to interrupt. But whatever he did, I'll never do. Maybe...)

And that's where it ended, the lunacy. Maybe what, fuckhead? Maybe you can have coffee with me?  HOLY SHIT this is creeper behavior. HOME.

And here I write.

Yet as the subject indicates - once I've had time to take my nighttime medicines and change into my pajamas (cookie pants!) - I have had sufficient time to reflect, however momentary. My action and my insta-fantasy is a window into my psyche.

I want to save, and by doing so be saved.

Unhealthy. Alone.

C'est la vie*.

*Aside from obviously knowing what this means, I'm also trying to teach myself French as a fifth language. Nous allons voir comment il progresse.

An impossibly unexpected today

Somehow, today needed to be documented. I met someone.

As it is for the moment - ever the optimist, mind you - the cylinders seem to fit the holes, and the boxes the squares. The puzzle's corners found.

God willing.

Twice Bitten, Thrice Shy

Perhaps two years into my marriage, my then-wife and I attended her sister's wedding. Among the preparations was an introductory class in tango.

I grew up in Crescent City, California. It's population in 1990 - when I moved there as a sophomore - was just over 3000. Since then, they've annexed the state prison for purposes of state funding allocations - a nifty accounting trick if ever I've seen one, and it's just over 7000.

Consequently, we had no clubs or dance halls or generally fuck-all to do as teenagers. Dancing didn't exist. It was the Pacific Northwest's version of Footloose, only no Baptists. My town's population that resided outside the prison walls was almost exclusively white with the exception of two Native American tribes. Again, dancing was not a culture.

Our "things to do" were either illegal consumptives or very Mayberry-ish activities: fishing, camping, hiking. There were beach bonfires and Wild Turkey. Going up into the mountains and stealing gas from the golf course at night.

I immediately joined the military once I became an adult, and dancing was not exactly a skill taught at basic training. By the time I made it to my first duty station in Monterey, California, raves were becoming the scene. What little time not spent studying and what little money I could scrape from an E-1's paycheck would go to trekking up to Berkeley and dancing the night away - notably minus the ecstasy. A point needs be made here, though: rave dancing is not dancing. It is white people just wobbling around to the sound of music. It's what we otherwise naturally do when asked to dance and we are untrained or unskilled. It was perfect for me.

The only thing easier is headbanging.

I was only in Monterey for a year, and then off I went to a bigger and scarier world where I spent perhaps 70% of my life deployed in a combatant role. No dancing in the Persian Gulf, no dancing in Iraq, Afghanistan or in the Horn of Africa. Coming home was restful and essentially became just a run-up for the next deployment.

In the meantime, however, my then-wife and I found ourselves in DC attending a tango dance class. Even before we arrived, I was nervous. I expressed this to her; I do not recall if she allayed my fear or ignored it. Importantly, this class was one of those where you stuck with your partner. It made sense -- we were going to tango together at her sister's wedding.

I focused intensely on every instruction the leader gave. I tried desperately over and over and over again to get the moves right. I repeatedly stepped on my partner's shoes. I apologized to her profusely, red-faced, but she stared back at me in anger. I knew this woman, even then. No more than thirty minutes into the session, my then-wife - tired of my two left feet - loudly interrupted the class and asked, "Can I switch partners?!"

I was crushingly humiliated. It cut me to the core. I tried to make a good social face of it - I in fact traded with another couple, but only after a minute or so of fumbling around with a blue-haired lady, I hurriedly excused myself and bolted across the dance floor and outside the building, where I waited for the class' conclusion.

Our marriage ended five years later.

Earlier this year, I was dating someone I met on OKCupid. She was aware of the story I've just recounted. On a late, drunken night returning back to my apartment, we walked by The Salsa Room, a cavernous and evidently extraordinarily popular dance hall less than a block from my home. She wanted us to duck in. I was surprised, to say the least.

We entered, and approached the bar. I tried to get a feel for the room; I would not be surprised if my mouth was agape at my admiration for the skill I was seeing -- the brilliant, flashing colors, wheeling and whirling and moving and thriving and syncing... it was all so beautiful. Not long after our arrival, I let the "fuck it" take over, and toed away from the bar and onto the floor where I just tried to move with the music. I asked my date if she would join me. "No."

