Tag Archives: veterans

Immortality, A Little Fiction For Your Enjoyment

[I decided to take a break this week from writing my story directly. Here’s a little fiction I’ve been working on. It’s part of a larger work I’ve been putting together. Except for the poetry I mix into some of my posts, this will be the first fiction I’m sharing here. Enjoy, share if you like, and let me know what you think. Thanks for reading]

He lived his life in such a way that his only regrets would be the adventures he did not pursue, the things he did not try, and the words he never spoke. His life seemed exciting to him for the many ways and times he cheated death over the years. He knew most other men would not survive the life he’s lived. Not because he was boastful or proud in a condescending way, but more in wonderment. He couldn’t understand why he was still alive after all the near misses. But certainly, no regrets.

As he contemplated his life, he fell into his own mind, searching for answers. The maze of memories was hard to navigate. He did not recognize all of the memories that were flashing through his brain. He wondered if all the memories were his. He wondered if it were possible to have someone else’s memories. He wasn’t sure if he had even really lived the life he remembered. All the countries he visited, the people that he met, the good times, the bad times, the food, the colors, the smells, the animals, the mountains, the rivers, the cultures, the wars. Were they really his memories?

He dug deeper into his mind. He didn’t like what he was finding. He started to doubt his existence. He started to believe that he wasn’t the person his memories portrayed him as. It occurred to him that he might be just be a figment of someone else’s dreams or thoughts. This bothered him. He felt used. Why would someone else create him and this exciting life just for it to be a farce? There is no pleasure in life when you find out that you don’t exist. And he knew that.

He was perplexed. He pondered his options. He wanted to find a way to escape from whatever or whomever it was that forged the memories in his mind. He wanted to prove that he existed. He wanted to stop being a pawn. None of this was helping his sanity. He knew he was losing his mind, but couldn’t help but wonder if it was real or if it was under the control of someone else. And then it hit him. What if he was the one creating his own memories that weren’t real or familiar? And where were his real memories? All of this compounded his feeling of being either artificial or insane.

He came to the only rational conclusion that made sense to him. He would have to die. He figured if he didn’t really exist it wouldn’t hurt or matter. He figured if he wasn’t really who his memories say he is, it would simply be for the best. Either way, he was certain that being dead was the solution. He no longer wanted to feel artificial or insane. The only question he had was if he died, would this work? Certainly if he were insane it would work, but he wondered if he were just someone else’s made up existence with fake memories, would that work? He wondered if the person who made him up would even know that he died. There would be only one way to find out.

So he did it. He let himself die. He ended his life by his own hand. Afterward, he just lay there. Nothing seemed to change. He tried to figure out if he were dead or alive, real or imaginary. He felt no pain or emotion. But that’s how he felt before he died. He was confused. He wasn’t sure if he had done it right, or had even done it all. But now something new was happening. He could hear a voice. He could hear a second voice. He didn’t recognize them. He couldn’t see them and he couldn’t tell what they were talking about. He wondered if they were talking about him. He wondered if they could see him. He wondered if they knew who he was.

He tried to move. This made the voices he was hearing more excited. He knew they weren’t just voices in his head, they were real. He knew they could see him, but he still couldn’t understand what they were saying. And he still didn’t know who they were. And he couldn’t see them yet, he couldn’t see anything. He was starting to regain some consciousness, but still couldn’t open his eyes. Even so, everything was becoming more clear. Most of this had been a dream. He could now remember his memories. They were all his memories, it was indisputable now. He had tried to kill himself in his reality, in his real life. He remembered. Now he couldn’t figure out why it didn’t work. His memories were real; he had in fact cheated death a number of times throughout his life. And suicide didn’t work either. There could be only one explanation. He was immortal.

He imagined that Heaven and Hell got together, sitting across a table from each other and argued which one would have to take him when he died. He guessed this meeting happened every time he was close to death, dozens of times in all. Heaven and Hell could not come to an agreement, so he was forced to live on as immortal. This made the most sense to him. Some men might think that immortality would be good. However, in his case, he still aged, he had pains that wouldn’t go away, and he most certainly lost his sanity. None of these dreadful things should come with immortality. He could find no benefit for him to be immortal. He wondered what he would have to do to be able to die like a normal man.

The Mirror

The Mirror

 

I see the man in my bathroom mirror

Staring back at me

He looks somewhat familiar

But in my memory I cannot see.

 

Was he someone I knew in passing

Or was he a close friend?

Did I do something to upset him

To make our friendship end?

 

He hasn’t said a word to me

Nor even tried to smile

Just glares at me with bloodshot eyes

Now, for quite a while.

 

I’m afraid to ask him who he is

Or why it is he’s here

But his silence is so very loud

That’s all that he’s made clear.

 

I see disappointment in his eyes

I wonder what he thinks.

Now his face becomes clear to me

My heart stops and sinks.

 

I see the man in my bathroom mirror

Staring back at me

I still don’t know who he is,

But I know that man is me.

***********************************

It’s a hell of a lot easier to go to war than it is to come home from it.  It takes a while to adjust.  I think my that lack of being able to adjust lead me to my attempted suicide.  I further believe that coming back from war wasn’t the problem with me, as far as trying to figure out who I was.  Once a Soldier, always a Soldier.  I just don’t know who I am now anymore.  I think it’s the aftermath of surviving suicide that makes me question my identity or what defines me now.

