The Man you Once Knew

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, El. I’ll get help. I’ll do whatever you want me to do, just please don’t leave. Not like this.”

    I begged my wife to stay. I knew deep down I didn’t deserve the second chance she gave me and that pleading with her for a third was a selfish bid. 

Elaine and I were married just five years, but together since junior high. She’s the only woman I ever dated, the only woman I had ever been with. She was the only woman I knew how to love. 

On my 18^th birthday, I enlisted with the army. Two years prior our country suffered the greatest attack on American soil we had ever seen. I didn’t come from a military family, so I never knew what compelled me so deeply to serve. Perhaps it was endless news clips of men and women choosing to jump from the shattered windows on their floor of the towers, or the later released phone calls from the planes to loved ones safe at home. If I had to guess, I’d imagine it was the night my family stepped foot in the Catholic church again for the first time in over a decade. Shoulder to shoulder, the congregation filled the pews, the aisles, the choir box and exit corridors. Sheets of colorless skin, worn, tired, broken. The echoing sniffles and crying bounced endlessly from wall to wall never getting trapped in the cathedral ceiling, but rather sent back down in a boomerang of sadness.

    Our family didn’t know anyone at those horrific sites, so it would have been understandable that my then 16-year-old self wasn’t emotionally mature enough to fully grasp the tragic nature of the attacks. We all knock on the doors of each level of Kohlberg’s theory of morality at different times and in different ways. Somehow, without experiencing definitive shifts and evolutions to my own human experience, I found myself on the doorstep of a social contractual orientation moment. At 16-years-old in that crowded church of a religion our family did not actively practice, I knew I wanted to serve the greater good. What that meant, I didn’t yet know, but I knew I wanted to see that people did not fear that kind of suffering again. 

    Two years later, Elaine and I were walking her family dog Bella at our local lake. Every weekend we would take Bella, a fishing rod, small tackle box and a large Wawa hoagie to split for lunch. Bella usually got most of it. 

    That day, after I had casted out and rigged my pole in the notch that we carved on the inside part of the wooden pier, right next to our initials and a paw print for Bella, I told Elaine I wanted to join the military. 

    “You want to what?? Ryan, you can’t join the military. You get upset when a fish bites the hook too deeply and might die. Why do you want to join the military?” El, asked.

    She was right. I had a fear of death and an aversion to violence. I wasn’t quite the hippie, peace and love always type, but senseless violence was something I struggled to comprehend. “9/11.” I, said.

    El flipped her glasses down and turned her head to stare out into the lake. The sun was gliding slowly behind the only large cloud in the sky and cast a beautiful glare along the water and partial shadow of Elaine’s face. She looked so perfect. Mad as hell, or maybe sad, but perfect. Her long, thick curly brown hair laid just off her eyes and her lips were tightly pursed. Though she swore her family had no Irish in them, her fair skin grew a reddish patch of heat when she was riled up. And riled up she was, despite her efforts of containment.

    “Don’t do this, Ry. Don’t impulsively join the freaking Army, or Navy or whatever you’re thinking. Please.” El, said.

#

AFGANISTAN – 2004 – First Deployment

    Dear Elaine,

I am safe. I don’t know what the news looks like back home, reporting casualties and dangers across the terrain. Just know that I am safe. I’m going to come home to you. I promise.

Love,

Your Man.

#

    Elaine posted my bail for the second time. I never touched alcohol or drugs, before, during or after my deployments. A lot of other guys had, and I saw first hand the troubles it caused. I figured it wasn’t worth the momentary relief from mental traumas we were all apt to suffer. I came from a household where alcohol was present always and my parents were regular self-medicators with the bottle. I swore I’d never make that choice. And I didn’t. 

    Others did, though. And I ended up linking up with a group of returning vets, most of whom were medically or honorably discharged from their respective units due to injury or tour completion. They hung out at a local watering hole where they’d surround themselves with others who wouldn’t ask so many questions. Why are you so jumpy? Where’d you go just then? You spaced out. Why are you snapping at me? Dude, are you okay? We all just knew, sometimes we were caught in a flashback.