"Why not? You wanted to come here."

"Because you can't dance. I'll dance with anyone here but you."

The night did not end well. Perhaps two months later, I left her. For that reason and many better.

Dancing has always been my achilles heel. Even before I became sick and everything became harder.

I used to believe (and still sometimes do) that I can do anything. That 12 mile run in the desert? Done. Qualifying for airborne? Done. Be selected for such-and-such? Done. Beat Zach at basketball? Crushed him.

But do anything other than that sort of white-guy shuffle/bump&grind? No. I cannot do it. Aside from having tried it, I've been kicked in the side enough to now be afraid to try. Which sucks, of course.

Maybe some day.

Shades of my Father

Recently my beloved daughter dropped my sunglasses, shattering one of the lenses. She was extraordinarily - and unnecessarily - apologetic. I have long come to expect her clumsiness. It's almost cute, now.

Nonetheless, later that afternoon, we had a shopping trip planned. We had intended to purchase new bedding; a 12-y/o is in a constantly-shifting sense of self, and expression. Her bed is but one means of this. I told her that morning not to worry, we'd just add the sunglasses shop to our trip.

When we arrived, I cautioned her: it takes me forever to select a proper pair of sunglasses. They have to fit right, and they have to look right. That the shape of my face has changed dramatically in the last four years only makes the trial more difficult. She took it in stride, and insisted on helping. It was a sweet offer.

We'd each pick a pair off the under-lit trays in an over-heated store, I'd try them on, and we'd independently judge them: "no."

At one point, she was off to one end of the row while I was more to the middle. I came across a pair of silver-framed, square shaped aviators. I put them on. They fit me. They... just fit. I wanted them.

I asked Madison - notably without leading her - and she cautiously offered a, "nooo, I don't think so." I replied, "Are you sure? I rather like them. My dad used to wear these." "Well, maybe..."

We continued to look on, but I kept them hidden away, just in case. I tried pair after pair, and none of them were right. We eventually discovered the exact pair that I had been broken, so I of course selected those, too. The saleswoman came over to offer that "buying one gets one half-off." How serendipitous.

Again, without prompting, Madison asks, "What about those silver ones, Dad?" "I thought you didn't like them?" "I think I do." "Let me see them again."

I rescued them from their hiding spot and put them on. Again, they felt right.

"They look really good, Dad," Madison proclaimed. She couldn't see what was hidden behind those mirror-lensed sunglasses. I'm afraid the look would have concerned her; she's too young to understand. But a part of it was pride.

I took both pairs to the counter and paid. The saleswoman asked if I'd like to wear a pair out of the store, and Madison replied in my stead: "The silver ones."

Here's a picture of my father and I when I was just a boy.

My father died unexpectedly to world and family in 2006. It rocked my family, and it rocked me. At the time, I became the so-called "head of household," because everyone in my very insular family looked to me, as the eldest son, to keep things together and get things done. While they grieved, I made plans. While they wept, I filed paperwork.

I lost him before I had the opportunity to feel as though I had earned his pride. Growing up, that's all I really ever wanted - my father's pride. "Son, I'm proud of you." I had so much achievement left in me before he passed, so much life experience to gain and perhaps even pass on to my own father. Our relationship had only begun to transition from one of father-son to one of man-to-man.

No psychologist, therapist, mother or lover will ever be able to convince me that in his absence, from somewhere in our individual or collective belief of heaven or the afterlife that he is, indeed, "proud of me."

So, instead, I am proud of him. He is, after all, an incalculable part of who made me. Wearing these Shades of my Father is only fitting. Not a day passes that I don't remember - and miss - him.

requiem æternam dona eis

I have so much to say.

Yet this is the post that will never be written; an empty placeholder in my writing and in my life.

This may well be the requiem that ends the beginning and begins the end.






























.

Denying Zung

I have been asked by a friend to anonymously post something he'd written recently.
I suspect he has both a need to bring light to this deeply personal subject as well as test the waters for public consumption of his thoughts.

Here he is.

