tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83402683421182853052024-02-07T04:41:13.815+01:00Wanderlust Goes to WarWanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-61520282795161083402016-04-07T03:30:00.004+02:002016-04-07T03:30:56.322+02:00I think there was a frog in my throat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">Here's the thing about my past few years...there were moments (more like weeks and months, if we're being honest) when I wasn't sure the storm was going to pass. It did, but mostly because I took more than my fair share of calculated risks to change the weather pattern. Okay, maybe they weren't always so calculated, but no matter what decision I made, I was all in. Probably more like ALL IN, if we've met.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">Let's catch you up quickly so that we're all on the same page. In April of 2011, my number was called in the "You're Headed to Afghanistan" lottery. Really, my boss's number was called. She sat on it for about three weeks, then decided at the last minute she wasn't willing to go, so she sent me on a six month deployment with a three month pre-deployment training requirement with the U.S. Army with three days to prepare. I might sound jaded. I was peeved at the time, but in all honesty, the only way to pack up your life and leave for nine months to a place from which you may not return is to just go all in. I had never been deployed in my then nine year Air Force career, and I have to admit that a combat deployment is on most service members' bucket lists. Crazy but true. Of course, a combat deployment with an outside-the-wire mission leading convoys for the U.S. Army was far from my desk officer comfort zone, but all in is all in.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">Off to Fort Polk, Louisiana I went, and into Combat Skills Training something like 10 - 12 hours a day, usually six days a week, led by Infantry kids (yes, they were kids...most of them were old enough to drink) and in a group of 35 men. And me. I'm a little girly, again, to set the record straight. But I also have very little fear. And I'm fairly athletic (more then than now), so I was just fine at the "grin and bear it," run several miles each morning at 4.30am, then be on your feet with 60 pounds of gear in the summer heat kinds of games we played. We captured and killed Osama Bin Laden while I was in Louisiana. We watched from the TVs in the chow hall, or whatever the Army calls it. But we were all in, so we still got on airplanes in late June and we headed to Afghanistan. I think it took us something like 60 hours to get there. Not my favorite travel memory.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">I remember little things, like the C-17 pilot calling over the intercom the moment we crossed into the combat zone. Yeah, little things. I remember landing at the Kabul International Airport at maybe 7pm. It was dark. I had so much stuff and two guns. And absolutely no idea what I was getting into. That was probably for the best.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">I lived in half of a filthy shipping container, in a two-story "neighborhood" of 60 or so shipping containers, mixed genders (though less than 5% of us were women), with a 50 meter or so commute to the bathrooms. You do the math to decide whether or not that sounds safe. The first month was the hardest. There was one particularly terrible morning...or maybe it was an evening...when my nerves got the best of me and a Canadian medic peeled me off of the floor of that filthy bathroom and hauled me to the clinic. That was probably my first panic attack. I will never forget the desperate, puking-my-guts-out feeling that I may not even make it out of that bathroom, much less through the deployment.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">Four or five times a week we made the 45 minute each way commute to the Afghan base where we worked, driving down roads that still make my hair stand on end. A nine or ten hour day doesn't seem like a big deal until you're driving through a warzone for about two hours a day, and the other hours you're a sitting duck (and one of the only women) on an Afghan National Army base...trusting the Afghans to keep you safe. But I was all in, so I did it, in a headscarf (because again, all in also meant sticking out a tiny bit less and showing my respect for the culture by covering my head). </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">Weird stuff happened out there, which at the time felt totally normal. By the way, there is nothing normal about being a woman in a warzone in a misogynistic culture and country. It's not that women can't handle combat. We certainly can. But in 2011, that being able to "handle" combat came at a huge cost for me, and one that took a solid four years to truly unpack. I guess the best way to explain it is that feeling your kids might have when they're waiting for a fire drill at school...or the startle response at the first buzz. Or as a runner, those pre-race butterflies. Constantly. For six months. </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">But then I was home in very safe, hardly have to lock your doors, small town Germany, and the butterflies were gone. And in their place, a cartoon-sized massive bowling ball. Or something like that. Something that made me numb and jumpy and tired and wide awake all at once. And I basically lived with that same mixed-up-emotions feeling in varying degrees of intensity from December of 2011 until early in 2016...so just over four years. For those four years, I was all in to find my way out of this mess.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">During that dark time, the military medicated me within an inch of my life (which I had no idea of at the time, because trusting medics was a skill I honed in Afghanistan and hadn't yet shaken). I checked myself into an outpatient Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) clinic for eight weeks, then I checked myself into an inpatient psych ward in Salt Lake City for another eight weeks, I lost my job in the Air Force because I was no longer "fit for duty," then moved from Germany back to the US...more specifically to Florida to be with John. A counselor at the Department of Veterans Affairs in Florida told me that I should file for permanent unemployability because I would never recover. Yes, that's a word. She told me that I should start collecting social security. I told her to fly a kite. </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">I drove to Alabama and convinced another counselor for the VA that my "disability" was forcing me to learn about American business culture in order to find a future job. He had a son about my age, and he quickly agreed to get the VA's Vocational Rehabilitation Program pay the full tuition for me to go to Georgetown to earn an MBA (I didn't mention the astronomical tuition until I had the approval letter...it's all about strategy...) So I worked on my MBA for 20 months, because, you know, I was never, ever, ever going to recover (I guess that kite was still flying). Then I started what has so far been a successful career in Management Consulting for a big name consulting firm. Here's a hint..."unemployable" veterans are damn good employees. Spread the word. </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">Don't get me wrong, this was not just a personal quest...it was a total team effort. And by team, I mean professional team, because what I was dealing with was well beyond anything I was willing to lay on my husband, my family, my friends, or pretty much anyone without some type of medical degree. I saw every doctor under the sun once a week for four years, rarely skipping even one week. I destroyed plenty of valuable, long-term friendships, and prevented lots more from ever starting in the first place. I was relentless in my pursuit of mental health. And finally some combination of upending and reassembling every single element of my life resulted in a brighter reality. All freaking in.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">Now that I'm on the other side (this month at least...though anyone who has been there knows that the demons continue to lurk...), I keep talking about bringing back my blog. To talk about what it really took to navigate the long and winding road that brought me here. To replay some of those Afghanistan memories and to unpack some of the events that still give me the willies. To describe some of those events in a whole lot more detail and to bring people along on the sensory journey. And to describe how it feels to be a modern military veteran who left the service on someone else's terms. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span data-offset-key="9ti8-0-0"><span data-text="true">It's been almost two years since I last posted on this blog. And those last few entries...man...so dark. Such struggles. But here's the good part. Some dig deep grit, a bunch of tenacity and a whole lot of hustle and anything, and I do mean anything, can be possible for our Nation's veteran. I didn't believe that four years ago, three years ago, two years ago, or even at this time last year. A bad day is just another day. And on the journey to building a better future for myself and for my family, I am all in, one day at a time.</span></span></div>
</div>
Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-8920800404484508402013-05-16T05:27:00.001+02:002013-05-16T05:27:10.877+02:00A Compelling Case for an MBA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
It's transition time. I keep meaning to write, but then life gets in the way. Transition gets in the way. Or my excuses get in the way. One day I was an Air Force officer struggling to find the support I thought I needed to help me work through PTSD. A few days after my last post, I received orders to retire from the Air Force, and a warning that I had three weeks to get my belongings packed and my life in order. By the middle of March, with those three weeks of warning, I was expected to know "what I want to do when I grow up."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What I wanted to do was go remodel a home (it looks gorgeous), sleep a lot (and then some more), and completely fall off the grid for about eight weeks. Last week, I plugged back in, ready to give true consideration to what it means to pick a new career.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I reached out for advice from my Personal Board of Directors, and they delivered...as always. When I did a little research on my own, I also delivered. Turns out the new Post 9/11 G.I. Bill gives me 4 years of educational benefits in an educational endeavor of my choosing, and I choose a Georgetown MBA. I like to aim high.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As a part of the application process, I'm required to submit a personal statement answering the specific question of what unique abilities you would bring to the Georgetown Executive MBA Program and how obtaining this degree will contribute to the attainment of your personal and professional goals. (maximum 2 pages). So it's written, and it's here, and I value your very frank and honest feedback. You can post it here, or email it directly to me at eabarber at gmail.com.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Read on:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am a Major in the United States Air Force, a Human Resources Professional with over ten years of leadership experience, and a passionate believer in the value of creating change through micro-investments paid either in person-to-person interaction or in small sums of local currency. With a Bachelor of Arts in English and a Masters of Public Administration, I aspire to continue my professional education by strengthening my ability to monetize human resources accomplishments and to foster a culture of passion in order to build stronger leadership networks within organizations. With my particular focus on achieving results by investing in high potential employees, I believe the Executive Masters in Business Administration program at the McDonough School of Business at Georgetown University will provide me an opportunity to expand my existing professional skills. In this unique learning environment, I also strive to continue to build my awareness of the global business dynamics while preparing myself to achieve continued success as I transition from the military into a leadership role in a service-oriented organization.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Growing up in a Navy family, I unknowingly embraced the closeness of the military community, and upon my arrival at Syracuse University for my undergraduate studies, I quickly felt a loss of that camaraderie. Entering college with no aspiration to be the third generation in our family to serve our country, I was naturally drawn to military service. The Air Force immediately recognized my potential for success, and granted me a three year scholarship to study English at a time when only engineering and scientific degrees received military funding. Glowing with patriotism and naturally driven to lead and inspire others, I quickly earned recognition as one of the top cadets in our organization. The personal interest my supervisor paid me as I applied to what everyone else assumed was an impossible scholarship opportunity was my first professional experience of a micro-investment in a high potential employee. I remember our conversations of 16 years ago like they were yesterday. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I excelled academically, and gravitated toward Women’s Studies courses in conjunction with my English degree. Because of military rules, I was required to wear my Air Force uniform to these classes without exception. The experience of being asked to speak on behalf of all military women when I considered myself a mere student studying to become a commissioned officer opened my eyes to society’s lack of understanding of our nation’s men and women in uniform. At first hesitant to share my thoughts about the plight of transgendered populations or the history of the American feminist movement in class, I quickly found common ground with my fellow students. I helped them humanize the military, and they helped me appreciate diversity of opinion. The women in my Women’s Studies classes ultimately reinforced my belief that as a leader, a significant portion of my responsibility was to leverage my voice to help key decision makers hear the diverse voices of their many often unheard followers. Moreover, my role was to make micro-investments in causes and in people who I believed possessed both the capacity and willingness to facilitate meaningful change. I graduated in three years, eager for the next opportunity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Determined to best prepare myself for a career in public service, I proceeded directly to George Washington University to earn a Masters of Public Administration. One year into the program, Al Qaeda challenged my belief that the America for whom I proudly wore a uniform was almighty and all powerful. I watched smoke pour out of the Pentagon during my walk to work at the Office of Personnel Management on the morning of September 11th, 2001. My father, at the time a senior Navy officer, worked somewhere in the Pentagon, as did the fathers of a majority of my childhood friends. Living in Crystal City in an apartment facing the west side of the burning building, the smell of jet fuel and steady stream of smoke spewing from the crash site was a constant reminder to me that my service would be distinctly different than that of my grandfather or even my own father.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My grandfather served in England during World War II as a Logistics Officer in the Army Air Corps, where he prepared the troops and their aircraft to engage the enemy from the air. His war stories, which he dutifully recounted over and over at my request, inspired my own service while I was deployed as an American Airman leading convoys through the streets of Kabul, Afghanistan almost 70 years later. Over the course of six months, I led my team of nine on more than 120 convoys, traveling 7 miles each direction to our “office,” across unsecured roads in Afghanistan’s capital city, outside “the wire” of the safety of our own military compound, terminating at the headquarters of the Afghan National Army’s Logistics Command. We each carried two loaded weapons, wore 50 pounds or more of protective gear, and pretended, as had my grandfather’s generation, to be fearless. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Together we were so passionate in our desire for Afghans to experience the true American spirit that we organized and led more than a dozen humanitarian and military outreach events, micro-investments, where we donated food, clothing, school supplies from our families back home. We fostered mentorship and incredible memories at local homes, schools and military outposts across the Kabul Region, and we left Afghanistan prouder than ever to be Americans. Achieving success in Afghanistan from my leadership perspective meant building lasting personal relationships between Afghans and Americans, and encouraging other Americans to do the same, and as a team, we outperformed everyone in our unit, achieving what I still consider the highest level of success. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The United States sent me to Afghanistan with orders to focus on gender integration issues in the Afghan National Army. Of the 4,500 soldiers at our location, a mere 38 were female, most of whom did not come to work on a regular basis, none of whom wore a military uniform, and many of whom were themselves war widows after decades of ongoing conflict in their country. Working in close harmony with my interpreter Sonia, then a 22 year old woman who had been married, delivered a baby and was later abandoned by her husband by age 16, I slowly learned the personal stories of each of the women at our location. I visited women’s work sites, spoke with their supervisors, and broke American military tradition by wearing a head scarf during each of my more than 300 strategic meetings with the Afghan women, their male military leaders, and senior NATO officials in the region. Through this gesture simple gesture of cultural appreciation, I earned the trust and respect of my Afghan colleagues. Together, we advocated for and later started construction of the first on-site childcare facility at our location. As single parents, the women told me they were more likely to come to work if they knew their children were safe. Sonia and I listened, partnered with the Afghan military women, championed the idea to Afghan male leadership, eventually leading the women to create a safe space for 50 children under the age of five.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Midway through my tour, and with no background in grass-roots fundraising, I sent an email to my friends and family asking them to make donations of $25 or $50 to help me buy a computer and make a down-payment on advanced English language education for Sonia. She’d never owned a computer, had no routine access to the internet, and taught herself English through American music and television. In addition to their small donations, I asked my friends and family to send a picture of their families, especially their daughters, and a letter telling Sonia about their dreams for her future with her daughter. I raised over $400 in $25 donations within the first 24 hours of my effort, collecting letters, pictures and personal stories from around the world. I achieved success in Afghanistan because I intuitively knew that micro-donations of support from people who were passionate about my work there were far more powerful than me writing a check for a computer and an education. I grew a network of person-to-person relationships across cultural and even language barriers, and I know I made a lasting, positive impression on each Afghan person with whom I interacted. Passionate leadership is compelling, regardless of the language, the culture or even the context. In Afghanistan, and throughout my Air Force career, I have delivered passionate leadership and inspired teams of professionals to do the same. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My unique contributions to the diversity of the Executive MBA program are a devotion to international service, a dedication to mentoring and developing the next generation of leaders, and more than 10 years of professional experience as a recognized human resources leader in roles based in the United States, South Korea, Germany and Afghanistan. Through my military service and extensive domestic and international travel, I have built a tremendous support network, upon whom I have relied heavily through my career transition. My professional desire is to leverage my more than 30 years of dedicated to service to the United States as a military child, U.S. Air Force officer and Afghanistan war veteran into future opportunities in non-profit organizations advocating for leadership opportunities for women and children. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Through participation in the Executive Masters of Business Administration at the McDonough School of Business, I desire to continue to grow my business acumen and expand my horizons outside of the human resources space, therefore opening the door of opportunity for future growth roles. Most importantly, I look forward to the opportunity to share my passion for leadership and my experience of success in international micro-investments with like-minded peers and classmates in the program.</div>
</div>
Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-23354978498591139532013-02-17T13:56:00.001+01:002013-02-17T13:56:26.886+01:00My Pope<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If this past week is any indication, and I think indeed it was, then perhaps I'm beginning to understand why it took me three months (but really a year) to come back to writing. Parsing through my thoughts to find a starting point took effort. And because I had withdrawn so far away from the rest of the world, finding inspiration to write based on the events of every day life no longer felt like an option.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But then there was this week. I managed to write, albeit beginning at a travel-weary 3am, but I did it. And the responses I received from people who followed Wanderlust through the hills and valleys of Afghanistan, and even those who have only known the morose, whispering version of the former me, were overwhelming. Just as I experienced in Afghanistan, where I pretended to be the even-keeled news reporter, when I am willing to talk about the real stuff, people are willing to listen...and this week, they reached out like never before. Reality, the fact that people who matter will care whether my life is sealed up in a pretty crystal box or is pouring out of the corners of a water-logged cardboard container, started to set in.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then the Pope resigned. I'm a very non-practicing Catholic, but the mere idea that the leader of the Catholic Church would have the moral strength to admit that at age 85 he was no longer up to the task of leading his flock through modern day disorder felt like a personal victory. Suddenly, in my mind, the mantra switched from "I'm a quitter because I can't stay in the Air Force," (there's that word again) to "if the Pope can admit he's not strong enough, who do I think I am judging myself for leaving?" It really was that simple. Sort of.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWdcYIo2mM67YUFVL5A-uiY7z2GF9a6dfCY6AOjEw9dWp08qULJD9mkxUOzMmGqMen8INf7Xe5cCFKe7-TWk1I7k9-sFwWMBzpPlQtdcQL1arAfy2nHsHqVZkHPIerNb3GPR5llhlYw8K/s1600/The+Pope+up+close.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWdcYIo2mM67YUFVL5A-uiY7z2GF9a6dfCY6AOjEw9dWp08qULJD9mkxUOzMmGqMen8INf7Xe5cCFKe7-TWk1I7k9-sFwWMBzpPlQtdcQL1arAfy2nHsHqVZkHPIerNb3GPR5llhlYw8K/s200/The+Pope+up+close.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div>
My relationship with the Pope resembles my relationship with most men in both its complexity and duration. We met in the fall of 2007, when I attended a Papal Audience at the Vatican with a person I thought at the time would be an important part of my life forever. Though I have meticulously trained myself to ignore them, I have good instincts. I picked our perch amongst thousands of other followers from across the globe, huddled into St. Peter's Square on a crisp November morning. As it turned out, the Papal Go-Cart passed within three feet of us, and I captured Pope Benedict XVI's wave (no telephoto lens required) as the entourage drove by. This photograph instantly became, and to this day remains, one of my most treasured images. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You need not be Catholic to appreciate the beauty of a Papal Audience. We were surrounded on all sides by others who longed for a shared, faith-filled experience. In most cases, we shared neither a language nor a culture, and perhaps not even a religion. On the Cool Meter, meeting the Pope, leader of 1.2 billion, ranked (in my book) above meeting any American President, Beatle, or superhero. He didn't wave to me personally. I didn't receive a special blessing (though in retrospect, that may have been a good idea). But I shared a space, a moment, with Pope Benedict XVI. It didn't change my life, though the experiential high took a few weeks to dull. Until this week, I hadn't really given my Papal Experience a second thought.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The Pope resigned on Tuesday, effective at the end of this month. The Pope gave his two week's notice. On that same day, the Air Force gave me my notice. They told me I was "disabled," attached a percentage, and sealed the deal with a phrase indicating my injuries were "incurred in a combat zone, though not combat related." It felt like a knife to the heart. I had officially lost control of the career that sent my Type A personality into overdrive. There went the career I've loved to hate for a decade and a half of my life. One that's taught me to ignore my good instincts, to stay in control consequences be damned, and to work twice as hard as the Good Ole Boys just to get by. (Yes, indeed, it's a bittersweet parting of ways.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The Pope resigned on Tuesday. Speculate as you will, but I think it takes a lifetime's worth of courage to look into the eyes of an admiring flock to admit "You know, I'm just not up to it any longer, and it's time for me to step aside." I didn't have that kind of courage on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Nor in the eight or so years before, or the several days since. I was too busy hating myself for failing and quitting and doubting and (insert strings of other horrible words here...)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One day, I hope to find the courage to admit that the Air Force's square box "no one can ever leave or we'll call you a quitter" mentality was never the right fit for me. I hope I can find the courage to say (regardless of this piece of paper I've allowed to become my career epitaph) that it was (well past) time to walk away, and to allow someone with the tenacity, energy and enthusiasm the Air Force so direly needs to walk into my shoes. Into shoes that, if my career has made one ounce of difference, can and will be filled by someone else, because I've spent my career preparing the "someone else." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Today I'm maybe three small steps outside of the eye of the storm. Maybe next week I'll be a yard, then a mile. And I hope with time will come the moral courage to say (and believe) "career number one didn't work out, but that doesn't mean career number two is doomed to fail."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thanks, Pope Benedict XVI, for a humbling reminder that at the end of the day, we are all human, and for the inspiration to want to wake up tomorrow to embrace a world of opportunities instead of wallowing in my fears.</div>
</div>
Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-88260083766031778132013-02-11T04:34:00.000+01:002013-02-11T04:34:01.548+01:00I'm a writer. So I should write.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been 107 days since I last opened this blog, and even then, it was just to post something "safe" I'd written while I was in the PTSD version of rehab. I had to look that number up. I actually had to look up today's date, which of course is a bit more confusing when it's well past 3am, and my circadian rhythm is lost somewhere between Texas, Virginia, New Jersey, New York and Germany. All places I've been in the past 12 days. If I counted from the beginning of this year alone, I could add Georgia, Florida, and England. If I project my count through the end of the second month of 2013, I could add France and who knows where else. I have 17 days left and, well, if the past almost two years have taught me anything, the lesson left is that anything is possible.<br />
<br />
There's a lot I don't say in a public blog that's visible to the universe. There's a lot I won't say for a while longer. There's a lot I won't say ever. Maybe even to those who know me best. And before this one, there are 96 very factual posts, wherein I've been very careful not to allow feelings or emotions to seep in to muck everything up. And there are hundreds of other times where I skipped writing all together because it was easier than talking about what was truly happening around me. And how it felt to live in that moment.<br />
<br />
But there are two things people have said to me during the past few weeks that made me want to write more than I've wanted to write since I was hunkered down in my shipping container in Afghanistan, feeling like a war reporter documenting the most precious seconds of the world's most exciting battle. Feeling important. And wanted. And significant.<br />
<br />
I was standing on the East Orange platform, waiting for New Jersey Transit to whisk me away into Manhattan. I'd spent the evening before with a dear friend, perhaps one of my closest. The one who helped me accept the brutal fact that my Air Force career would have a Plan B ending vice the one I may have imagined 15 or so years ago when I started this journey. She and I reminisced over Indian food, sharing maybe 60 way-too-short minutes together, coming some three and a half years after our last in-person visit. I've learned not to think of time in that way. Calendars don't matter. But even in life experience, three and a half years (or perhaps three and a half hours) are a remarkably long measure of time for me. Though in that moment, or in those 360-odd moments, the world had somehow stood still, and I was the 23 year old girl who wanted to take on the world. It's amazing to have friends on whom such magical moments are not lost.<br />
<br />
My friend's husband and their 5-year old son took me to the station in the morning to catch the 9:07. I was dragging an unreasonably shaped and sized piece of luggage...plum purple and as close to 70 pounds as the airlines would allow. Traveling terrifies me now, but there I was, standing on the platform with my trademark latte in one hand and this unruly disaster in the other. He could sense I was mortified by the idea of going into Manhattan. And he asked, innocently, "Are you writing? I loved reading your blog."<br />
<br />
I can't remember how I responded. I can't remember if I managed to hold back the tears until I disappeared into the train car soon to become one of 1.6 million Manhattanites, if only for a few hours. But I do remember responding. "No, I just can't yet. It's still..." and then letting my voice fade off.<br />
<br />
Just look at that one paragraph. Two sentences. Both of them say "I can't." That's the easy answer. I can't. But the hard answer, the true answer, is that I won't. Because I am fully armed with every damn excuse in the book on why I deserve a break, and then another break, and then even one more after that. PTSD has become my excuse to stop being, instead giving me permission to rely on how content I am to just slide by. To survive. I let it, this stupid "illness" and the corresponding medications, consume me. And on the other end, I'm no better than any alcoholic or addict, waiting for my next fix. Counting the 12 hours until the next set of pills, and blaming my self-destruction, though relatively harmless all things considered (unless we're talking about the fat, medium and skinny sized jean collection I've now amassed), on "side effects." And I have found a "side effect" for damn near anything.<br />
<br />
Closer to 10 days ago, I was in an elevator in San Antonio wearing my Wounded Warrior jacket. I was in Texas to take care of some final business with the Air Force...to look at my official personnel record and talk with a few experts about the future (or quite honestly, the end) of my career. San Antonio is the epicenter of my profession, and also home to the Air Force's largest hospital, with tremendous programs to support our Airmen who come home from Afghanistan suffering the physical wounds of war. The girl in the elevator was maybe eight or nine years old. She looked at me, looked at my jacket, and asked, innocently, "Why are you a Wounded Warrior?"<br />
<br />
Simple enough question. But what it felt like she was asking was "How long are you going to hide behind the logo on your jacket and the diagnosis in your record?" And I guess then, in due course, my answer should have been "Until a nine year old calls me out on it."<br />
