The War Within

The Mentality Of Me To my husband In the heat of argument, I sometimes have to remind him he is not my father. I don’t like pointing out this fact. It reminds me of all the things my father was not. I met and married the man of my dreams two years before exchanging introductions with the man of my genes. From conception, my better half has promised to never leave me, while my other half never bothered to promise he would stay. On both accounts, they have lived up to their word. My mother, she tried. To fill the void within herself and me, she married twice more. Thirteen years, an equal span of time I have shared with both you and father figure number two. Mother used to say, “You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family.” Neither of you are men of many words, but you love by fixing things when they are broken. He just did the breaking. His love shined through as bright as each blue bruise and box of Epson Salt he thoughtfully brought home for her. He left her, for another, with a broken heart and me with a broken home. Wanting to signify his sincerity,   daddy number three “married” me too. At the end of year one, he filed for divorce with a greeting card that read, “Believe in yourself and of your special dreams,” before walking out of my life forever. But you, my love, are never to be vanquished. Our first anniversary you gave me a card, too. It read, “I believe in me and you.” Then I realized, the missing link was “me” missing from my daddy’s card and from his life, too. That instant, you taught me the meaning of true love. Now our daughter knows you in the reality of her days, and not only in the realm of her dreams, as I knew mine. Three men failed to amount to the one man that God mercifully passed down to me on a silver platter, forged from the silver-lined cloud perpetually hovering above my head. You place me in the forefront of your mentality. You are not my father, like I said. The War Within What if Memories from the day of the ambush aren't really how it happened? What if I was so traumatized by the mass casualty chaos in that moment that the intensity of everything that followed was falsely magnified? What if that rocket propelled grenade was more like 30 feet away instead of five as memory serves? What if that incoming mortar that violently woke me from my peace in slumber on the back of that deuce and a half on the side of a road was really just a wrecker freeing the freeway of abandoned vehicles causing blockades? Still, I’m certain my passenger saw it too, and I definitely wasn’t the only one that jumped out of skin when that mortar hit the biggest what-if this is just more paranoia... Eye Of The Reaper He commented that the Gameboy I took to Iraq was badly scratched up and I took offense, as is often the case without cause. It happened the night I spit in the eye of the reaper when my truck flipped while cruising down ambush alley. Still today I can't chauffeur without manifesting a young boy expired on the shoulder of the road, hands still bound behind. Thoughts regularly conjure up charred remains of random villagers, on no particular day, with perpetually smiling skulls that taunt me, and hitchhiker’s thumbs protruding from bony arms demanding a ride on my Liberation bus as I skip their stop for the next corner on Damaged Collateral approaching ahead. My personal soldier of misfortune was a Republican Guard guerilla in a tree top. The wind blew munitions through his bird’s eye view and with his bough breaking he fell from his perch into a sea of asphalt. Sleeping soundly, I give him a long kiss goodnight with my Goodyear tires. Otherwise, that road trip to Bagdad is just a blur. July 27, 2003 My husband commented today that the Gameboy I took to Iraq was all scratched up. I took offense to this, as is often my immediate reaction to anything that has to do with my having gone to Iraq. Without looking away from the TV set I replied in a monotone, “It probably happened when my truck flipped over the night we were driving down ambush alley.” Where was this repressed memory hiding?! With concern and a tinge of sarcasm in his voice he said that I had failed to previously mention this small and significant bit of trivia. “Well, that was the night before the ambush on the way to the airport.” That was probably my worst night to date, as far as my level of fear and paranoia was concerned. “I thought I was going to die that night.” My brain was actually doing me a favor by pushing that memory into the darkest recesses of my mind. This made me wonder if there are other memories my mind is keeping from me. At least now I can say the word “ambush” without crying. I can even describe the details; most of them anyway. What I can’t stop doing is