---

I took the pill out of the bottle. It was so easy, yet almost surreal. It was if my life depended on this pill. Everyday? I don't have any immune deficiency, I'm not cancerous, no strange virus or bacteria. Yet my life, at least the way I know it, could change. It was small. No, tiny. This is it? I can't split this in half. I took the large knife off my wall-mounted magnet that I'm so proud of, got out the cutting board and pulled off a feat akin to splitting the atom. I kept one eye shut, expecting one half to go zinging across the counter, ricochet and hit me in the eye. It didn't.

The last few months I've been feeling more and more run down, tired, weak. I figured with a relationship going in the tank and work going a million miles an hour it was all stress just bearing down on me. New apartment, finally some space! I tried to sleep more, but it was never enough. Appetite was waning. I'll take some vitamins, that will help. Work some more, nose to the grindstone... it's a war, don't you know. Ahh! Leave for Christmas! It wasn't enough. For the first time in almost ten years I wasn't clawing and scratching my way out of the house to get back to work, despite being more happy with my job than ever before. I was drained.

And so the last couple weeks I've been even more drained. Well, there IS a bug going around, maybe I have the flu. Thank goodness I had a flu shot, otherwise think of how much worse it could have been! You've been tired, too? Good, it's not just me. But it was me. Everyone kept getting better. I went home early one or two days last week just to sleep. Yesterday I gave in and went to see the doc.

I learned it could be anything wrong with me. I could have HIV, cancer, anemia, a virus, bacteria, it could even be mental. So he scheduled me for a long list of labwork to be done immediately, and gave me a questionnaire for evaluating depression.

At the lab I had twelve vials of blood drawn and gave a urine sample. I went back to work and stared at the questionnaire. "Zung Self-Rating Depression Scale". I think I knew the score before I answered the questions.

A little of the time, some of the time, good part of the time, or most of the time?

That night I went out with a friend of mine to Baltimore, and we talked about quite a bit. Girlfriends, traveling, the Navy, blogging, parenthood. Not once did I bring up the Zung test. It wasn't real.

I dismiss your reality and substitute my own.

This morning I took my paperwork in to see the doc. I wanted desperately for him to tell me he saw SOMETHING in my blood work. It was all relatively normal, save for my cholesterol levels being a touch too high. Then I handed him my Zung questionnaire. I knew the score, it was written plain as day on the attached scale sheet.

Moderate to marked depression. There was no escape, it's in the open now. That which tortures me now has a name and face.

Yet my salvation also has a name: Zoloft.

It all came with a bit of relief and anxiety all wrapped together. Immediately I think of everyone that is close to me. I've been hurting them left and right. Foolish decisions were made out of loneliness and fear, decisions I would not have made had I been well. Will I be able to repair anything? Will they believe me? Is it fair just to blame it on this mysterious illness, or should I just shoulder the responsibility of my actions and deal with the repercussion? I don't know, yet. I just wish I had to do it over again.

The past few months have been so dark. There is no other way to describe it. I was in denial. No matter how much I phoned, chatted and emailed friends and family it didn't help the loneliness. I sought relief in a number of ways, mostly unhealthy and always failing. Sometimes I would feel urges to cry, yet I didn't understand why. I wanted to be alone yet didn't. Rash decisions were made with others' feelings. Again I wonder if I'll be afforded the opportunity to mend things with everyone. As I reflect I realize probably not everyone. There are certain things in life for which we only have one, sometimes two shots. I may have spent both barrels.

One possible jewel of enlightenment came by way of a 220 pound Army Master Sergeant this afternoon. "There are three ways to handle these problems. The first is through medicine, which you are doing. The second is through talking to a professional. The third, is a spiritual outlet." I adjusted myself in the chair. I stopped talking to God a few years ago when I realized I was just going through the motions because everyone in my family was a Christian. I did not have faith. "Now, I know you're not religious, but we all tend to shoulder more responsibility than what we can handle. Our jobs, children, house, wife, everything adds up. It's very relieving to be able to admit to a higher power that we can't do it all, and have it shoulder that burden for us."

For once a spiritual argument made sense. I was immediately reminded of Gagdad Bob's blog "One Cosmos" when he refers to the spiritually horizontal and spiritually vertical. Perhaps I need to be more vertical. Who knows. I'll have to explore this, I tell myself.