<br />
Which happened approximately 10 days ago, and I suppose is truly sinking in now that I've spent at least 60 of the past 72 hours asleep in bed, overwhelmed by self-induced exhaustion. Exhaustion that came as a result of running like hell to pretend like the last two years never happened. That if "the doctors" would just find the right combination of pills, or "the Air Force" would just figure out how to take better care of me, or "my friends" would stop disappearing. It was always "them." "They" needed to fix this because "they" made it happen. I didn't take any blame because, well, there was none there for me to claim. In my mind, that is.<br />
<br />
This morning feels like the beginning of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. "My name is Lisa and I have PTSD." Then people respond with "Hi, Lisa" and we all move on. Somewhere in Utah, a therapist named Amy just heard me say that, and I heard her squeal with excitement from several thousand miles away.<br />
<br />
No, I'm not going to walk around making that proclamation to everyone I meet. I said it here. That's enough. It's an illness. Not an excuse. So this game of chicken I'm playing with the blog. Enough. Writers write. And I'm a writer. So I should write. Runners run. I'm a runner so I should run. And humans, we make mistakes. I've made plenty. Not the least of which is neglecting one of the things that held me together through all of this madness...my words. Time to move on.<br />
<br />
So there. I have a voice. And I found it. Again. Writers write. And I'm a writer. So I should write.</div>
Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-60083432779255652402012-10-27T14:20:00.001+02:002012-10-27T14:20:27.062+02:00Thank you, Mr. Ebert<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Written 4 October 2012 while in treatment in Salt Lake City. Some names have been adjusted (or omitted) to respect the privacy of those with whom I have spent my life, my deployment, or my time in treatment</i><br />
<br />
Paging my Inner Critic. Maybe that's all I've done (or even all I've known) for ages. Ages sounds vague. It's all I've known for the past 25 years, give or take. It was originally some type of covenant I entered into with myself..."good enough", "smart enough", skinny enough." None of them had definite solutions to solve the equation...and perhaps that was on purpose. It was never "all 'As' plus valedictorian of my high school equals smart enough." It, I, was all about leaving enough room to deem myself a complete failure due to lack of proper goal-setting (without knowing that was in fact what I was doing). My definite "valedictorian" thought would fit too nicely into a box where it was possible to either succeed or fail. Black or white. But quickly I discovered I would fail repeatedly if I agreed to live in the grey...where there were no feelings of failure or inadequacy...just a tiny bit of sadness for not being "perfect." Tiny. That even looks funny. I was (and maybe partially still am) too strong to have emotions. And I still live in the grey, judging myself in the black and white...my own personal prison.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYILcw3-XOrs9skYOoBuJ5MP4JRGCVv-do3D0WfC8765vsVpBICiNJJ3GQKQXzy-wTGhFl9K6q6t-yt8oYlhkEb4NgoXdpXb2n5njHlhQ_h-Tc8KR97r8fIqvQ83QXtdy_DF1R6vaSdSw0/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYILcw3-XOrs9skYOoBuJ5MP4JRGCVv-do3D0WfC8765vsVpBICiNJJ3GQKQXzy-wTGhFl9K6q6t-yt8oYlhkEb4NgoXdpXb2n5njHlhQ_h-Tc8KR97r8fIqvQ83QXtdy_DF1R6vaSdSw0/s200/photo.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
That's the critic. If I show emotions, I'm a failure. It's my fault if people get annoyed with me, and I'll take it personally every single time. The critic is also the person who points out the problems (the obvious problems) in ugly situations...and then points them out again and again until I think someone is getting the message. They (the "people") never seem to get "it," whatever "it" is. Then I become critical of myself for not communicating "it" properly. "Is it just me who thinks 14 mental health patients wandering a zoo full of people and animals under the supervision of one, single (inexperienced) therapist is unsafe?"<br />
<br />
The answer is no, it's not just me. That is actually unsafe. Stupidly unsafe and scary, when I was one of those patients, prone to an anxiety attack at any time with no access to either a therapist or proper medication. And when I have a thought like that ("This is irresponsible"), I won't let it go (whatever the thought is) go unless someone else (who I trust...which leaves the list unbearably short) validates it. I am my own worst critic. I made decisions in Afghanistan for which I still punish myself. Every day. Even though I know the decisions were made with honest intentions and led to positive outcomes that were impossible through any other means (or anyone else's decision making). I thought I would die in combat. Some days I wished for that. So I figured doing what felt like the right thing was worth the risk 100% of the time. I see now that was a bit extreme, though quite suiting.<br />
<br />
That Inner Critic is a strong, willful son-of-a-bitch. And taming that thing will take...is taking...significant effort (and will also, perhaps, require some type of miracle).<br />
<br />
Only 1% of the United States population has served in our nation's Armed Forces. Of those, far fewer have ever seen combat up-close-and-personal (on the ground, looking into the eyes of family members whose families and friends have been killed by NATO bombs dropping from fighter aircraft in the sky). Not many people, particularly those of a female persuasion, have been outside-the-wire regularly, hanging out around landmines and human bombs. Of those significantly limiting factors, so many fewer are in the United States Air Force. Now that we're down to a tiny, almost impossible to capture under any circumstances, kind of number, it's time for me to admit that not a single anyone lived in my exact same circumstances in either training or Afghanistan itself, had an identical past and could possibly understand why I chose to make (m)any of the decisions I did while I was there. Forming the closest team on the camp. Running humanitarian missions on our days off. Hosting Hell's Kitchen nights. Creating team dinners. Working with Julia, my interpreter (and her family). Meeting with local families, especially the widowed women managing households of up to 30 young children where running water, electricity and even furniture didn't exist.<br />
<br />
I'm the only (or perhaps my worst) critic over the implosion of my (second) marriage. Those who know and love me best understand (somewhat) how I got to this place (admittedly not entirely through "good" and "traditional" decisions) and understand that I'm here because that's what I needed to do for myself...not because I wanted to hurt someone who cared for me deeply. There are some people (okay, many people) to whom I have not told the full story (and perhaps I never will), because I fear their criticism (or rejection) when in fact the truth is that if those people chose to leave me based on my decision (or my recent string of decisions) to make myself happy, they probably should not have been an intimate part of my life in the first place. And I need to be able to say that and mean it. With absolute certainty. Full confidence, as Julia called it. I'm not there yet. I'm hiding behind a protective veil of silence. And that may continue for some time.<br />
<br />
It still feels like I always need to be the smartest. Like that's the only way I will "matter." Or maybe it's that I need to be the most clever...that's a bit more likely. I found the funniest book about a guy who tried to read the Encyclopedia Britannica page-to-page from volumes A - Z. While I commend him for making the choice to read the written, verified version (vice relying on Wikipedia) it was through that book I could recognize that being a "know it all" is a show without a star. I know a little bit about a lot of things. I wish I knew more about a few things. There are tons of people who are less intelligent than I...and likewise there are plenty of people whose intelligence I could never dream to match. I know that. My brain knows that. But when I find myself in a bad situation, feeling powerless and helpless, I suddenly define myself as the stupidest ("why don't I know what to do here?"), fattest ("I look terrible in this outfit and no one is saying anything because they don't want to hurt me") and meanest ("I bet her life is worse than mine.") I hate those natural reactions.<br />
<br />
I have plenty of flaws, and it's easy for me to overlook the reality that other people have flaws (and are allowed and expected to have flaws), too. I criticize myself for my "imperfections" rather than embracing them. ("What's to embrace about imperfection?") I think any personal failure is marked with big red and white target so that everyone can see the ugly flaw just as clear as day. It's not like that for real (is it?) But to me, it's as real as real can be. I need to get over that. I want to get over that.<br />
<br />
I also need (and want) my Inner Critic to learn how to see (and to embrace) the good things in other people and situations. Before I came to Salt Lake City, I could see the good in people for a fleeting moment. During my stay, I've learned to see the good for a few minutes at a time. In the future, I hope to be able to find the good before I find (and get stuck on) the bad. Or to hold on to the good for more than a fleeting moment.<br />
<br />
So that's the Inner Critic. The one who sees the fleeting moment and lets it go. And what I want more than most things in the world is to turn the volume down on the Inner Critic and to embrace the positive, fleeting moments so that they're a little less fleeting. Okay, so they're a lot less fleeting.<br />
<br />
I want to understand that it's okay to accept things (any kind of things) the way they are in the moment. To accept that my unrelenting standards need not apply to every (or really any) situation or person in my life. Actually, I should probably also stop applying then to myself. I really love a line I came across at some point during my treatment: "What if I accepted that the 80% solution provided me with more time to pursue the things I love?" It just never occurred to me that such imperfection was possible, acceptable, and (God forbid) productive.<br />
<br />
It also never occurred to me that my truest, closest friends don't need to know every single detail about me or my life. Even if I think they're my closest friends in the universe. I don't need their affirmation that pursuing a second divorce was the right (albeit painful) decision to make for myself. I love him. I will always love him for his determination to give me the life he wanted to give me (and that I thought I wanted). A life full of beautiful things. Beautiful experiences and marvelous adventures. I love him for trying to figure out how to make me happy (when I refused to tell him what would truly make me happy because I didn't know how to express such "normal" feelings). How to buy me the happiness I couldn't seem to find on my own. I love him for trying as hard as he knew how to be a good companion. He's a good person who married and lived with a partner he could and would not ever be able to understand (in retrospect, because I wasn't able or willing to be understood by him). The critic in me wants to blame the whole collapse on him. But it's not just him. It might not be any bit his fault. It's not fair for me, the ultimate critic, to assign blame and fault here or ever. <br />
<br />
The critic in me calls that a failed marriage. The critic in me assumes that everyone, any stranger on the street, will judge me for failing. And sure, maybe it was failure. But it's only failure if I let it be, and if I let the feeling of failure define me. The details will only be known (and potentially criticized) if I talk about them. And really, there's no reason to judge my past decisions unless I want to keep paying for them forever. Yes, I've made bad decisions. I'm human. And I don't want (or deserve) to keep paying for them. I say that now, after being on the outside of reality for six weeks, isolated from the "regular" critical traps of Facebook, email, work, and separated from those critics in my life who tend to make me feel like my life is a movie written and produced for their enjoyment.<br />
<br />
I have held onto the Inner (and outer) Critic since that dinner around age, maybe, seven. Then I felt powerless, hurt and weak. Feelings I didn't know how to explain at the time. Someone who was suppose to love me and take care of me didn't know how to show or feel emotion, and had no idea what a huge impact criticism had on me. I look like me father. I think like my father. And to my father, I was an invisible child. I feel hints of the same now. The Inner Critic developed to protect me from feeling even more hurt. To fill a void that no one would ever be able to fill because I would never allow such a thing to happen.<br />
<br />
That critic constantly reminds me that I am not good enough. Encourages me to point out the gaps in my knowledge about the world. Reminds me of how, even though I have disliked Air Force culture since the first year I joined, I've still never worked hard enough. Never achieved enough. Scolds me for being 33, twice divorced and childless...all by choice. Punishes me for not knowing how to express emotion. Blocks out feelings of longing, sadness, frustration and disappointment for the things I haven't done as well as I should have. As I could have. As other people have done.<br />
<br />
I've held onto the critic for 30 something conscious years to give myself an excuse to avoid pursuing my dreams. For giving up my dream of photographing the world. For giving up my dream of writing. For giving up my dream of practicing yoga regularly or going to cooking school. For surrendering my dream to empower women who live in situations I could never fathom...at least before Afghanistan. Hard to imagine that in about eight months, I may be able ("allowed") to do all those things...and more...in my post-Air Force life.<br />
<br />
I've criticized myself for years. Decades. For trying to please other people. For giving up on my own hopes and dreams and relying instead on others...most of whom I've never met...to draw the road map to my future. For making my decisions. For monitoring me as I toe the line.<br />
<br />
For years, I've handed my power over to whoever wanted to take it. To my parents. To my friends. Or "friends." To the Air Force. Sometimes to perfect strangers. Those aren't toasts...they're lamentations. When I didn't want to commit to making my own decisions, plenty of others were standing by ready to pounce like lions, roaring in my face (though maybe just in my head) about how every decision I made (or was making) was "wrong"...and I let them be correct. I couldn't defend my decisions because I'd never consciously made them. So I took the criticism. And I gave it back to the world through anger.<br />
<br />
I can't wait to leave here. To leave Salt Lake City. I can't wait to drive through the streets, up the mountains, sprinkling the ashes of the cremated inner critic and trying to learn how to live past that person. That negative energy. That overwhelming, heartbreakingly heavy sadness. And to abandon it here, so that I can hope to fill that empty, lonely space with the happiness and worthiness I had always imagined but could never really comprehend.<br />
<br />
It won't appear tomorrow...that happiness. But not there's an empty space (available, even). A framework. Into which happiness has a place (and the permission) to grow.<br />
<br />
I don't miss (or I should say I won't miss) the Inner Critic. I won't miss the feeling of my heart being ripped out of my chest over each "wrong" decision. Instead, I look forward to the warmth, the passion, the contentment I can feel when I make decisions that feel "right." At least right by me. And in the end, now that I'm 33 and finally ready, my own "right" decisions are what are most important to me.</div>
Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-77046187868567095482012-10-12T22:09:00.001+02:002013-06-17T23:46:39.811+02:00The Road to Somewhere<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm really struggling to positively summarize the past six weeks of my life (spent in an inpatient treatment facility for PTSD in Salt Lake City) after gaining a reputation of being overly negative. I'm not so sure that's actually the problem. I'm far more confident that the reason I'm struggling for words is that I'm absolutely heartbroken that I used every chip in my power to come to a center that became (or that I allowed to become) a disappointment. Or maybe it wasn't. I'm hurting in ways I've never hurt before, I've excavated deep-seeded emotions I'd buried for years and years, and most significantly I fear I've let myself, my command and even Tricare down for costing them such a huge fortune (over $2,200 a day) for me to receive care over the past few weeks.<br />
