There's a lot of stuff people don't tell you about coming home from a war. And a very smart person told me that I'm probably having a harder time than most because I've gone and done this tremendously dangerous thing for the first time when I was 32 and pensive, vice being 19 and invincible, as are many service members when they experience war for the first time. I was well aware of the risks we were taking out there, some voluntarily and others purely by the nature of our mission. And I am now, more than ever, well aware of just how lucky I am to have made it back home.
But what I didn't expect was how difficult the transition would be. I drove down the Autobahn for the first time yesterday, in my non-armored Volvo. I was driving significantly faster than I should have, and I was on the constant lookout for some other car to pull directly in front of me and detonate, so somehow in my mind, being one of the fastest cars on the road made me safer. Yes, I do understand that in reality that's not the case. Today on my drive back, I saw two tan Humvees driving in a small convoy on the opposite side of the road, and I couldn't help but wonder whether they'd been to Afghanistan like I had. I thought about how I'd feel much safer in one of those than in my tank of a civilian automobile.
Knowing that being home alone for a few months isn't a good thing right now, I asked two of my dear friends if I could come visit them on the Mosel River yesterday, about two hours from where I currently live in Germany. And by far the most interesting sequence of events was a conversation in German between me and their eight year old son.
"Lisa," he asked. "What did you do in Afghanistan?"
I didn't really have an answer better than "I was a teacher, like your mother." But the truth of the matter is that now that I'm back, I wonder what I did in Afghanistan and what I have to show for it. Yes, I worked with people and I changed a handful of lives...for now. But by all accounts, without a Western influence, those lives will slowly re-adapt to their own cultural norms and I'll be another faded foreign memory.
It's hard to walk back into my former life, pretending like nothing has changed in the past eight months. I want to talk to everyone about what I did in Afghanistan and why I think it was important. I'm consumed by it, in fact. And given that my predisposition to getting lost in those thoughts is annoying to me, I can only imagine how others must feel to listen to me. I want to think about other things...normal things...but I'm not there yet. I want to be able to stand in a crowded room of people and not be scanning everyone's hands to make sure they're not concealing a weapon or a bomb, jittering at the thought of how I would respond. I want to stop brushing my hand across my right hip, not feeling my M9 sitting there, and wondering where it went.
I want to be normal again. And if the first few days are any indication, normal will take time and patience.
But what I didn't expect was how difficult the transition would be. I drove down the Autobahn for the first time yesterday, in my non-armored Volvo. I was driving significantly faster than I should have, and I was on the constant lookout for some other car to pull directly in front of me and detonate, so somehow in my mind, being one of the fastest cars on the road made me safer. Yes, I do understand that in reality that's not the case. Today on my drive back, I saw two tan Humvees driving in a small convoy on the opposite side of the road, and I couldn't help but wonder whether they'd been to Afghanistan like I had. I thought about how I'd feel much safer in one of those than in my tank of a civilian automobile.
Knowing that being home alone for a few months isn't a good thing right now, I asked two of my dear friends if I could come visit them on the Mosel River yesterday, about two hours from where I currently live in Germany. And by far the most interesting sequence of events was a conversation in German between me and their eight year old son.
"Lisa," he asked. "What did you do in Afghanistan?"
I didn't really have an answer better than "I was a teacher, like your mother." But the truth of the matter is that now that I'm back, I wonder what I did in Afghanistan and what I have to show for it. Yes, I worked with people and I changed a handful of lives...for now. But by all accounts, without a Western influence, those lives will slowly re-adapt to their own cultural norms and I'll be another faded foreign memory.
It's hard to walk back into my former life, pretending like nothing has changed in the past eight months. I want to talk to everyone about what I did in Afghanistan and why I think it was important. I'm consumed by it, in fact. And given that my predisposition to getting lost in those thoughts is annoying to me, I can only imagine how others must feel to listen to me. I want to think about other things...normal things...but I'm not there yet. I want to be able to stand in a crowded room of people and not be scanning everyone's hands to make sure they're not concealing a weapon or a bomb, jittering at the thought of how I would respond. I want to stop brushing my hand across my right hip, not feeling my M9 sitting there, and wondering where it went.
I want to be normal again. And if the first few days are any indication, normal will take time and patience.
I'm so sorry, although not necessarily surprised, that the transition is hard for you. I wish there were something I could do. But good for you for finding ways to help yourself, visiting a friend etc., keep doing that. Keep doing whatever you need to to make the transition smoother, even if only a little bit.
ReplyDeleteHello Greetings
ReplyDeleteWhat a great and wonderful testimony.
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