And so I come home tonight and immediately pull the bottle out of the bag. I turn the cap and rip off the foil seal. Before me I see little pills. They don't seem like much, but cumulatively they are the portkey to a happier me. That's the promise.

what I've done, and what I've learned

In the intervening days since last I posted:

~ I visited my mom and brother in California and enjoyed a warm Christmas with family for the first time in years. My father was missed.*
~ I was able to spend time with my other favorite girls: Magdalena the Magic Bullet and Lily the Smiling Idiot.**
~ A girl didn't break my heart, but she certainly bruised it.
~ I spent NYE with one of my best friends, the one I hadn't seen in over four years, in Bear Valley. We mountaineered with snowshoes and and climbed the rim of the valley, taking in amazing vistas from over 8,000 feet. (I know, hardly the Himalayas, but it beats Maryland, no?) I loved spending time with him and his wife but I did get to feeling like a third wheel. I was, on that auspicious night, quite lonely, but I survived.
~ Madison and I shared a close and loving weekend together; picking up where we left off as though no time had passed at all... a characteristic to our relationship I am increasingly amazed by and thankful for.
~ I attended a special survival course in Washington state.
~ A very cute and very timely Air Force girl renewed my self-esteem.
~ I accomplished a three-part Christmas present to myself: new ink (Persian two-headed horse at the base of my half-sleeve); new gun (Sig Sauer P229 .40); new car (MB E320 AWD).
~ I finished, for perhaps the sixth time, Far Pavilions, by M.M. Kaye, one of the best novels ever written.
~ I began attending Georgetown University for a special post-grad course.
~ I've learned that I still live life at one hundred miles an hour and I'm okay with it.

*Father: while on a plane at some point going somewhere from somewhere else, I read the latest issue of Esquire. In its "What You've Learned" special, I found the following quote:

I have learned you will never know your father as well as you do after talking with your mother after his passing. -- Jeff Isbister, 51, Holualoa, Hawaii

**Maggie/Lily: my dogs.

---

---

making up for lost time, before its even lost

Somewhere between Baltimore and Chicago today, I realized something about myself:

I tend to live life at one hundred miles per hour.

I've spent so much time gone, that I feel a deep, pervasive need to accomplish things in my life that are important to me but otherwise notionally impossible to attain while my life is on hold.

My life here is contrary to the idealized image of a soldier returning from deployment. There is no deep sigh upon my arrival and plaintive search for somewhere dark and quiet so that I can re-adjust. Similarly, there's no bender nights of drinking. There's no "come on, I've just got back! I want to watch what I want to watch. Can't you leave me alone for a while?" This picture is not atypical... I've seen it among friends and fellow servicemen countless times.

But not me.

While gone, and aside from those things that I really do want in my own right -- like a meal that doesn't suck and a cold beer -- I think -- and I've just realized this -- that I subconsciously shoulder a heavy burden of guilt. A primary but not exclusive reason for this guilt is my daughter.

Among the others? Well... my life centers on love. The image of it. The possibility of it. The ideal of it. The promise of it. The reality of it. I have so much of it myself and I want to share it. And I want to feel it in return.

Consequently, when presented with the opportunity, I run at it at a hundred miles an hour. And it is frightening. Scary. Terrifying to the object. "Intense," as someone told me recently... "Justin, there's no other way to put it; you're intense. You have so much passion."

It is different with Madison... I breathe, a little. Because I know she'll always be there. And I'll always be there. But when I see promise in another, I frantically cling to it, squeezing and squeezing.

I think it is because I'm afraid it'll leave. Because it has. That if I don't provide so much attention and adoration in that short time I am here, I won't be able to make up for the time when I am not. And I am afraid to death of not having built sufficient margin in a relationship to otherwise compensate for my frequent, maddening absences.

So. I've learned something about myself today. I just don't know how to fix it.

through me, my father yet lives

Today I had my daughter for the first time in many months. Because of my extraordinarily high deployment rate.

I've missed her terribly. Having had her this weekend just pains me... my heart aches to have her with me always.

Alas.

In a recent conversation with my mom, I unexpectedly learned something about my father. He had only seen her once -- just for a short week -- before he passed on. Mom told me -- in one of those memories recalled as much to preserve his station in our life as to illustrate a point -- that when he'd met her, he was scared. Frightened.

