Tonight, I heard a pretty poignant thing in a commercial for
a new movie coming out.
“Don’t go to men who are willing to kill themselves, looking
for normality.”
It got me thinking about my experiences and how much things
have changed. I’m going to admit
it; there is a higher level of adrenaline rush found in combat that can be
found in no other arena. And it’s
VERY addictive.
Sure, you hear about it all the time. Vets either participating in the most
extreme of sports or going off the deep end looking toward crime just to feed
the addiction.
Some of us however, go another route. I have little want or need to
participate in anything that would give me that rush, ever again. Just as smells or songs can recall
memories, adrenaline rushes remind me of a time in my life that has affected me
in ways I’d rather not remember.
I’m not even aware that I’m remembering most of the
time. I just flash back and a few
hours later, I’m asking my wife what the hell happened and praying to a God I
no longer believe in that I didn’t hurt anyone.
But, indeed, men and women who are unlucky enough to have
survived the war no longer have what can ever be considered “normality”. We’re all broken in one or more ways. We even sometimes envy the ones who
died.
Simple things aren’t normal anymore. That “night out” isn’t relaxing or
fun. It comes at a cost. That cost is normality. We go out to dinner and scan for the
exits. We set where we can see the
exits and watch everyone coming in or going out. We formulate a plan of escape
and scan the perimeter for cover.
We look hard as we approach crowds; access the situation, look
for possible unfriendlies, scan for potential targets, and reach for a weapon that
isn’t there.
We spend hours ramping up for that “night out” knowing we’re
going out naked with no intel, no briefing, no plan, no backup. We’re still
fighting. In our minds, we’re all
still putting on our rattle and going into the shit. Only this time, and every time, we’re alone.
In the years following my return from deployment, I’ve come
to find that “normality” is subjective.
One man’s “normal” is another man’s “crazy”. It’s finding ways of dealing with our own construct of
normal that matters.
Once, I told the doctor I was afraid of being crazy. He chuckled and told me that truly
crazy people don’t care that they’re crazy. Therein, caring proves your sanity.
I’ve struggled with what is now normal for me and have come
to terms with the fact that I must continue to deal with my version of
normality until the day I die.
It’s just who I am. I’m
broken, but not destroyed.