<br />
Unlike the girls whose final statements (their parting words before leaving the treatment program) I heard a week or two after I arrived here, mine is incredibly unsupportive and untrustworthy of "the process" of treatment (how me) and much more determined that the only way I survived in a flawed institution was to rely on my own internal strength and to allow myself push like crazy.<br />
<br />
To force myself not to give up. In this all-female military unit, I dug into my reservoir of internal strength to ignore the "teenage drama queens," constantly passing notes during the 8 daily hours of classes. I wish I could have learned from them. Instead I learned that when military women are wounded early in their careers, they respond by acting out like children, and it breaks my heart to be an audience to such sadness.<br />
<br />
I watched an over-tasked program director take the same feedback from us, her patients, for the past five weeks (the treadmill's broken, we can't call Germany, and how much is this "treatment" actually costing my government, plus about 20 more...) and not solve or follow-up on a single one of them. The person in whose care the Department of Defense has placed me in my most vulnerable state did not make any visible effort to show that she genuinely cared about what we, the girls who brought in almost $40,000 a day to her program, begged her to address. Another round of heartbreak.<br />
<br />
That's a tough cookie to swallow for me, a girl wounded by war, sexual trauma, and finally willing to face some long-lingering abandonment issues. To feel forgotten in a hospital with absolutely no way to leave was scary and isolating to an extreme I'd never envisioned. Or felt. To be dumped by my best friend while I've been here (by email, of course, saying that our 18 year friendship interfered with his marriage) and to sign final divorce papers after a very tumultuous past few months. And to be willing to rip my heart open every day in class only to re-discover each day that the program didn't have (or want to have) the resources I so desperately wanted to put myself back together into anything resembling an organized fashion.<br />
<br />
I can now recognize that good things have happened here, and I truly believe they happened as a result of the Cognitive Processing Therapy (the fancy name for teaching PTSD patients to change their thinking patterns) and because of Amy, my therapist's, unrelenting determination to push me past every limit I thought I had. How I never ran out of tears blows my mind. That goodness happened in spite of the broken system in which she works. It's all out on the table now. I know. I believe my trauma is no better (or worse) than any one else's. But it is mine. And I guess now it's wrapped in a package with a nicer bow.<br />
<br />
I came here feeling like a failure, and there are certainly still hints of that. But just hints. Looking back, there are times in the past when I wish I would have been stronger. Or weaker. Or cried. Or just let it go. I started doing that here. There have been times (even here) when I've felt defective, like every patient (all 17 of them) was "getting it" (whatever "it" was, anyway) and I was stuck alone in a dark, empty place. Perhaps by choice.<br />
<br />
There were times here when I slept for hours, somehow allowing the burden of the past 10 years or so slide through my toes and out from under my thin, white institutional bed sheets. Or when I've been in yoga, holding downward facing dog or shavasana, tears streaming down my face, knowing that it's not strength that's kept these feelings of hurt, betrayal, sadness and frustration buried so deep. It's been fear. Fear of not knowing how to deal with feelings in a constructive way. Fear of allowing...maybe even inviting...someone to love me unconditionally. Fear that when I admitted to signing divorce paperwork served to me by a man I may always love for his good intentions, I would be viewed as a failure (a two time failure) in everyone's eyes. Thinking. Always thinking that the opinions of other are more important than my own.<br />
<br />
I've let that go. That stays in Salt Lake City, a place that after this Friday (today), I never plan to re-visit. I want my hurt and sadness to stay here. I'm done being chased by sadness.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKE3dzi4-K1DRjUMBSeMGdhmgBnqkrLeUCleuVVlLtDhcW7cWQJ-cql0DvIrhU6rTJBTO3R10NbS4rgKMhfTK0QOQna2KrY28z_j7cZRsuuUcsO5_GnKIF8OYhGegotYicTInldaazPQOd/s1600/Lisa+Post+AFG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKE3dzi4-K1DRjUMBSeMGdhmgBnqkrLeUCleuVVlLtDhcW7cWQJ-cql0DvIrhU6rTJBTO3R10NbS4rgKMhfTK0QOQna2KrY28z_j7cZRsuuUcsO5_GnKIF8OYhGegotYicTInldaazPQOd/s320/Lisa+Post+AFG.jpg" width="253" /></a></div>
I didn't come here to change my life. I came here to match the me I felt in Afghanistan, living simply and loving every second of my job, to the me I want to feel every day in the future. I'm leaving here confirming what I knew when had my first post-Afghanistan panic attack...that going to Afghanistan was the best thing that ever happened to me...and also the scariest. ("It won't ever feel worse than this" Amy said to me over and over...and I hope she's right).<br />
<br />
It is in this moment that I've reached (rather, allowed myself to reach) a turning point in my life. Learning to live with the scars, the emotions, the regrets and the fear I accumulated both pre-and post-Afghanistan. Making that connection was my goal in Salt Lake City. I wasn't here to make friends or help others. Because I feared if I took that approach, I'd stay here for years and never talk about myself. I came here to challenge the unhealthy beliefs I've clung to for months, years and even decades...I came here with a dream to live a healthier life. To put even a two inch gap in the door jam (therapy-speak for slowing down my immediate response to an outside stimulant). To at least take a brief mental pause when my brain tells me "I don't deserve to receive benefits from the military" merely because my war scars are internal and others had it far worse. If I can think to myself at least 1% of the time that "I deserve compensation for the unique and dangerous service I performed in Afghanistan and my resulting PTSD" than maybe six weeks of fighting my own guttural reaction was worth my time. No, it was surely worth it. I have to learn not to resent the system for trying to help me after it's failed me in so many ways.<br />
<br />
If I can accept "Medication will help me through this rough patch and then my life has the potential to be so much happier" or "If I forgive myself for past mistakes, those who care about me are apt to do the same." If I believe those statements can ever be true (whereas when I arrived here, I believed they were always false), then I've made progress. And even an inch is progress.<br />
<br />
I found my voice again. I never, ever thought it could be so cathartic to drag and actual pencil across an actual piece of paper, cut off from the internet for six weeks. I cry when I write, not out of fear of the description and circumstances of the situation, but because I've learned to attach emotion and feeling to situations. On paper. The true test...the next step...is to give myself permission to speak the way I now allow myself to write.<br />
<br />
Physically, I judge myself and think I've had an atrocious and infuriating stay here. With no access to physical activity, I've gained weight, I've eaten a lifetime's worth of fried institutional cafeteria food, and I've felt the wrath of condescending nurse technicians threaten me if I didn't behave in their directed way. I'll leave all that crap here. And hopefully I can leave most of these 10 new pounds here as well. Or somewhere.<br />
<br />
But again physically, this institution, this tall building, locked doors, void of any aerobic exercise capacity, has taught me more about how to survive in the "real" world than perhaps I even learned in Afghanistan. I've literally lived like a snared wild animal learning to survive in captivity. Each night, I sat at my desk either reading or watching the sun set over the glorious Rocky Mountains. Trapped in a cage with up to 17 other overly-restless-pseudo-prisoners with little to no official programming from the time we returned from dinner at 5.45pm until we started to drift into a highly-medicated slumber around 9pm. There was no avoiding noise. Or crowds. Or stray hairs all over the floor. Shoes strewn across the living room. Class books tucked frantically into every nook and cranny on the ward.<br />
<br />
Physically, there is no safe, quiet place for me here. There is no escape. I've felt trapped, overwhelmed and anxious to all new levels, generously reflected in the new medications I've been prescribed and the new symptoms I've developed in treatment. And the difference, the magical difference now, is my extremely well-honed ability to mentally slip out from the walls of hell to find myself performing the 12-count cleansing breaths that begin every Bikram Yoga practice in any language in any country in the world.<br />
<br />
I'll spend the next three-and-a-half days driving through Salt Lake City, with 25 notecards listing my most troubling stuck points (again, therapy-speak for negative patterns of thinking that magnify my PTSD and depression) tucked into my purse. The big ones. The thoughts that haunt me the most and that have haunted me here. The ones that seem to force me to feel isolated, frustrated, ashamed, scared and confused. And I'll do my best to leave my evil stuck point cards all over the city. In coffee shops. Yoga studios. Restaurants, Hiking trails. National Parks. Churches. Temples. I won't litter them...I'll mindfully place them in locations best suited for such a purpose...garbage cans.<br />
<br />
I'm giving myself time to do that, and I used many of my remaining chips to transition back to work in such a unique way. To continue healing myself now that I think the hospital itself has given me all it's capable of giving. And maybe I'm not sad about that after all. I'm sad that getting a mental institution to do the right thing (focus on patient care) felt like a huge struggle. It was an extra brick on my already overbearing load. But even that was a great lesson to me. I picked fewer battles than I usually do.<br />
<br />
I've admitted before to expecting this hospital to "fix" me one delicious bite at a time. Such a thing...a dream...is completely unreasonable for any institution. But there were also a few people here (and at home) who cared so deeply that I now feel an overwhelming desire to make my best attempt to go live an amazing, happy life because I've been so inspired. Their joy was contagious. They know who they are.<br />
<br />
Six weeks is not enough to alone change the trajectory of my future. But six weeks, ugliness and all, has been enough to awaken me from my self-loathing pity party and to get me marching in the direction of a happier future. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I believe in the idea of a happier future. I have a backup plan. And a backup to the backup plan. And I guess in the end if I lose my compass, I'll just try to remember ow the old version of me would have responded, and I'll run like hell in the opposite direction.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>** This is the first entry in a retrospective series of life in a mental health institution. A special thanks to Keith Hudson Photography for perfectly capturing my post-Afghanistan self.</i></div>
Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-2214915857339492532012-04-25T14:34:00.000+02:002012-04-25T14:34:03.345+02:00Silent Lucidity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm in the middle of week seven of an eight week treatment program, and while the progress I've made over the past few weeks in particular is tremendous, my brain continues to focus on my personal failures rather than my many successes. I guess the difference now is that I recognize this character flaw as it's happening, and my negative way of thinking is evolving. Slowly, sure, but evolving.<br />
<br />
Every day here, I've walked into a classroom that feels like a minefield, and I've constantly feared the one misstep that would detonate the first in a series of daisy-chained bombs. Moreover, I was a thousand percent confident that my body wouldn't be able to withstand the blast. Except, well, those "bombs" are actually real-life events, and they're daisy-chained because the impact of one event radically distorted my response to the next similar event, which would unfold at some future unknown period time. I lived my life in fear of how my "body" might respond to the next traumatic impact, conveniently disregarding the fact that most impacts would be emotional (not physical) and that I actually had the power and ability to control my own reactions.<br />
<br />The greatest opportunity the Air Force has provided me is the chance to lead people in all kinds of situations. Once I discovered my fondness for leadership, I looked for other opportunities to lead. I found the perfect opportunity when in 2006 the local high school sent a base-wide email asking for a volunteer cross country coach. I'd been a runner for more than a dozen years, I love teaching, and I genuinely enjoyed sharing my passion for running with others. The head coach of the program was the most popular teacher in school, Mr. Turner, and though he had significant experience coaching basketball, he knew little to nothing about running. My experience and his personality were the perfect fit, and for an entire season, we watched a group of non-athletes develop into inspirational young runners. <br />
<br />In September of 2007, I returned to the high school to coach again with Mr. Turner. I'd spent the previous nine months studying coaching techniques, developing training plans to help our talented runners meet their potential, and testing ways to inspire our runners to become lifelong athletes. Mr. Turner had returned to school that year determined to change his own life, and asked me to also coach him into better physical condition. I was thrilled.<br />
<br />During our first practice of the season, Mr. Turner headed out on a run with the team for the very first time. He died of a heart attack about one mile into a three mile run. Two of our youngest runners heard him gasp "Oh God," grab his heart, and watched as he collapsed to the ground. He fell directly outside the school's perimeter fence, which was locked for security and angled with barbed wire at the top to prevent intruders. The only problem was that this time, the so-called intruders were the people running on the school's track who watched Mr. Turner fall and were unable to help him because of the fence, instead watching in aggravated horror. <br />
<br />We arrived at the track following our run, and I collected the kids in our gazebo, telling them that I didn't know what happened to Mr. Turner, but that as soon as I knew, I would tell them. By now, the school's administration was buzzing with activity, chasing the 150 or so students (football players, cheerleaders, runners) into the cafeteria because they couldn't figure out a way to shield them from the sight of their favorite teacher laying on the pavement 400 meters away. Mr. Turner, an American, had collapsed in downtown Germany, outside of the base, and it took the American and German authorities almost four hours to determine jurisdictional authority. In the meantime, Mr. Turner rested peacefully on the sidewalk, covered in a black sheet, his wife kneeling by his side. <br />
<br />The school principal walked into the cafeteria, nonchalantly declared "Mr. Turner is dead" into the microphone, and started to walk away. The cafeteria erupted into absolute chaos. My runners were in complete shock, as were each one of the students in that room. And every adult in the room.<br />
<br />I watched, in baffled silence, and took it all in. "This is my fault," I kept telling myself. "All last season, I teased Mr. Turner for not running with the team. And on his first day of running with us, he dropped dead." <br />