At first, I could scarcely believe her. My father -- the stoic and brave -- ... scared? But I remembered. I remembered, actually, being a little irritated at what seemed my parents' reluctance... the lack of an offer to take her, alone, themselves, while I bid my time in my old stomping grounds. A chance for them to bond with her. A chance for me to taste just a bit of carefree freedom.

It was forgotten.

But Mom, telling me that Dad was scared, reminded me. Evidently, he confided in her that he'd never been so intimidated in his life. This from a man that spent his entire adult life on the edge of danger protecting other people. As a Sailor. As a cop. As a correctional officer. A three year old? Scared him?

He told Mom that he was abjectly afraid of disappointing her. My Madison. Of doing or saying or not doing or not saying something that would upset her. Because she was so precious. So precocious. So loving. So goddamned smart.

It's funny, that. My dad, the Dad. Afraid of a little girl.

When my mom told me this, a part of the inside-me broke a little. Because... in time... I'm sure Dad would have grown stronger. And would have grown more comfortable with her. And would have shared the myriad... the unimaginable and unquantifiable love and wisdom... and... he would have been wrapped around her little finger, I'm sure.

Dad's gone now, of course. He'll never get the chance. Neither will she.

It's up to me, then, to fill his void.

Earlier tonight, she spoke with my Mom: "Grandma." She later told me that she hardly remembers what Grandma looks like.

Another part of me broke a little when I realized that at least Mom's around to answer the phone.

Dad? I can only hope he answers prayers.

Home Again

Home for the Holidays... I've made my sweet escape.

Double entendres for everyone!

---

I am happy.

There	Here

n.ever a.gain v.olunteer y.ourself

While my brothers-in-blog were contemplating the loss of their pimp-a-rific mustaches, I was contemplating the continued forfeiture of my freedom.

I re-enlisted today for an additional three years, bringing me to 17 total years of service. The ceremony was performed while I was piloting our plane over the Horn of Africa.

GO NAVY, BEAT ASS-CANCER*.

---

*Ass-Cancer = Army.

p.s. And to a certain very special Project Manager / Office bitch: I'll be home before we know it. I tore a ring today, by the way.

i could be the next hemingway

Evidence against:

I do not write particularly well.
That which I do write is not "characterized by economy" or "understatement."
I possess neither a gnarly beard nor mats of gnarly chest hair.
I do not have any cats.
I have never been to Cuba.
I dislike Paris.
I have not been awarded a Pulitzer or Nobel Prize.

Evidence in support:

A cold beer, a hot cappuccino and a good novel at sunset in Africa.

run

I am sad, shuttered. Distant. Removed. Separated.

It is time to escape again.

Instantly, mottled grey and khaki sweeps beneath me. Knees aching, my mind swimming. Her voice compels me further, but my breathing is labored.

A cloud of choking fog and soot parts as I charge it, but it's always there. Ahead of me. I will myself further.

For a moment, there is silence. Thoughts crash at me. A choir of doubt and sadness and longing echoes against the chamber walls of my mind. I alone listen. I alone can hear. It sounds like a dirge: unfair.

I ask to be loved but I am never there to return it. I am perpetually absent.

Absent: this refrain repeating itself again and again, in time with the swoosh-swoosh of blood against my eardrums.

Suddenly... erased. It is pushed aside; gone again, if only for noise. It waits just beyond the edge, though.

A moist, acrid wind pushes against me; I draw my face down. Before me and behind, I notice half-crescent dimples in soft gravel. They mark my path.

Every three feet or so, there is evidence of where I have been, and where I am going.

I make the last turn, and I remember being here before. I am brought to the same place I'd just departed. I am tricked. I am tricking myself.

Trapped in a circle.

I'm done now. Panting. Seated outside my tent beneath sickly yellow light. My elbows rest atop my knees. I realize nothing has changed. I am not escaping.

A smile cracks. Beneath me, little drops collect and turn the grey cement black. It feels like I went somewhere. Like I tried.

the culture of suck

"The best morale exists when you never hear the word mentioned. When you hear a lot of talk about it, it's usually lousy." -
-- Dwight D. Eisenhower

---

"Please taste this and let me know what you think. I'd like to serve it to the men."

"What is it?" asked Yossarian, and took a bite.

"Chocolate-covered cotton."

"This stuff is better than cotton candy, really it is. It's made out of real cotton. Yossarian, you've got to help me make the men eat it. Egyptian cotton is the finest cotton in the world."