    I drank seltzer water every night I joined the guys, and no one ever gave me any bother before. That night, a bachelor party of older vets came in for a nightcap after a clear night of intense partying. 

    “A round for our friends in the Navy! Drink up ya sea-sick sailor!” Patrick, said.

    These guys were Navy men. Proud Navy men at that. They were also our senior by the looks of it, several decades. The group of six were no longer ‘in’ shape but were in fact just ‘A’ shape. We heard that was a thing for those no longer in threat of receiving orders to active war zones, but we were young. We hadn’t seen it. 

    The night carried on with each party buying the other shots and beers from across the bar room. Us operating the pool tables in the dingy, low-lit, smoke-filled wing and the Navy men in the newer addition with Golden Tee golf, video poker and darts. 

    One of the men caught Sarah, our local bartender, filling my glasses with seltzer. Sarah knew that I didn’t drink, and she was a sweetheart. She always took care of me and for a tiny, tatted up young lady, she held her own against grown men.

    “Is that…water?? Who’s the asshole not accepting our generous drinks??” One of the Navy men, yelled.

    Gerald and I heard the commotion and saw Sarah attempting to diffuse the man three times her size in stature, and half a dozen rounds deep. 

    “Hey! Fish! Leave the lady alone. And leave our lady to his non-alcohol cocktail in peace. He’s got pies to bake!” Gerald, said.

    Okay. So, I was the butt of some jokes amongst our squad, but we knew each other. They were earned marks. Gerald was not about to let a Navy man insult one of us.

    Gerald was a medical release. He was just three years older than me but had nearly completed two full tours. Both tours entirely spent in combat. He was shot three times on his second tour and no longer has the full stability of a healthy core. 

    The Navy men began shoving Gerald who grabbed ahold of tables and chairs on his way down. The tallest Navy man in the group smacked a drink menu on the corner of the table *GUN SHOT*, and instincts took over. 

    IED’s blew along both my sides as I pushed forward through the rubble. The sand whipped hard, and breath was harder and harder to cleanly come by. My mates were flanked outside the explosions, losing footing and falling further and further behind. The air was thin, my equilibrium felt off and I struggled against my own fog. I lost sight of my enemy. Somewhere in the sand whipping against my face and the thin air challenging my senses to remain sharp and intact and *POP! POP POP!*   

    “Ry. RY! Buddy. Come on back to us now.” Ethan, said.

    At an instant, cold air rushed through my skull and into my eyes. I never felt so awake.

    “Ahh, there we go, pal. Smelling salts. Works every time!” Ethan, said.

    Sarah and Ethan were crouched next to me with the rest of my mates standing over. Several of them holding glasses to their mouths and skulls and others holding cocktail napkins to patches of blood.

    “Who clocked me?” I, asked.

    My mates laughed. Each looking at one another as Sarah leaned in and kissed my cheek.

    “Honey. YOU took yourself out. You took two of them out, too. Pretty sure you broke the one guys jaw and another’s nose. Then you slipped dodging a punch yourself and hit your head on the side of the table. Good thing it was a round top!” Sarah, said.

    Immediately I felt the pulsing in the back of my head as she recounted what happened for me. My mates laughed and started to help me up taking turns calling me various famous boxers before setting me into a chair. 

    The sound of sirens was making its way closer by the second. I couldn’t tell if it was the ringing of my ears from getting knocked out by a table, the tinnitus I returned home from my second deployment with, or there were cops on their way to our little slice of heaven. 

    “Ma’am, got word of a bar fight here. Couple guys real banged up.” The officer, said.

    “No more than usual, officer. Just a little pushing and shoving. No harm no foul.” Sarah, responded. 

    The officers scanned the room and despite our very best effort to act as casual and unbothered as possible, we stuck out like sore thumbs. Afterall, we all had bruises, bloodied lips or noses and looked as raggedy as one could look despite our relatively clean attire. 

    “Gentleman. Little much to drink tonight?” The officer, asked.

    The guys took turns sarcastically reciting their ABCs, touching each other’s noses whilst standing on one foot and hopping around in a coordinated circle. All I could do was laugh. 