<br />The kids were all picked up by their families. I sat on the track in complete silence, tears streaming down my face, and watched for three hours, apologizing to Mr. Turner as his body remained in the exact position as it had been when he fell. By maybe 8:30pm his body was taken away, and I no longer felt obligated to stand watch. I walked to my car, hopeless and shaking while the clouds opened up and delivered a tremendous rainstorm. I got into the car and thought about the 45 minute drive home. I couldn't do it. So I called the Chaplain and begged for them to send someone to the chapel on this base to help me.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuVVeBkGHTpGMhXc6efFJWuU0BJ1XK6xUudQUjpe3IBb-aJ_4v77vUKhqNprd_0eRot1s0bkRrISKpxJppLHKn2lvSsj9qzYuaSA1XfcgYSj55LArYEcD-5B4isVonlWK_xRnRPRg6ObG/s1600/Turner's+Burners.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuVVeBkGHTpGMhXc6efFJWuU0BJ1XK6xUudQUjpe3IBb-aJ_4v77vUKhqNprd_0eRot1s0bkRrISKpxJppLHKn2lvSsj9qzYuaSA1XfcgYSj55LArYEcD-5B4isVonlWK_xRnRPRg6ObG/s320/Turner's+Burners.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
I never really talked about how I felt about what happened that day to anyone until this week. At the time, it was obvious to me that the kids needed a coach and leader, and I was proud to have such an incredible opportunity to help them transform adversity into strength. That season, I watched my runners, who named themselves Turner's Burners in honor of their fallen coach, take on the world. The girls were recognized as the fastest team in Europe. One of our boys finished in the top five fastest in Europe despite being weighed down by the flu on the day of the biggest race of his high school career. How could I possibly need help when the kids I was coaching were so talented and strong?<br />
<br />
Turner's Burners were then and are now truly inspiring, and so many of them and their parents still touch base with me four years later. I've been thinking about them in particular this week as I've watched one of the senior girls from that season graduate from college, another senior boy (and his wife) have their first baby, two of the younger runners join the Air Force and Navy respectively, and my lone eighth grader from that year apply to and be accepted into college.<br />
<br />
That ten week season was, until Afghanistan, both the most challenging and the most rewarding professional experience in my career...and it had nothing to do with the Air Force except a majority of my runners have Air Force parents. It leveraged everything I love about the Air Force into a series of some my very favorite memories.<br />
<br />
And now I look back four years later, amazed at the strength those incredible kids demonstrated during such a challenging time, and draw from their strength as I continue reassemble my own life into some version of manageable. Each day of these eight weeks feels like a Saturday morning cross country race...I know I've trained properly, I know that my body is prepared for the task, but when the horn sounds the beginning of the race, my brain seems to respond in a shock-filled paralysis instead of with a graceful stride. <br />
<br />
At the end of each race, regardless of my performance, I imagine my teammates commending me for making a solid effort, which then inspires me to train harder...which is exactly what I watched the kids do for each other instinctively that season. And at the end of the season, I hope that I, like Turner's Burners in 2007, will have the personal courage to set and achieve magnificent personal goals in the face of daunting adversity. </div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-62196922899642935062012-04-10T20:54:00.001+02:002012-04-10T20:54:58.205+02:00Every Girl Like Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My life is colored by so many of the incredible people and experiences I've encountered in my 32 years of globetrotting adventures. But sometimes, and yes I am admitting this, I have a knack for looking all over the world for inspiration when in fact the most mesmerizing events are unfolding right under my nose. And such has certainly been the case as three unbelievably strong women have made brief (yet dramatic) appearances in my life over the past few weeks. My therapist likes to tell me that we have friends for a reason, a season or a lifetime. Below are the stories of three women who walked into my life for a reason...and whose stories will always be a reminder of inner strength and resiliency.<br />
<br />1. Jenny. She was a nursing school student in Iowa in 2004 when her young husband, an Army Specialist, was hit in Iraq. And by hit, I mean his body was torn apart in his unarmored HMMWV, burning 80% of his skin and changing every minute of the future they had imagined together. Unphased, she visited him at the Brooks Army Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas every month for two years using frequent flier miles donated by community members from her hometown. Jenny stood by his side as other wives, overwhelmed by grief, left their battle-scarred husbands to fend for themselves in the maze of an underprepared military medicine beaurocracy. She shared her story as we overlooked a beautifully green golf course in Germany, the trees swaying in the gentle March breeze, and the sun bouncing off of her Ray-Ban rockstar sunglasses. Jenny glowed as she told me about her husband, bragging that he still "spoils me rotten" more than eight years later, and just that morning he'd woken up early to make her coffee. He left her a travel mug with a quick note wishing her a great weekend, which she was spending out of town on a work project. She's stunningly beautiful in a way that exudes confidence and inner peace. I had to coerce the story out of her...she just didn't think it was a big deal that she'd stood by the man she loved through his traumatic journey from the battlefields of Iraq, through the medical system, and then back into life as an Army transition expert still on active duty today. "I can't believe how lucky I am," she told me, with her genuine smile. "I appreciate him more now than I ever did before. He might look different now to other people, but to me, he's just as attractive as he ever was." I sat there, across the wooden picnic table from her, staring at my lunch and trying to put my own life into a perspective even one bit as healthy as the one that seemed to come so naturally to Jenny.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFQ06oAxy8uWHWB_kMqkugcz_WfSWH2o-7BhuRiutn5IFtDTM-tRniEiBeGwSzlvfI-9cVG7OuljhUH47H4ExGL50O7BjTL4Y9kT2RDxSFS5ZM8xq5WOawcN3TWsb1Yf7v7yXnOY6xJ7D/s1600/DSC_0032-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFQ06oAxy8uWHWB_kMqkugcz_WfSWH2o-7BhuRiutn5IFtDTM-tRniEiBeGwSzlvfI-9cVG7OuljhUH47H4ExGL50O7BjTL4Y9kT2RDxSFS5ZM8xq5WOawcN3TWsb1Yf7v7yXnOY6xJ7D/s200/DSC_0032-8.jpg" width="200" /></a>2. Charlotte. On our second week in the program, we participated in a retreat called Project Odyssey, a tribute to Homer's epic play in which Odysseus takes ten years to return to Ithaca after fighting in the Trojan War (and no, the irony of the city name is not lost on me). The retreat is sponsored by an organization called the Wounded Warrior Project, arguably the best kept secret for war veterans of the campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan. Charlotte, a social worker based in Florida, organized our retreat (which is sponsored entirely by public donations to the Wounded Warrior Project) with the primary intent of exposing us to healthy, new, adrenaline inducing activities at a lake not far from Landstuhl. We spent three days and two nights learning to golf, climb, scuba dive, shoot a bow and arrow and fly fish in classes all taught by local veterans, and she watched me like a hawk as I resisted every new activity. The thought of putting a mask on my face, jumping into the water and breathing through a tank was absolutely overwhelming...until, well, I stopped thinking about the worst thing that could possibly happen ("only fish breathe under water," I repeated over and over to myself) and just jumped in. As it turned out, scuba diving at the bottom of a dirty pool in Germany wasn't so bad after all (though next time I'd prefer to see colorful fish instead of human hairballs), and I had a knack for fly fishing, which I found to be both unexpectedly relaxing and incredibly thrilling at once. Charlotte and I didn't really talk much during the weekend...she just observed from the sidelines...but at the end of the weekend, she came up to me, looked directly at me and said "I'm so proud of you. You can do this, girl!" And in that moment, and after those excruciating first two weeks of treatment, she gave me the push I needed to buckle down and get serious.<br />
<br />3. Emily. Until the past year or so, I'd never found a way to incorporate yoga into my life. I'd tried a bunch of classes (and DVDs and Podcasts and everything else under the sun), but nothing had really stuck. When Jane and her best friend were in Europe over Christmas about 18 months ago, they dragged me, terrified, into a Bikram Yoga studio in Berlin where we practiced 26 poses in 105 degree heat for 90 minutes. Now we're talking! When I start to feel things spiraling into chaos, I drive the 90 or so minutes to Frankfurt and sweat myself silly, feel cleansed, and walk away beaming. I just figured that once I knew Bikram, nothing else would do. Then I met Emily...and she introduced me to Power Yoga. Like me, she's an Air Force veteran, and was a young cop when she was raped by a fellow Airman in her squadron. It was our final day of the retreat and she sat on her yoga mat in front of a room of 30 or so perfect strangers and told her story. She hadn't reported the rape at the time, and for 12 years the haunting memory of that day drove her every life decision. It was yoga that in her words "brought me back to life" so many years later. Connecting the mind, body and breath gave her control over 60 or so minutes of her life at a time, and as I sat there, I thought to myself "that's her equivalent of learning to breathe underwater," a skill I'd acquired just one day prior. I watched, transfixed, as she continued to talk, and eventually her words bled into my own internal monologue. I knew in that moment why I'd been "stuck" for so long, and for the first time I recognized that my journey back to being myself needed to start with a public admission of my own experience, and the impact I've allowed one bad night to have on every minute of my subsequent life in (and out of) the Air Force. <br />
<br />
I never imagined myself in an eight-week mental health program...it just didn't make sense. But tucked under the public shroud of self confidence and determination were some very painful and emotionally charged memories acting like a demagnitized compass and driving my every day into total unrest. So here I am, finding calm from the storm, and preparing at the same time to navigate my way safely through the changing weather when I leave the program in a few short weeks.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-84178390590945254772012-04-02T22:17:00.000+02:002012-04-02T22:17:19.193+02:00There's a Better Life for Me and You<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been a tricky past few days, which is to say I've invested a huge amount of emotional energy trying to render my black and white perception of reality into a full color tour de force. And in classic fashion, it only made sense to me that such an undertaking would consume no longer than one weekend, or perhaps three weeks of my life at the absolute most. It's now been three weeks and one day and I'm nowhere close to done...in fact, it feels like I've hardly started. Luckily I'm here five more weeks (and unluckily patience is my weakest virtue).<br />
<br />
Deciphering the monochrome is daunting because the shapes are perplexingly intertwined, making my task of injecting a bit of color into particular sections feel much like a game of Jenga. Under routine circumstances, it may be possible to inspect each individual block, determine the structural significance and act accordingly. But under the current conditions (and given the perceived time constraints), my game of Jenga has been repositioned from the stable dining room table to the San Andreas Fault, the 54 wooden blocks infested with termites, and the object of the game is now to remove the most critical rotting pieces before time runs out. Along the way, I need to start some type of extermination regimen, prevent future decay by laquering the newly freed blocks with a brightly colored waterproof paint, and gingerly re-insert them into the tower. <br />
<br />
The purpose of group therapy is to play this impractical game as a member of a team. As I look at the tower and start to consider which block to pull next, there are ideally five other players ready to help me see the three blind sides of the tower. But lately, I think I'm all alone (by choice or by chance), and the more isolated I let myself feel, the more willing I am to start tugging on one of the weight-bearing blocks just to see who (if anyone) will stop me, hardly considering the traumatic impact of such a choice.<br />
<br />
I pulled one of those critical pieces out last Thursday, and told a story to five near-strangers that before that day was known to less than five people in the world, if I include the Air Force Colonel who taught me early in my career that such things would be normal (and therefore acceptable). What I didn't consider was my audience...at least my in-person audience...that morning. I had dropped a grenade, pulled the pin, and ducked for cover. It took about five hours before detonation, and by the time it hit that afternoon, I was extracting shrapnel from unmentionable places...a process I continued throughout the weekend.<br />
<br />
The decisions leading to my personal disclosure last week were a profound lesson on why my journey through Landstuhl, triggered by post-traumatic stress, applies in every aspect of my life. It's taken me 32 years to sketch this picture, and I've relied primarily on a thick-lined black Sharpie. I now see how perhaps drafting first in pencil may have been more, well, practical, and how shading would have also been appropriate. <br />
<br />
Last week, I trusted five people with one of my most haunting memories, which could have been okay, except I'd distanced myself from said audience since the day I arrived here. I came into the program with the flawed notion that our group table is a community landfill, where organic and non-organic trash would decompose at the same rate. It's not that I tossed in a plastic bottle and everyone else has been dumping banana peels. The flawed quantum leap I made was thinking the mere act of sitting six people in a room automatically builds a community under these circumstances, knowing full well (through hard-earned experience) that such is not the case in the real, non-treatment world. <br />
<br />
Somehow, and I'm still not sure how, I decided that I deserved access to the landfill without paying the requisite taxes. And that, right there, is the perfect metaphor to explain the combustion of so many things in my own little reality since my return from Afghanistan.<br />
<br />
I came to Landstuhl three weeks ago, proud of myself for claiming eight weeks of "me" time. In truth, what I'd signed up for is an eight week exercise in laying the foundation then framing my dream house...and helping five other people do the same. I assumed, and wrongfully so, that I could contract out the difficult parts, watching from the sidelines as the "experts" did all of the heavy lifting. What I know now is the very thing that makes my new house so special is the investment of blood, sweat and tears. Not only my own, but also those shared by five fellow warriors who have also been to hell and back, each in his own way, and each returning with his unique perspective.<br />
<br />
It's taken three weeks to see the three blind sides of the Jenga tower. Just now I'm starting to see similarities between the blocks erroding in my tower and those in the towers of the guys on my left and on my right. So maybe...no definitely...the best way for us to start to transform these termite-infested time-bombs into liveable homes is to take it one small step at a time.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-15220677641442072062012-03-28T22:23:00.000+02:002012-03-28T22:23:32.730+02:00Somebody that I used to know<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've never been in a position to analyze every aspect of my life for eight hours a day, five days a week for eight weeks in a row. And now, after 10 years of complaining how I gave my soul to the Air Force and got very little in return, I must admit that the support I've received from across the Air Force (including, for the first time in my career, from my chain of command) has been overwhelming in a positive way. <br />
<br />
Picture standing in an enclosed room and kicking a hornet's nest while wearing the sweetest perfume imagineable. There's nowhere to hide from the angry critters newly (and unexpectedly) unleashed from their comfortable nest. At first, there's a sense of shock..."oh my God what have I done," followed by "this is gonna hurt," and then finally a realization (at least in my case) that "I kicked that nest on purpose, so this is clearly happening for a reason."<br />