"But it's indigestible," Yossarian emphasized. "It will make them sick, don't you understand? Why don't you try living on it yourself if you don't believe me."

"I did try," admitted Milo gloomily. "And it made me sick."

--Catch-22

I am deployed to the Horn of Africa. There is a lot to complain about.

Over fourteen years, I have been deployed all over the Middle East. There has always been a lot to complain about.

But where does it end? When are we -- the boys and girls of your American military -- happy?

Never.

Let me give you a recent example:

I have been tentatively promised AAA batteries by an in-camp hook-up, which I need for my GPS watch and are NOT FUCKING AVAILABLE HERE... why, you ask? A good question. The story:

Me. In the "Exchange." Hey, look, I can buy a FUCKING 32" FLATSCREEN TV. That's neat. For a war zone and all. Man, I need batteries. Hey, where are the batteries? No, really, where the FUCK are the batteries? ANY FUCKING batteries? AA, C, D, AAA, 9-volt? Anything, you FUCKING RETARDS? What? You don't have a SINGLE FUCKING BATTERY? How is that possible, you ignorant smiling motherfucker? You must not be understanding me. I'm going to speak to the only American in here. He must be the manager. Oh, look, he is! And he called me, "Chief." This should work out, after all. Hey, Mr. Manager, how come I can't find any batteries? Umm, sorry Chief, it's because we don't have any. How in the fuck is that possible, Mr. Manager? Well, we get cases every month, but the minute they come in, the women on the Camp come in and buy them all up. WHAT? Why the fuck would they.....ooooooohhhhhhhhh. GOD DAMN IT. VIBRATORS SUCK.

• We have peanut-butter, but no jelly.
• We have air conditioning, but it fails.
• We have wildlife, but it is the kind that kills you.
• We have yogurt, but no spoons.
• We have juice, but it's not filled in the magic little dispensing thingies until 10 minutes before the chow hall closes.
• We have "Containerized Living Units" but less than half of them have toilets.
• We have water heaters for our showers and 60" widescreen flatpanel televisions in the chow hall but neither are not connected to power.
• We have an oven on the plane to make nifty little heated meals, but we have no aluminum foil.
• We have shampoo, but no conditioner.
• Alternatively, we have conditioner, but no shampoo.
• We have body wash, but no pouffs.
• We have razors, but the blades only fit the razors we don't have.
• We have a chow hall, but (sometimes) it has no roof.
• We have mosquito netting, but no cord with which to hang it.
• We have Maxim, but no Economist.
• We (evidently) have vibrators, and some of us have batteries.

And yet we laugh. As recent as only a few years ago, the prospect of posting a blog while in a combat zone was ridiculous; our only connection to the Real World was official message traffic. We prayed for "FamGrams" -- a sort of pseudo-telegram limited to 40 words. Food came out of a brown plastic bag... and among the variety, there were the "Three Fingers of Death."

We're never satisfied, because something is always dicked-up. Complaining establishes a lowest-common denominator. It actually works, I think, to establish a sense of camaraderie. An esprit-de-corps (we have it worse than everyone else, right?)

And kind of like in Joseph Heller's Catch-22, it is sometimes necessary to complain because it reminds us we're alive.*

Last night, I may not have had batteries for my watch (and there may have been an annoying multi-volt chorus coming from the female-only tents), but I got to call someone wonderful who is very, very important to me. My night and day and week and even deployment has been made.

Wouldn't have happened, yesteryear.

Perhaps tomorrow, though, we'll have aluminum foil. Cotton balls -- even when covered with chocolate -- taste like shit.

---

*Alive (recently overheard):

"Flight station, I need a right turn to 250."
*crickets*
"Flight station, turn right to 250."
*crickets*
"Flight station from Nav, I need a right turn to 250."
"I'd love to, Nav, but right now I'm busy making sure we don't stall."
Me: "What?!? Is there suddenly a 300-knot headwind? Why are we just now hearing about this?"
*crickets*

stripper pole father

When my precious daughter was but still a growing and kicking zygote pushing at the soft boundaries of her mommy's belly, I was already preparing to be the best father I could.

I remember, then, reading a short story that profoundly affected me; its lesson has since so deeply colored my parenting that it has since become second nature.

