I have a confession to make. I love the madness a little bit. The beginning of it is magical, I can feel my true self waking up. The excitement of uncertainty and the overwhelming just raw feeling is intoxicating! Colors are prettier, jokes are funnier, everything is just more! When I get feeling this way I can't help but want to continue into the madness. Anything might happen here! I might party all night or get arrested, either way I'm having a great time!
I try to remind myself that this isn't the real me, but it doesn't feel true. How could the real me need pills and therapy? What if the "real" me is the wild, mad one and the fake is what I become when forced into my medicated shell? Do I really want to be medicated or is it better to be deliciously mad, wild and free?
If only I could stay a little mad then I would be happy and content. But I can't and a part of me knows the truth, my madness will never stop. It will take away everything that I value and hold dear. My family, my friends, they will eventually disappear, pushed away by me and my madness. Madness allows no place for anyone else, not even me. She will burn and burn until my brain boils and collapses. Then madness will suddenly leave having used me all up.
If I get lucky the cycle will begin again, medications and therapy. Reconnecting with family and friends, regaining trust. My head will slowly recollect its wits and I will begin to reset myself. If I'm lucky.
But the madness might have pushed to far, pills and therapy might not be enough at first. Hospitals and nurses might be the first stop, maybe jail. Madness might have taken me much farther than I wanted, because it never takes no as answer. Sometimes I worry madness will take over completely that there will be no return.
And yet, when it first begins I love it. The first stirrings are a thrill to my soul. I try to remember that there is no such thing as a little bit mad just like one can't be sort of full. But the call is always nearby, madness will call me relentlessly until one of us gives in.
Friday, March 17, 2017
Friday, March 3, 2017
Decade
February officially marked 10 years since my deployment to Iraq. 10 years. Yet at least one thing every day reminds me of that place. It might be a news story, Facebook meme, picture, or getting a text from an old buddy, but at one point everyday I think about it.
There are times were it seems so long ago, like that Heather doesn't even exist anymore. She was in great shape; not so much now! She was also tough and yet so broken. I had very little fear of death but only because I thought I was dead already. I didn't think too much about "back home" because it slowly became an unreal place; only Bucca was real, everything else was just too good to be real.
When I left all I thought about was how long until I could deploy again. Not for any well intentioned reason but because living where I felt dead was easier than trying to become alive again. 10 years and I have made many baby steps forward but some days it feels like I'm still there.
Some days Bucca is in almost every thought of my mind. I dream about it, yet not nightmares, sadly it feels almost like wishful thinking. Life was easier there, don't die and try not to let your friends die; everything else is window dressing. It's probably the only place where I felt truly alive, ironically while being prepared to die. I would wake up and everyday I went to work I thought, "I might die today or I might kill someone today!" Sick, yes, but the adrenaline rush is unlike anything I can describe.
It's hard to explain the odd slight depression I feel when I realize that probably nothing in the rest of my life will ever give me that type of terrified excitement. I know it's not a healthy excitement, but it's like a hit from a crack pipe, it only takes one time to get hooked.
I remember coming home and people telling me how proud they were and what a service I did for my country. All I could think was, "If you only knew some of the things we had to do, you wouldn't be proud. If you saw me on the bad days, you wouldn't be proud." Not that our actions were so terrible but that our hearts were hardened, twisted, and misshaped. 10 years later and it's still not soft or in its regular shape but it's a little better.
Yet through it all, I don't regret going. It sucked, messed my brain up, and many more things, but it showed me that I can survive. I might have broken at times but I'm still here. 10 years and I'm still fighting.
There are times were it seems so long ago, like that Heather doesn't even exist anymore. She was in great shape; not so much now! She was also tough and yet so broken. I had very little fear of death but only because I thought I was dead already. I didn't think too much about "back home" because it slowly became an unreal place; only Bucca was real, everything else was just too good to be real.
When I left all I thought about was how long until I could deploy again. Not for any well intentioned reason but because living where I felt dead was easier than trying to become alive again. 10 years and I have made many baby steps forward but some days it feels like I'm still there.
Some days Bucca is in almost every thought of my mind. I dream about it, yet not nightmares, sadly it feels almost like wishful thinking. Life was easier there, don't die and try not to let your friends die; everything else is window dressing. It's probably the only place where I felt truly alive, ironically while being prepared to die. I would wake up and everyday I went to work I thought, "I might die today or I might kill someone today!" Sick, yes, but the adrenaline rush is unlike anything I can describe.
It's hard to explain the odd slight depression I feel when I realize that probably nothing in the rest of my life will ever give me that type of terrified excitement. I know it's not a healthy excitement, but it's like a hit from a crack pipe, it only takes one time to get hooked.
I remember coming home and people telling me how proud they were and what a service I did for my country. All I could think was, "If you only knew some of the things we had to do, you wouldn't be proud. If you saw me on the bad days, you wouldn't be proud." Not that our actions were so terrible but that our hearts were hardened, twisted, and misshaped. 10 years later and it's still not soft or in its regular shape but it's a little better.
Yet through it all, I don't regret going. It sucked, messed my brain up, and many more things, but it showed me that I can survive. I might have broken at times but I'm still here. 10 years and I'm still fighting.
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