<br />
Those hornets are memories (some quite traumatic), spanning some 30-odd years, 16 household moves on three continents, and a tour in Afghanistan. When I say it that way, it's daunting to think that I survived this long without a mental break. I did, and that's good. But a little more than two weeks ago, I recognized that the level of help I needed return to the world as a productive member of society was well beyond what one hour of therapy one day a week could provide.<br />
<br />
My therapy assignment for this week is much more challenging than anything I've tackled before, and is possible only because of the incredible treatment I've received since arriving at Landstuhl's Evolution Program...write a letter to someone you lost. And the person I've lost who I've missed the most for the past 13 or so years is...myself.<br />
<br />
Dear Lisa,<br />
<br />
It's been too long since we made time to talk, and I've missed the joy and passion you shared with everyone around you for so many years. Sometimes I think you forget what an incredible person you were before you headed to college, and I think it's time to remind you of the you I remember so fondly. <br />
<br />
You were always an athlete, playing softball, basketball, gymnastics, swimming, riding your bike, and leading other neighborhood kids in outdoor games. Remember the schoolhouse you built for Maria in our basement, where you patiently taught your little sister everything you knew, sitting her at the desk, and drawing lessons on the chalkboard? I knew then that you'd pick a career where you felt like you could make a difference...and you have.<br />
<br />
I know that growing up in a Navy family was hard, and I'm sure that if we all had it to do over again, we'd make more time to spend together as a family admidst Dad going out to sea for six months at a time and Mom managing the house as the Navy moved us from place to place. <br />
<br />
What I admire about you is ever since you were a teenager, you've always kept a tight-knit circle of friends by your side, and many of them remain your closest friends today...a true testament to your ability to reach out and connect with others.<br />
<br />
But it's in high school, particularly your junior and senior years, when you blossomed and were the happiest I've seen you. Pieces of your art and photography hung in museums in Washington DC and you were recognized for your exceptional talent by teachers and later college admissions officers who lured you to their universities by offering you scholarships to study at their institutions. Teachers praised your writing skills, and you took great pride in everything you created. That same year, Loren challenged you to run on the high school's distance track team. You'd never run further than down the street, and by the end of the season, you were running 7 and 8 miles a day. You left for college glowing and confident...determined to face whatever the world had to offer.<br />
<br />
And just as clearly as I can recall those great joys, I also remember exactly when we lost touch. It was your second year in college. There was no way to predict that your first serious romantic relationship, and one with a fellow Air Force ROTC cadet, would end in a date rape in your dorm room early that spring. Though your military leadership said over and over that it was your fault, and I think you recognize now, 13 years later, that nothing you ever said, did or wore made you deserving of such a crime.<br />
<br />
As you entered active duty, I watched as you found solace in helping the Air Force establish their Sexual Assault Prevention program, meeting with more than 2,000 military women, hearing their stories, and filling a void by building a support community where there was previously nothing. But then I watched as you gave up on the things that brought you the greatest joy...art, photography, writing, sports...instead, drowning yourself in work you found unfulfilling, in relationships with no future potential, and in your personal quest to be "the best" at everything you attempted at all cost. You ran, just as you did in high school, this time not for enjoyment, but rather as a way to escape the pain and remind yourself of happier times.<br />
<br />
For some reason, and maybe I'll never understand exactly why, Afghanistan brought back the you I'd missed for so long...the one who finds joy in little things jumping on trampolines, who isn't afraid to say what she means, and who makes choices that lead to personal happiness, instead of basing so many decisions on what others may think and feel.<br />
<br />
You know who you are, and you've known that person for as long as anyone who loves you can remember...but now the challenge is to embrace that true, gleeful, intelligent and passionate version of yourself. Don't lose sight of your ultimate goal...to live a happy and fulfilling life. One with no regrets being surrounded by people who love and appreciate you for who you are and not who they wish you could be.<br />
<br />
Watching you come back to life is like discovering the volume switch on the radio. A beautiful song has been playing quietly for years and years, and just recently did the crescendo begin. Use these next five weeks, then five months, then five years...and then a lifetime...living in the way that keeps you the happiest, making choices that keep you happy, and dreaming of all the great things to come.<br />
<br />
It's a tough world out there, but you've taken the first step. You see what you've been missing. Now just get out there and do what you do best...make it happen.<br />
<br />
I'll be watching. And cheering.<br />
<br />
-- me</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-53674985397604630832012-03-14T16:40:00.000+01:002012-03-14T16:40:18.066+01:00You Can Ring My Bell<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Post traumatic stress for me has looked and felt a whole lot more like post deployment paralysis. The only way to describe it is to imagine a dunk tank at a carnival...the one where people pay a few dollars to throw a series of round softball-like objects at a target, and a successful hit lands someone into a tank of dirty water right after a distinct gasp and splash. Every day I'm balancing on the edge of a triggered seat, swaddled like a mummy but in a dark, soft blanket. Below me is an aquarium as large as an Olympic swimming pool with clear glass walls, populated by a few schools of friendly fish and a small group of sharks. <br />
<br />
As I balance on my wobbly perch, an endless line of people slowly walk past, each lobbing a round object at a tiny little bullseye a few feet away from me. Some of the objects are small enough that I feel the seat slightly quiver when they hit the target, and though I hold my breath anticipating the worst, I don't fall. Some objects make a whistling sound as they approach the target. I have no idea how many hit equals a dunk into the pool, so before each pitch I inhale and every muscle in my body contracts, bracing for impact.<br />
<br />
Plunging into the water should be a relief, but I'm swaddled. Above water the swaddle was perfect...I felt safe and warm. But under water, my arms and legs are tangled and I think my only hope for survival is for a vicious shark to gently nip at the cloth, releasing me to swim to safety. <br />
<br />
The spash of my body smacking into the water causes everyone in line, hundreds of people, to congregate around the tank, each one yelling what they think is helpful advice, but their voices all blend together through the glass and water, and I hear the words only as a roar of chaotic noise. <br />
<br />
Post traumatic stress disorder is a body's normal response to an abnormal sequence of events. My brain has learned to associate what were formerly normal objects and circumstances with my most vivid emotional memory of those objects and circumstances. A ringing cell phone puts me right back on the main road leading to our base in Afghanistan. We watched someone throw a cell phone out of a car window about 100 meters in front of us, and heard a dull thud as it failed to set off what we assumed was the intended IED underneath our vehicle. The metallic clank of doxens of pieces of newly cleaned silverware being dried and sorted in a restaurant brings me right back to the Afghan dining facility where I pulled my weapon, later second and third guessing myself into hysterics wondering if I had responded in the "right"way.<br />
<br />
The most interesting analogy I've heard is that PTSD responses are much like the responses conditioned into Pavlov's infamous dogs. The dogs learned to associate a ringing bell with food. Suddenly, the ringing bell no longer meant food, and at first their mouths, still thinking "bell equals food," salivated in eager anticipation. And only over time did they unlearn that association, now recognizing that a ringing bell is indeed just a bell.<br />
<br />
It's been more than three months since I returned from Afghanistan, and the ringing bell still indicates food to me. The first few weeks, I hid from the bell, asleep in bed, hardly ever leaving the house. Then I tried to avoid the bell as Melissa and I travelled a few thousand miles across two continents. First, I tried to hide in my office, drowning the noise in work. When that failed, Rob tried to protect me from the ringing bell for the past few weeks as we flew from Germany to New York to San Francisco and back again. But at the end of each day, the ringing bell still made me salivate, thinking food was just a few seconds away.<br />
<br />
The stand-off ended three days ago, when I entered an intensive PTSD program at the military hospital about 20 minutes from home. I came here voluntarily, and through the encouragement of those closest to me both professionally and personally. So for the next eight weeks, I hope to find some peace through methods I would have never associated with military counseling...art therapy, yoga, and classes on brain function, spirituality, relationships, addiction, and on and on, plus more (and higher quality) individual talk therapy than I would have received under any other set of circumstances.<br />
<br />
Eight weeks will likely not be enough to make the bell stop ringing completely, but since my full time right now is to heal, I am determined to turn down the volume. Or at least to begin to regain control of who and what can ring my bell. </div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-21247250571545340392012-02-21T22:30:00.001+01:002012-02-21T22:39:27.105+01:00The Calculus of Coming Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">This week's homework assignment for my therapist was deceivingly simple...answer the question "Why me?" with an answer more insightful than "Why not?"<br />
<br />
I've said it before and I could say it a hundred more times. When I was 19, I volunteered to serve my country, not really understanding what I had gotten into. Seeing the military in it's most pure form (at war) made me feel like an upside down snowglobe, waiting for the fog of plastic snowflakes to settle to reveal some magnificent landscape. Reality is a total white-out right now, and I feel like someone spun me like a top and now I'm stumbling to walk in a straight line to the exit door.<br />
<br />
Why me? Because it took drastic measures...the three days of notice, the 9 weeks of pre-deployment training, the adrenaline of being in a warzone for 6 months, the amazing people I met along the way, and the shock of reintegration into reality...for my stubborn brain to finally face some harsh realities. Realities that have been hiding for years under the treads of my Nikes, at the end of 16 digits imprinted on a piece of plastic, or at the bottom of a tall Starbuck's latte. This is happening because until last April, I maintained absolute control over nearly every detail of my life. Then suddenly I didn't...and instead of that making me furious (my own anticipated outcome), my loss of control was the most liberating thing that ever happened to me. And that made assimilating myself right into my former life not only painful but downright impossible.<br />
<br />
It's no secret to those who know me best that I have this underlying urge to be a people-pleaser, all the while scorning such behavior in others. I guess my own act was so convincing that over the years I managed to fool myself into thinking it was genuine. Or something. I needed to be everyone's "person," their best friend and confidante. In my Air Force life, I am guilty of some covert political wrangling, carefully aligning myself with the "right people" at the "right times" without appearing (to myself) to be manipulative. It's a dirty game we all seem to play in this warped game of reality that is life as a military officer.<br />
<br />
But at the end of the day, advice from a near stranger after four weeks at Fort Polk still makes the most sense, and has unlocked my answer to the question of "why me?" Before I met this Army officer, no one was ever brave enough to tell me that I was trying too hard, but I'm sure they noticed. Maybe it was just glaringly obvious right then, an experienced Army infrantryman watching an outsider struggling to assimilate into his world in a few short weeks. That was far beyond anything resembling my comfort zone. So I overcompensated. And he called me on it during a four hour conversation which began around midnight.<br />
<br />
"Lisa, you have got to stop trying to prove yourself and just be yourself," he'd said to me in an exasperated voice I would only tolerate from a bonafide badass, cigarette in one hand, beer in the other, sitting on the corner of the dirt road that led to our laundry trailer. It was probably three in the morning and his words buzzed around me like mosquitoes, lingering in the humidity, their wings quivering in the otherwise noiseless night.<br />
<br />
In my mind I was tough as nails, but in reality I was uncomfortable in my own skin, a paradox that was not lost on me in the least as I sat in my Afghan connex some six months later, where for the first time in my adult life I gave myself permission to get lost in my own head. For ten years I had been successful in the Air Force in spite of myself, somehow convinced that the only way to stand out was if I was willing to work harder than anyone else...and I was. Every day it felt like I, the English major, was trying to solve the quadratic equation with no idea of the values of a, b or c, where x equaled happiness and, well, the calculus of life just became too overwhelming...so instead I deferred to basic math. Five miles (by foot) plus eight ounces (by mug) plus 20 milligrams (by pill) equaled a version of happy that would just have to suffice at the moment. <br />
<br />
Why me? Because Afghanistan was somehow the math professor who spoke English instead of Russian. The equations were no longer written in the Cyrillic alphabet. And the values of a, b, and c seemed like things I would possibly understand if I could just have a little more time to study. And if I made a conscious decision to apprentice under Issac Newton or John von Neumann instead of studying with a Teacher's Assistant.<br />
<br />
So why me? Because why not? I'm ready. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I've lived the most honest version of my own life, but in my mind, that was only possible in Afghanistan and isn't yet attainable in reality. I can also say that in my eyes, anything that gets me just one step closer to understanding the quadratic equation for happiness is worth every bit of the struggle. And solving for x is a journey I'm ready to take.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-31623148483950428252012-02-07T20:19:00.002+01:002012-02-07T20:37:03.760+01:00To Support and Defend<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There are a lot of new people in my life lately. It's certainly no secret that for years and years I've used my closest friends as sounding boards, but lately it's been glaringly obvious that professional sounding boards are much better equipped to help me sort through the rainbow of emotions that followed me home from Afghanistan.<br />
<br />
Over the past month, I've averaged roughly 90 minutes of professional counseling a week, derived from various sources. Before Afghanistan, the social and career stigmas of therapy were unwanted blemishes on the perfect (though rather disingenuous) life I was living. I'm an excellent talker. I'd also like to think of myself as an excellent writer. But as it turns out, writing about my personal struggles (at the command of my therapist) has been overwhelming.<br />
<br />
For a week I've been staring at my "homework," a white 3 x 5 index card on which my assignment was painstakingly scribbled, not by me, but by the person to whom I have to answer tomorrow afternoon. I've carried my assignment in my pocket everywhere I've gone, and though it's now tattered, it's no less daunting.<br />