A proud father is playing in the surf with his children, a young daughter and her brother. They are of similar age, perhaps only a year or so apart. All of them are facing the open ocean, and each child is gripping one of Daddy's hands as they kick and giggle at the swirling green water.

Suddenly, a wave somewhat larger than the others approaches, and without thinking, the father raises his daughter up and out of the water, clutching her to his hip. Meanwhile, he strengthens his grip on her brother so that he might not be swept away.

What has Dad unconsciously taught his children?

• Girls are not strong enough to face the same adversity as boys.
• Girls should expect, as a matter of nature, that boys will rescue them in the face of challenge.
• Boys must be strong and must depend on themselves.

I disagree. Though it is unquestionably my hope that my Madison builds relationships in her life in which she can depend on another's strength and support -- not the least of which mine -- I am forever adamant that she learns she is capable of facing and conquering the same challenges as anyone else, even boys. That... just because she's a girl, does not mean that she can't win and accomplish and overcome... and that she doesn't need a boy to help her.

It is for this reason that I may --to the casual observer -- seem the dispassionate and unconcerned Dad. At the park, she is encouraged to climb the same rock wall as her boy counterparts. Conversely, I routinely witness other parents rushing over to their daughters and propping and pushing them up by their little butts, whereas with their sons they expect them to get up to the top all by themselves.

Mind you, Madison knows I'll be there, and that I'll stand at the bottom to catch her if she falls, but the assistance she'll get from Daddy is going to be in the form of encouragement: Come on, sweetheart, you can do it.

These days, that little monkey routinely beats me to the top.

Two digressions:

I remember a lovely summer evening in Georgia. All the parents were gathered on the porch and front lawn of Danny's house, talking as parents and neighbors do, enjoying sweet tea and idle banter. All of the neighborhood kids were playing together; Madison and her best friend were madly racing those God-forsaken motorized Hot Wheels cars.

My neighbor, with whom over the years I had developed a close kinship, asked me in a moment of reflection: "Justin, do you ever sit and watch Maddie and wonder what she'll be when she grows up? What do you want her to be?"

To which, completely without thinking, I replied, "Honestly, I don't care what she becomes. It sounds cliche, but all I want is her happiness. Whatever she wants. If I had to guess, though... let's see... she is very strong, very independent. She is unbelievably smart. She routinely kicks your son's lily-white ass. For all I know, she'll grow up to be the first lesbian President of the United States."

My neighbor recoiled in horror: he had once been a Baptist seminary student, and he was died-in-the-wool conservative Georgian besides... I had predicted that she'd be gay?

---

Shortly before leaving the States for the deployment I'm currently on, I took Madison to a local park in Gaithersburg. She was spinning around and around and around on one of those climbing poles. A stranger to my right on the bench turned to me and said, "She's pretty good at that!" To which I said, "She's learning how to pay for college."

In summary, I may be constantly thinking about the lessons I'm teaching my daughter -- consciously and subconsciously -- but I still have a sense of humor about it. And if she grows up to be the first former-stripper, lesbian candidate for President... well, at least I won't have had to answer the door with a shotgun in the teen years. Plus, she'd likely have hot friends.

alcohol-fueled dromedary death

Group discipline in the military is nicely summarized with the following maxim:

"The majority shall be punished for the crimes of the minority."

Alternatively: "You are only as stupid as the stupidest asshat among you."

Recently, I mentioned the Bitter End. It is a beer-filled oasis to which we warfighters repair when operations and sleep and our general tolerance for other people* is sufficient enough to warrant a couple cold Tuskers and maybe a round of darts.

The Bitter End (and its sister cantina mantina**) is closed.

Why?

Because some fucktard violated the rules*** and had a few dozen too many while patronizing the mantina, then promptly left our camp driving an (ubiquitous) Land Cruiser, and ran into a camel****, killing it.

No more Tusker.

* Other people: Fugly personality-void Frog Hogs notwithstanding.
* Mantina: So-called because of its gender imbalance. Some have referred to it as "Dry Sausage Soup."
*** Rules: Daily consumption is limited to three drinks.
**** Camel: "There is no other community in the world where the camel plays such a pivotal role in the local community and culture as in the Somali community." (source)