    When I looked down at my own hands, I saw the wear and tear of a thousand fights. I recalled the embarrassment I felt the year before when Elaine first had to bail me out for getting in a fight. I put a man in a coma for tapping my shoulder at a grocery store that the check out clerk was ready for me. I had spaced out, as I was prone to do and reflexively snapped in violence. Then, I noticed another officer enter the bar. The same officer that booked me that day and showed up in court for the hearing. I hid my hands in the pocket of my sweatshirt.

    “Mr. Davison, not surprised to see you at the center of a violent complaint.” He, said.

    Gerald intervened immediately. He was always trying to protect me. Of all my brothers there that night, Gerald was the one I confided in most. He knew the trouble I faced with what I had to do overseas. He knew how I kept that from Elaine. He knew everything.

    “Nah. It was me. I hit those guys, Officer. He ain’t have a thing to do wit it.” Gerald, said. 

    He even changed his cadence and vernacular to sound like a character from the wire, Gerald’s favorite TV show.

    “Show me your hands, Ryan.” The officer, demanded.

    When I stood, despite my 5’10 average frame, all three officers placed their hands on the clips of their gun holsters.

    “It’s okay. It was me.” I, responded.

    I took my hands out of my sweatshirt pocket slowly and held them in front of the officers. Bruised, bloodied and guilty. 

#

AFGANISTAN – 2008 – Second Deployment

    Dear Elaine,

I miss you. I hate that I have spent so much of our time away from you, only connected by these letters. I hope you know I am doing this for reasons I believe so deeply in. I am going to come home to you, and I’ll never leave your side again. I promise with all my heart, I am coming home to you, beautiful girl.

All of my love,

Your Man.

#

    “You promised me you would get help. You didn’t. For god’s sake, Ryan you put a 64-year-old man in a coma! You scared a family at our lake. You put holes in our walls. You’re not here. You’re still over there. Somehow, you are still over there. And now, you beat up a much of Navy guys? Why? Because they looked at you funny!? I can’t keep doing this. I love you, but I cannot live this way.” Elaine, said.

    She was right. I knew it then. I knew always. I was embarrassed. Ashamed. We fought in front of the police station like a couple of teenagers. She cried and showed me her whole self. Every wound my behaviors created. Every scare healed over time and time again. Every wrinkle and worn skin no 29-year-old should don. I pled through tears of my own to not leave me alone to bear this fight. 

    “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry! Please, I will tell you everything. Everything I kept from you to protect you, I will tell you, so you understand. I will get help. I will do anything you tell me to do, El. Please!” I, pled.

    She took a breath and kissed my cheek. Her hair thin. Skin grey. Eyes worn. Her body frail. Had she always been this way? Have I broken this beautiful, vibrant woman into a battered, emotionally exhausted shell of herself?

    Elaine got into our old Ford pickup without me and took an extended look through the windshield before mouthing, “I’m sorry” and shifting to reverse. 

    I sat broken on the stairs of the police station. Hours had gone by, and I hadn’t moved. Dozens of folks walked in and out of that station, right past me without so much as a nod of acknowledgement. Alone as I’d ever been, terrified to know if home would be there for me if I started walking, a voice from behind called.

    “Ryan. Get up. Come with me.” An officer, said.

    I turned to see that it was the officer who had arrested me both times. There was no menacing look. No judgement this time. No authoritative scowl or disapproval of my actions.

    “Let me properly introduce myself. Lieutenant Colonel Jake Foust.” The officer, said.

    I stood and gave him a long stare; one he met without blink himself. Lieutenant Foust extended a hand, friendly for the first time. I took it, tentatively.

    “Come on. Join me. There’s someone I want you to meet. Someone who helped me when I was your age. In your position. Someone who helped me see the world here. Right here. And distance the world over there. Get in the car. You’re not alone.” Foust, said.

    “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I, said. Crying before being embraced by a man I hardly knew, whose life mirrored my own in more ways than I could ever have known. 

PSYCHOLOGIST OFFICE OF Dr. ADAM LOGAN – EMDR SPECIALIST

INPATIANT FACILITY 1001

90 Day Stay



    Dear Elaine,

I’m coming home to you the man you once knew. I promise, with all my heart, I promise.

Always yours,

Your Man