A Lover's Lament(46)

Subject: Thank God for email

Katie,

I am so happy that I can email you now. It makes things much easier knowing I don’t have to wait three weeks for a response. So, thank you for that! I spent the better part of a twelve-hour mission today reading your letter and deciding how to respond. I’m still not sure the best way to start, so I’m going to go with my heart.

It kills me—f*cking kills me—to know that I hurt you the way I did. But I want you to know something … I want your forgiveness. I need it, Katie, and I’ll work my ass off for it. And you will forgive me. It might take time and a whole lot of groveling on my part, but it will happen. One of these days when the time is right, when I think that you’re ready—when we’re ready—I’ll share with you all of the reasons behind me leaving. But now is not the time. For now, I simply want to prove to you that you can trust me, that I’m here for you, and that I’ll never hurt you like that again.

Thank you for putting your anger away and responding, especially in your time of grief. You won’t ever fully understand what that means to me. God, Katie, I can’t stop thinking about you, your dad, your whole damn family. I hate that I wasn’t there for you when you needed me most, because you know I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. But I’m here for you now. I’m sure you’ve already gone through several different stages and emotions, but I want you to know you can come to me.

Speaking of emotions, I truly believe that the feelings you’re having in reaction to your father’s death are normal. All the amazing times Jax and I had together: going through Basic, graduating together, making Sergeant, drunken nights in small German towns … they aren’t what I see when I close my eyes. I only see him lying there in my arms completely lifeless, eyes closed, body limp. I think some of it has to do with not getting to say goodbye, and a lot of it has to do with wishing it was us who died and not them. I’d give anything to switch places with Jax, as I’m sure you would with your father. They call it “survivor’s guilt,” and they say it’s a bitch to get over.

Of course, that’s assuming it’s something you can actually “get over.” I don’t see it ever going away. I’m devastated that I lost him, but truthfully, I still feel him around me all the time. I think he’s watching over me, or maybe I’m just fooling myself.

You asked me how I do it … the answer is easy. I don’t. I see him when I close my eyes. He’s in my dreams, my nightmares … he’s always there. I can’t help but think that maybe we just need time, you and me. Maybe, in time, our memories won’t haunt us quite as badly. Maybe, in time, we’ll be able to process it easier. Or maybe that’s just hopeful wishing.

You are right, though (I bet you enjoy hearing that, don’t you?). I can’t let this stop me from doing my job—from getting these men home safe. It’s a burden I accepted when taking on this rank, and it’s one I take very seriously. But being in this position means much of what I feel must be restrained. I can’t let them know I’m hurting and that I’m weak. Sometimes the pressure of it all feels like it’s going to suffocate me. And other times, I feel like I’m right where I belong.

I love these guys, and the bonds I’ve formed with them are like nothing I’ve ever felt. You know I was kind of a loner growing up. I had a few friends here and there, but I didn’t really feel like I could relate to any of them. And then to come over here, to fight and bleed next to these guys, to do something so much bigger than us … it means everything. No matter how this place changes me down the road, I will always be grateful for these friendships. These men are my brothers.

It means even more when you’re seeing a real difference. When you know in your heart that you’re doing something good, something that changes the life of another human being for the better. That’s how it was in Afghanistan, but here … not so much.

Like today, for example. Something happened during a mission—something that’s left my head spinning. I don’t even know how to make sense of it all. The absolute disregard for life by these animals perplexes me. To kill a child, to steal her from her parents without regard is something I will never understand. They call us murderers. They call for our heads even, and yet they kill each other with reckless abandon. I like to think I joined the Army and deployed to this hellhole to do some sort of good—to make a difference in the world—but it doesn’t feel like we’re making much headway.

I don’t mean to pummel you with the depressing details of this place, because I know you’re dealing with your own grief. It’s just nice to have someone to talk to about it all, especially someone who’s not over here questioning the same things I am.

Trust me, I won’t be complaining in a few months when my ass is boarding a plane back to the States, I can promise you that! I miss beer so damn much—oh, and pizza … can’t forget the pizza. Is that little pizza joint still in town, the one we used to eat at every Friday night after football games? God, I miss that place. I remember when Mom worked there for a couple of months and she would bring home leftover pizza from their buffet—okay, seriously, I can’t talk about food or it’ll drive me insane.

Anyway, speaking of my mother … unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you look at it—she’s out of the picture. We spent the better part of my first two years in the Army faking the funk. I’d fly to Pennsylvania for a week or two of leave and stay at her house. She’d make dinner and play “mom.” Then she’d try to convince me she was sober, and she did look a little better, but I’m not a f*cking idiot. I caught her a few times doing a line or key bump. In the weeks I spent with her, I’d meet twenty different versions of Josephine, each more psychotic than the last. She’d be nice only when she needed something from me—usually money—and I just grew tired of it.