<br />
"I have a homework assignment for you," he said at the end of my last session. "Write about the most traumatic event, and note how the event impacted on your views of yourself, other people and the world. Talk about why you think this event happened to you, and how the event has changed your views about yourself, other people and the world."<br />
<br />
Yeah, that's easy. Just sift through nine months of memories, each mildly traumatic in a unique way, some positive...some negative, and pick the most significant one. And I'm back to old habits. My "homework" is due tomorrow at 11am, and it's taken me until now to piece together my thoughts...the pressure of a deadline never fails.<br />
<br />
And what it came down to is that it's one thing to prepare for war, shooting rubber bullets and paintballs, and pretending the various pests (both human and otherwise) in Louisiana were the enemy. But for me, nothing stirred more authentic trepidation than knowing I was flying into a country where the enemy could be anyone, anywhere, anytime.<br />
<br />
I boarded the United States Air Force aircraft headed into Afghanistan with 15 guys who had spent an extraordinary amount of time over the past 60 training days teaching me everything they knew. I admit to nerd-like qualities, which were immeasurably beneficial as I basically sought to become fluent in my personal equivalent of Swahili in 9 weeks. I felt safe on that airplane...flanked on either side by my favorites of the young mentors.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_hlGIbh_M5tAOF5QZoLSZ3y4Mhyphenhyphen700-JtwRSxybi6ROODTSSw93L6YKnrFfA-Y3HFX_nwg7mkHapsRdgicgc1wdM4tw14xg6jt0xpyTBfq6NYYXq1rNDUeJa_93R10rz1iqgsm6GRUg6/s1600/Dad+Swearing+me+In.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_hlGIbh_M5tAOF5QZoLSZ3y4Mhyphenhyphen700-JtwRSxybi6ROODTSSw93L6YKnrFfA-Y3HFX_nwg7mkHapsRdgicgc1wdM4tw14xg6jt0xpyTBfq6NYYXq1rNDUeJa_93R10rz1iqgsm6GRUg6/s200/Dad+Swearing+me+In.jpg" width="142" /></a></div>"Ladies and gentlemen, we have entered the combat zone," declared the Loadmaster, who was all of maybe 22. And then, it was real. Just eight months earlier my father put his United States Navy uniform back on and swore me back in as a Major in the U. S. Air Force, and in my oath I had sworn to "support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic." I'd taken that same oath each time I was promoted, but somehow those words seemed hollow for a personnel officer, sitting in a comfortable, safe office, away from any real danger, living an Air Force life governed by email, Power Point slides and staff meetings, where my job was to "support and defend" the Almighty Dell.<br />
<br />
I entered the combat zone on the 2nd of July, and even now on my toughest nights, that Loadmaster's declaration of danger still reverberates in my ears. And as I sat in my tiny little airplane seat that afternoon, I had no idea of the true meaning of "support and defend." I know now, and returning to that same Dell-driven monotony I left behind months ago has proven a significant undertaking.<br />
<br />
Exiting the combat zone was anti-climatic by comparison, and it lacked the closure I now think may have been helpful in returning to my former life. This time I was alone, hidden among a large Air National Guard unit redeploying to somewhere in the central United States, holding in my lap the same black bookbag with the same pink and white polka dotted ribbon tied on top I'd clutched some 160 days earlier, heart racing, ears ringing. This time there was no Loadmaster declaring that we had "exited the combat zone." We landed. It was cold and snowy. I was exhausted. We dragged our bags full of combat gear in circles like an army of ants. We slept. We woke up again, dragged more bags in circles, returned our protective equipment to the United States Army, and then waited. And waited. And waited.<br />
<br />
Before I was sent to Afghanistan, I couldn't fathom "real" danger. The best way to describe wartime danger is to imagine a wooden rollercoaster at an old amusement park, and listening to the soothing sound of the gears grinding as the car slowly chugs up the hill. That's the training. And then there's a moment of utter silence. The arrival. Your stomach muscles tighten. You draw a quick inhale, and your stomach drops as you're physically shaken all the way down the hill. Except there aren't restraints. And the hill never ends. And it feels like you're secured with dental floss, wrapped around your lap a thousand times, and every so often another strand snaps free and you feel one step closer to flying uncontrollably out of the car.<br />
<br />
That's what it feels like to be outside-the-wire, to "support and defend," and to know that the only way to arrive safely the bottom of the hill is through patience, vigilance and a whole lot of Groundhog Days.<br />
<br />
And getting off that outside-the-wire rollercoaster feels a lot like walking on flat ground after spending an afternoon on rollerskates. Every step feels awkward at first, but then a brain that has walked on flat ground for 32-odd years remembers the sensation of picking up one foot after the other and moving forward. That mind is willing to talk about every single step, and about why establishing closure to those memories is so important.<br />
<br />
That's why I went to war. I had always sworn to "support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic." Ten months ago, I had no idea what that meant to me. I know now.<br />
<br />
It changed me. I've braver now, and my confidence feels earned. I'm brave enough to write my own advice for myself, and not to worry about what anyone else might think.<br />
<br />
Be yourself...the rest will work itself out. Through patience, vigilance and a whole lot of Groundhog Days.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-15623205120330591422012-02-02T22:32:00.004+01:002012-02-02T22:59:33.182+01:00It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have been home for 51 days, and in that period of time I've written one blog. I said I thought it would be hard to reintegrate into my old life, and as I suspected, I've experienced those 1,200 something hours across the most broad spectrum of emotions you can imagine. The first three weeks were spent in hibernation at home, sleeping, unpacking, and reacquainting myself with real-world responsibilities (like grocery shopping and putting gas in the car). The next two weeks were spent with my best friend of 18-odd years, Melissa, globetrotting from Germany to Portugal to Paris to Morocco to Luxembourg, which has in the past brought me great joy, so it wasn't a stretch that I assumed the same would be true this time. The past week as been spent trying to adjust to being back at work and to having Rob home with me again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYLD9JrwLuc5Kxx2awDK_oH7h5mNfgg-fajj-5Y8XicZp7drz8wAV23Oeyn0cDk_c96rj00_ddGTbw0CRnfLYr_GCyOJcPyiOJIoPhAUvJTZUw8Ki_9XGnEXJLZmwo_dfmOM6NZOfx_Xk/s1600/Marrakech+Lisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYLD9JrwLuc5Kxx2awDK_oH7h5mNfgg-fajj-5Y8XicZp7drz8wAV23Oeyn0cDk_c96rj00_ddGTbw0CRnfLYr_GCyOJcPyiOJIoPhAUvJTZUw8Ki_9XGnEXJLZmwo_dfmOM6NZOfx_Xk/s200/Marrakech+Lisa.jpg" width="142" /></a></div>To the rest of the world, the face of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder probably looks like an Army soldier whose limbs have been torn from his body during an improvised explosive device explosion. Or maybe it looks like Jessica Lynch, who was held in captivity for several days and underwent more than 30 surgeries to put her body back together. I always imagined that people who suffered from PTSD had been blown up, physically scarred, or watched insurgents fall as a result of a well placed round. I never in a million years imagined that I would come back from Afghanistan and experience a mental break that doctors now tell me was a clear indication of PTSD.<br />
<br />
It happened aboard a Ryanair airplane. Melissa was visiting, and it was very important to me to have her experience the closest accessible place that resembles where I (and her boyfriend, who is also in the Air Force), have spent a significant amount of time. When I booked the tickets back in November, I didn't really think about how insane it was for me to fly to a (relatively safe) Muslim country (unarmed) just after leaving another (extremely dangerous) Muslim country (where I had weapons and protective gear everywhere I went).<br />
<br />
It's a three and a half hour flight from Frankfurt-Hahn to Marrakech. I've been to Marrakech two other times - it's a magical city, it's beautiful, the weather is great, and it's cheap and easy to access. I was excited. We got onto the airplane, sat in our seats, and got settled for the flight. The airplane took off, we reached a cruising altitude, the seatbelt sign went off, and I started feeling sick. I've never been sick on an airplane in my life. I ran to the bathroom. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. My hands were clammy and gray. I was shaking. And nauseous. And terrified.<br />
<br />
I told the flight attendant that I would be in the bathroom indefinitely, just so that someone knew where I was. I crouched down into the dirtiest one foot by two foot space you can imagine between the door and the toilet. I raised the toilet seat, looked up at the ceiling, and started playing a game to distract myself.<br />
<br />
"Musicians by alphabet," I remember thinking to myself. "If I can just stop focusing on how sick I feel, maybe I'll be okay."<br />
<br />
ABBA, Beatles, Collective Soul, Dead Kennedys, Earth Wind and Fire, Frank Sinatra, Grateful Dead...<br />
<br />
Then I did it again with girl singers...Adele, Beyonce, Carly Simon, Diana Krall...<br />
<br />
It didn't help. The flight attendant tapped on the door every thirty minutes or so (I guess, since I wasn't wearing a watch) to make sure I was okay. After maybe two and a half hours, she brought me a Pepsi, and in broken English explained that "sometimes it helps...just try."<br />
<br />
It helped. I drank a 4 ounce Pepsi in about 30 minutes and wandered back to my seat, somehow managing to stumble my way through exiting the aircraft, navigating customs, stepping into the pre-booked transportation to the hotel, and getting Melissa settled at the hotel before I almost lost it again.<br />
<br />
I begged the owner of the hotel to walk with me to a Moroccan pharmacy to buy medication for what I decided at the time was either a parasite or food poisoning (both of which were feasible given my living conditions in Afghanistan). Armed with dime-sized antibiotic pills and some type of anti-nausea medication, both of which were to be taken three times a day, I made sure Melissa had an incredible time in Morocco...and I had one, too. It was probably one of my favorite trips of all time...minus the "incident."<br />
<br />
But the night before we left, the nausea returned. This time I bought a Coke, took two Dramamine, two Tylenol and a Benadryl before we boarded the airplane. I slept the entire way home.<br />
<br />
As we started driving home, I was back to my cheerful, non-carsick self, wondering quietly whether my "nausea" was really a panic attack, since it had mysteriously now disappeared once I'd re-entered familiar territory. We went to sleep and I showed up in the Mental Health Clinic on base the following morning.<br />
<br />
The psychiatrist there confirmed my premonition. I was exhibiting many more PTSD behaviors than I was willing to admit at the time. Being in confined spaces was a problem. Traveling in un-armored vehicles was a problem. Not having a weapon was a problem. Seeing people in uniform, even a physical fitness uniforms, was a problem, nevermind head scarves, call to prayer and everything else I associated with Afghanistan that I experienced in Marrakech. Having my back to the door was a problem. I had problems.<br />
<br />
The airplane incident had indeed been an anxiety attack, and he prescribed anti-anxiety medication to take as-needed to slow me down when that happened in the future. There were a series of days when I took the maximum three doses just to be able to function, though right now I am fine without them.<br />
<br />
And then, well, the floodgates opened. PTSD was the key that unlocked Pandora's Box of conflicted emotions which the experts explained to me were streaming out as a result of my brain trying to merge two worlds (Afghanistan and my real life) into my new reality. <br />
<br />
This is the part no one talks about. Coming back from war is difficult, and shocking. And humbling. And for me, it's also been embarrassing...because my PTSD stereotype was indeed the blown-to-bits Army dude. It surely wasn't me.<br />
<br />
Rob told me a joke this afternoon, and it's somehow the perfect description of what I think many people assume about combat veterans of wars without a clearly defined enemy and little public support.<br />
<br />
"How many Vietnam vets does it take to change a light bulb?" he asked.<br />
<br />
He paused and looked at me, wondering if I would be able to answer. I couldn't.<br />
<br />
"You wouldn't know," he said, "because you weren't there."</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-405977615896731732011-12-15T23:30:00.004+01:002011-12-15T23:35:02.315+01:00You don't have to go out, but you can't stay here<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Lisa," he asked. "What did you do in Afghanistan?"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I want to be normal again. And if the first few days are any indication, normal will take time and patience.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-11926856158606315052011-12-14T14:01:00.002+01:002011-12-14T14:09:40.592+01:00Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">As it turns out, this deployment ended in much the same fashion that it began...chaos, followed by a lull in activity, followed by more chaos, which ultimately delivered me back to Reichenbach-Steegen, Germany, the safest of any location in which I've been in the past 8 or so months.<br />
<br />
I was bound and determined to be patient at one of the military's largest transient bases. And I did well. For about 72 hours. I laid in bed endlessly, watching movies, chatting with friends, making travel plans. But on Monday I absolutely cracked. Why on Earth should I hang out in Wrong-a-stan when I could be hanging out in my own house with a nice glass of wine surrounded by friends?<br />
<br />
Both Rob and my friend Bryan offered to look up the military flight schedule, find me the name of an aircraft commander, and provide advice on how to find my way out of this transient situation. I picked up the phone at about 2am on Tuesday morning, calling blind to someone I'd never met, and somehow I convinced this extremely friendly pilot to take me home to Germany...at least 72 hours before the Air Force planned to let me do so.<br />
<br />
It was gently snowing in Wrong-a-stan, and upon hearing that my chariot awaited, I dashed to my tent, heated to 90 degrees and brimming over with more than 40 girls, grabbed my bookbag and sleeping bag (the only pieces of luggage I brought back from Afghanistan), clipped on my pink reflective belt, and bolted to meet the crew. It took another at least three hours to negotiate all of the details, but by about 5:30am I was sitting somewhat comfortably on the back of a C-17, in complete awe that my master plan panned out, and listening to the de-icing machines clear the snow from the fuselage of the airplane.<br />
<br />
There was something unbelievably special about this particular mission between Wrong-a-stan and Germany. This pilot was flying the remains of three American military members who had lost their lives fighting the war from which I was returning. Prior to my deployment, my job was to take care of these fallen heroes at Ramstein, where all of the American fallen transit en route to Dover Air Force Base so that my team can open their flag-draped transfer cases, re-ice the remains, re-seal the cases, and send them on their way.<br />
<br />
What a sobering end of my incredible journey to spend almost nine hours gazing at these three flag-draped cases and truly appreciating just how lucky I am to be returning home to see my friends and family. Somewhere in the world, the friends and family of these three fallen heroes are in a state of shock and mourning, a huge contrast to my own reunion emotions. It's a substantial flight between Wrong-a-stan and Germany, and about 30 minutes into the flight I managed to put down <i>Water for Elephants, </i>crawl into my sleeping bag and fade off to sleep.<br />
<br />