Sometimes I feel that I have no idea who I am.  I am unrecognizable to myself. I used to be motivated.  I used to desire to work.  I used to have a plan.  I used to feel invincible, that I could conquer the world.  Now, most days, it’s a challenge to conquer getting out of bed in the morning.  While I know I’m improving daily, I’m still searching for who I am.  I’m finding pleasure in writing again and that is helping.  Too bad it doesn’t pay the bills.

Those of us struggling with this will eventually recognize the person we used to be, even if we don’t know who we are now.  It can be disturbing for a number of reasons.  Either the person we used to be did horrible things and we can’t face that, or the person we used to be was a lot better person than we are now and we can’t accept whom we’ve become. One way or the other, we are changing daily.  Good or bad.  I made my downslope already in my changes.  It’s a tough climb back up, and I know I will never be who I was, but I will be me again, whomever that may be.

I write because it’s therapeutic for me.  I share it in case it helps someone else.  Thank you for reading my story, my message.  I welcome your feedback.  Feel free to share if you think it will help someone.

Good day, God bless.

Dave

Battlefield

On August 2, 2015, late in the evening just before midnight I almost died. In all the things I’ve done in my life and lived through, it was me that almost took my life. I attempted suicide. I failed. Not the first thing in my life I failed at and it certainly won’t be the last. It’s been six months. Part of me thinks I should already be further along to finding normal again. Part of me has accepted that I must find and accept a new normal. It is a daily struggle. It wasn’t until five months after my attempt that I was actually glad that it failed. But I do still struggle with my thoughts from time to time.

I had a good plan, but obviously it was flawed. I spent 3 days composing my suicide letter. I re-read it a couple months ago for the first time since I wrote it. It was dark. It was apparent that I was not even close to being in my right mind. I look back at the person that wrote it and I’m not even sure who I was at that time. I’ve tried to piece together all the details that took me to that point and it’s not as easy it should be.

I saw the police report. It was sobering to see how close I came to being dead. In the officers statement he said that he found me unresponsive, but breathing. He went on to say that as he approached me, he couldn’t see my face due to the condensation on the clear trash bag that I put over my head and tied around my neck. I don’t know how long I was out but when I woke up I hurt. My chest hurt, I was breathing hard, I couldn’t sit up and ended up falling on the floor. I was scared, confused, and didn’t know where I was at for a moment. Then it all came flooding back. I was supposed to die, but didn’t .

After getting me up and moving, and regaining my faculties, I got checked out by EMS. I was told that they’d be taking me to the hospital by cop car. I resisted briefly and made it clear that I wasn’t going anywhere with them. I saw the officer that was behind the one that had been talking to me take a more offensive stance. I guess when you tell the cops you aren’t going with them, they are up to the challenge. It didn’t come to that. They told me that my oldest daughter was on the scene and that I had a choice of going out to see her first, or to be dragged off in cuffs in front of her. Her being there saved me from further trouble and embarrassment. She still had to watch me get cuffed and put in the back of a police car, but it certainly could have been worse. The story of being in the hospital will be for another time.

A couple weeks after my attempt I wrote a poem called Battlefield. I’ve mostly kept it to myself.   The very few handful of people I’ve showed it to have encouraged me to share it, to publish it. I think I’m ready to do that now. Since I know some of you won’t get the “22” reference I will explain. Approximately 22 veterans a day commit suicide. There are a number of organizations that use “22” in their efforts to bring awareness to how many veterans take their own lives on a daily basis. I was almost one of the 22 on that day but I guess I waited too late into the night and the quota had already been met.

Here’s the poem.

Battlefield

By David George

On the battlefield he did not die

Fearlessly served by comrades’ side

Bullets and bombs whizzed on by,

But not everyone there came home alive.

 

His body intact, his mind gone mad

To see him now, doesn’t look so bad

But the wounds he carries are just as sad,

As the ones brought back in a body bag.

 

Try as you may, you don’t see his pain

But he can’t avoid it, it’s in his brain

His memory becomes one big stain,

Of war and darkness again and again.

 

The enemy failed in bringing him down

But he’s losing the battle of himself right now

Hard to reach out, he doesn’t know how,

But without some help, to his demons he’ll bow.

 

Fate is cruel and already knew

He’d be the next member of Club Twenty-two

He took his own life, sad but true,

Another one gone, what do you do?

 

Going to war was the easy part

Do your job and do it smart

Had all the training from the start,

His death this way should break your heart.

When you look at the number of Service Members that we’ve sent to war and brought home it’s sad that so many lose the battle of themselves after returning. I think I can speak for all of us who have been to the dark and hopeless desire to die that we would have much rather died on the battlefield than to go out by our own hand.

If you or someone you know needs help, help them. Get them help. Don’t let them slip through the cracks. You don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t even have to fix the problems, you can’t anyway. Just be there and help them get help. I had people helping me, but I cut them off and stopped letting them help. Don’t let that happen. Don’t get offended or take it personal. And don’t be afraid to ask if someone is thinking about suicide. Be direct. You get a more honest answer and a better opportunity to help.

I’ve still got a long road to go. I’m not in the dark place I was before, but I don’t exactly know where I’m at anymore. But I am ok. I promise.

Take care, God bless.

Dave