I picked my sleeping location deliberately. The three flag-draped cases were tied down in a U-shape near the front of the aircraft, their heads all facing in the direction of home. I curled into my sleeping bag, nestled carefully inside of the U, my head facing toward home, surrounded by these great Americans, and imagining how they would have felt to be on the exciting journey home that I was then experiencing.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxw5gjCLUOwd1htnhQ09y3Fy8vh-HWFKnkc3QMBseuio8IWZpJ9Njp6tNqrgOZU0w8kUOIjPd1Y5BbvcnwlME156-hFDBU_Zy81cWqg6QUDSvkVKSUz4WBPiDf-QDHOaLkZNboiJKkOEV9/s1600/Lisa%2527s+Home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxw5gjCLUOwd1htnhQ09y3Fy8vh-HWFKnkc3QMBseuio8IWZpJ9Njp6tNqrgOZU0w8kUOIjPd1Y5BbvcnwlME156-hFDBU_Zy81cWqg6QUDSvkVKSUz4WBPiDf-QDHOaLkZNboiJKkOEV9/s200/Lisa%2527s+Home.jpg" width="133" /></a>Those were, perhaps, my best eight hours of sleep since I began this journey more than eight months ago, and as I awoke, we were beginning our initial descent into Ramstein. As I stepped off of the airplane and onto the bus that led me to my first un-monitored step in a very long time, I was overwhelmed by the feeling of freedom...the same freedom those three fallen heroes had given their lives preserving.<br />
<br />
I chose breakfast for dinner my first night home...buttermilk waffles and eggs scrambled with cream. And I drank a glass of champagne to celebrate not only my return from Afghanistan, but also to celebrate the lives of the 1,836 American service members who have made the ultimate sacrifice in Afghanistan. May their lives inspire the next generation of American men and women to chose service as a way of life, and to help share our good fortune with those who were born into less fortunate circumstances.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-21922795005360997782011-12-10T12:13:00.003+01:002011-12-10T14:59:33.138+01:00Pushing Pause<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I'm in the glorious Kyrgyz Republic right now, and as it appears, I will be here for quite a few more days than I expected. And at first that was infuriating. I am one plane ride away from Germany, there are airplanes that fly to Germany all of the time from here, and because of their (strange) local policies, I have to wait for a specific airplane, But okay, now I'm here. It's not Afghanistan. It's not dangerous. I've turned in all of my Army-issued gear (I am now at least 80 pounds lighter) and now my time is uniquely mine.<br />
<br />
I have probably six books I'd like to read. I have a stack of movies I'm not opposed to watching. This is the land of milk and honey (there is free food all over the place...most of which is distinctly unhealthy). And I have plenty of reflecting to do on the past nine months and how it feels to transition from war to absolutely not war.<br />
<br />
So maybe these six or so transition days showed up in my life for a reason. Maybe someone out there knew that I was going to have a hard time making that transition when I walked back into a life full of independence and unlimited choices. <br />
<br />
My goal is to spend a few hours a day reflecting and writing. And a few more hours creating a memory book for myself where I weave the pictures I've taken while I've been away into the blog posts I've written. Then there's the concept of sleeping, restfully, for more than a few winks at a time.<br />
<br />
And a free one-week vacation. Thank you, Uncle Sam. We're just going to pretend that you know best.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-75384225534159400582011-12-08T18:41:00.000+01:002011-12-08T18:41:02.199+01:00I'm on my way home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's strange to be inside of an 8 x 10 foot shipping container and to be sad that tonight might be the last time I fall asleep under these "stars." It's also strange to think that there will be so many things I miss about living here, about Afghanistan and about the people I've met here. I almost feel guilty for admitting that, since returning home is suppose to be the joyous part of the deployment.<br />
<br />
But what people don't tell you is that returning home is the hard part. Even though I know that there are people at home who love and have missed me, it's still hard to walk away from a job that's this meaningful. It's hard to know that starting this weekend, Catalina Wine Mixer becomes Silver Bullet. It's hard to know that in a few days, someone else will be living in my Afghan Sanctuary. And it's really hard to know that I'm coming back to a job where the most dangerous aspect is, well, there really isn't one. At all. And after nine months of training for and preparing for the worst, it will be a hard transition to think that my real world problems will include the heat not working in our house (again) or my car battery that's currently dead. That seems to trivial compared to, say, the bomb that lit up downtown Kabul a few days ago.<br />
<br />
This deployment started and ended in almost the same way...with no time to think about or reflect on what's going on around me. I had two full days to get myself ready to leave Germany and head to Louisiana for training. Today the Army gave me my letter that authorizes my departure from theater, and the Air Force told me that they can't get me home until January. There is absolutely no way I'm hanging out in this shipping container (in all of it's Afghan glory) for another three weeks, so tomorrow morning, I will take matters into my own hands.<br />
<br />
At 6:30am I'll be sitting at the rotary terminal at our base awaiting a helicopter to take me to another Afghan base, to take me back to Wrong-a-stan to get me back to Germany. So what I need from all of you praying-type people is more travel luck than any one girl ever deserved.<br />
<br />
I've had the absolute most incredible experience since I've been out here. I can't believe I was paid to do the incredible things and live the incredible experiences I've lived while I've been in Afghanistan. To think that tomorrow that will all be a memory is a bit overwhelming.<br />
<br />
Think about me for the next 48 hours or so, please, and send me really good travel vibes. Though my adventure in Afghanistan is almost over, I think that there are some post-deployment changes that will be noteworthy enough to mention, so my intention is to keep writing. This has been my outlet while I've been in Kabul, and all of you have been the people who have kept me going. Knowing that there are some 70 people who read each of my entries has really made me appreciate the fact that people back home are interested in what we're doing out here and how we're doing it. And I hope that my experiences here have inspired others to seek out their passions as well.<br />
<br />
Travel updates forthcoming. And home, after 239 days on the road, is just around the corner.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-4261736235538094312011-12-07T11:46:00.000+01:002011-12-07T11:46:05.788+01:00Stuck in the Middle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Sometimes deployments are waiting games. We wait for the enemy to strike...and they do. Lately, in full force. Yesterday a suicide bomber killed at least 56 in downtown Kabul, though when Julia came to visit me one last time today, she said that the number appears to be closer to 300. No doubt that there were some really bad people in this country who do really terrible things to each other.<br />
<br />
Other times deployments are just plain lonely. I'm stuck in the middle now. I'm no longer on the team which has so defined my deployment. Instead, I'm alone, waiting for the Army to officially release me to go home, which may happen in the next 24 hours or so...or it might not. I'm watching the guys prepare for missions, review the intelligence reports, and talk about their jobs, and already I feel a sense of longing to be a part of that mission again. It's strange to think that the most dangerous thing I've ever done was also the most rewarding, and I have no doubt these past five months will be the defining time of my military career.<br />
<br />
Today it was time to say goodbye to the single most important person in my life in Afghanistan. Julia came to visit on Monday and cooked me the most delicious lunch, which we shared picnic-style on my floor. Today she came back for one final visit, and we spent the morning talking about our favorite memories and how much we've both changed over the past five months. She has even started to talk like me ("Seriously?" she asked me earlier). But more importantly, she's learning to think like a Western girl, and to demand the respect she so deserves. I could not be more proud.<br />
<br />
I left a letter in her bag, because saying goodbye while she was here would have turned into an absolute tear-fest:<br />
<br />
Dear Julia,<br />
<br />
We both know that I am terrible at saying goodbye, so instead I will say thank you. Thank you for helping me appreciate Afghan culture. Thank you for inspiring the women (our sisters) at Headquarters X.Y. to help each other and to wear their uniforms. And thank you for teaching me that a smart, beautiful woman can have a huge impact in any country. You have certainly done that here, and it has been my pleasure to work with you. One of my friends gave me the best advice when I came here. He said "Be yourself." So I give the same advice to you...be yourself. Get your TOEFL certificate and come to the U.S. with your beautiful daughter. Anything is possible if you want it badly enough. I'll be cheering for you.<br />
<br />
Much love,<br />
Lisa<br />
<br />
Julia and I agreed that before yesterday, it was sad to think that I would soon leave Afghanistan. Over the past few months, Kabul has become increasingly unsafe, particularly for women, so we now agree that now is the right time for me to leave, if ever such a time existed.<br />
<br />
I have so many incredible memories from my time with Julia in Kabul. I can only hope that I've had half the impact on her life as she's had on mine.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-6677020255729946602011-12-05T16:08:00.001+01:002011-12-05T16:16:20.264+01:00The End of the Catalina Wine Mixer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Yesterday was my last convoy. And it was the day that I had to say goodbye to people who have over the past five months literally changed my life...or at least my point of view.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Gub8h2zQ-uXjUTrjZu9_9e4-4QcmHEVs0RPJ7pCpL3uUqPH0XH0hNvhzIVu8imfSnIPXF0Ldz0ybk2PCZ3PmywjXKODgKGEJ10YrkjG0jY1esc68H0I4DAnTwngoPn05PwqVHsk0WfvA/s1600/All+of+Us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Gub8h2zQ-uXjUTrjZu9_9e4-4QcmHEVs0RPJ7pCpL3uUqPH0XH0hNvhzIVu8imfSnIPXF0Ldz0ybk2PCZ3PmywjXKODgKGEJ10YrkjG0jY1esc68H0I4DAnTwngoPn05PwqVHsk0WfvA/s200/All+of+Us.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Julia and I started at the Women's Center, where we met with MAJ Nadia to talk about our favorite memories and how proud we are of how much positive change we've seen in the women, who now look forward to wearing their uniforms and who now work together in little ways...finally! The women's meeting started, and though it was smaller than usual, it was full of people we have come to love and respect. We read the "sisters" letter to MAJ Nadia before the meeting, and she told us that hearing that letter made her feel like she was another world. She proudly read the letter to the letter to the women at the meeting, and even the illiterate women clutched the white envelope close to their hearts. Julia shed enough tears for a small army.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vEB8k7vg2tggPTVXWBWNwpZ-b_DoPVbd8VgiD7Q3jo4SJU9U2ly13eSnqTP90iQ3AttQ_xwU9I8lP-xCDFI1KWhKqotHBNZat7z8S-RI_Y4C_-611YIpIWNPTt8SOQmFLBM7xiAjajB3/s1600/Going+Away+with+COL+Z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vEB8k7vg2tggPTVXWBWNwpZ-b_DoPVbd8VgiD7Q3jo4SJU9U2ly13eSnqTP90iQ3AttQ_xwU9I8lP-xCDFI1KWhKqotHBNZat7z8S-RI_Y4C_-611YIpIWNPTt8SOQmFLBM7xiAjajB3/s320/Going+Away+with+COL+Z.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We ate lunch with the commander of the security unit on base, who has taken unbelievable care of me and Catalina during my time here. It was this commander, an Afghan Colonel, who volunteered his personal time and 10 of his soldiers to come protect us during our humanitarian missions. He invited me, Julia and John's former interpreter up for lunch which was spicy meat paddies of some sort with the most delicious bread I've ever tasted. We also reminisced about how much progress he's seen at our base over the past few months, and how he's enjoyed my team more than he enjoyed any other team with whom he's worked. Success, and the very best kind, since this incredible officer is a huge part of the reason this deployment (and our many adventures) has been so rewarding.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-1Hg2_bwrH1EI0jmtu49XyIWc5ao8Vth_upK_34dJ1MNxlRRYvY_w-xEHhAmOzfgoKoVINvnrgszRki9gZKsGwWo6VGsYtRUjqWhJBqHjnKGSjFh9Ymrk7Qk9omZmHHR8IoKj47stAIKL/s1600/Smiling+in+COL+Faqir%2527s+Office.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-1Hg2_bwrH1EI0jmtu49XyIWc5ao8Vth_upK_34dJ1MNxlRRYvY_w-xEHhAmOzfgoKoVINvnrgszRki9gZKsGwWo6VGsYtRUjqWhJBqHjnKGSjFh9Ymrk7Qk9omZmHHR8IoKj47stAIKL/s200/Smiling+in+COL+Faqir%2527s+Office.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Julia and I then wandered across the hall to meet with the Education & Training Officer, another of the senior officers I advised. Afghans love certificates, so I presented another appreciation plaque with American and Afghan flags and a certificate. We sat together on the couch, talking about how pleased he's been to share these past few months, just as we are here, talking about similarities between officers in our militaries.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwtNOKK842n1ojXaJbSiA7zfTKkUu5VxPyjBeackaVpktD8GxLfpcVy_Jqse1rG0esSLys-InM7k-0AipMXiIo5VWMKi1syfU72T85GKU9jxOaTSBksWent4c9nzqMYO_yH9paOIo4fgB/s1600/Lisa+and+Zahir.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwtNOKK842n1ojXaJbSiA7zfTKkUu5VxPyjBeackaVpktD8GxLfpcVy_Jqse1rG0esSLys-InM7k-0AipMXiIo5VWMKi1syfU72T85GKU9jxOaTSBksWent4c9nzqMYO_yH9paOIo4fgB/s200/Lisa+and+Zahir.jpg" width="200" /></a>And to end this spectacular day, we visited the G1 officer. This senior officer is the reason I was officially sent to Afghanistan in the first place. He and I share a background in human resources, and I've spent the past five months explaining Western personnel policies to him, while he's shared his experiences in the many militaries of Afghanistan to me. We've shared incredible conversations, he has grown to respect working with women in ways I wish other male Afghan officers would emulate, and he said the most wonderful thing to me as I left. He said that he thinks of me not just as his advisor, but also as his daughter. He bought me te most interesting Afghan costume jewelry, and insisted I model it for him.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkjdAH-t5ZiX1NpbCDseouK-j0vtuDlS8UEkU8lUbNfef8t-AvBNNe0kpM0Zt2rE1BmAJaqlAPFbKGDX0pFIWDsSmJJ89g2dgKNoz6y1XkbE4t38Hox-4x2WQhqA-6vWA8Xk72K1V4hax/s1600/The+Hug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkjdAH-t5ZiX1NpbCDseouK-j0vtuDlS8UEkU8lUbNfef8t-AvBNNe0kpM0Zt2rE1BmAJaqlAPFbKGDX0pFIWDsSmJJ89g2dgKNoz6y1XkbE4t38Hox-4x2WQhqA-6vWA8Xk72K1V4hax/s200/The+Hug.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>How do we measure success in Afghanistan? We measure it through hugs like this one, from a woman who wore her uniform yesterday for the first time ever. We measure it one person at a time. One heart. One mind. And we hope that those hearts and minds we've won will help turn the tide in Afghanistan. And in my time here, I hope that I've inspired a few Afghans (especially the women) to do just that...reach out and pay it forward by changing one point of view.<br />
<br />
I'll miss the people in Afghanistan. I'll miss Catalina Wine Mixer. And I'll miss the beautiful traditions...the hand shake and three kisses, the chai, and my new found affection for the most simple things in life. This opportunity was incredible, and I can only hope that those with whom I have worked have learned half as much from me as I have from them.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-49005963405652825462011-12-01T19:28:00.002+01:002011-12-01T19:32:06.732+01:00Please Come Home for Christmas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I consider myself fairly well grounded, well traveled, and relatively stable. Usually. The past few weeks, wow, I've been all over the place to the point that I'm now physically ill.<br />
<br />
Loren and I have been sharing some interesting conversations about the transition from war to peace. Until now, quite honestly, I had never really considered it. I mean, every day here I run convoys in combat. The month of November was the first month in quite some time where the bad guys in Kabul didn't mount a spectacular attack on Coalition Forces. I'm now down to an undisclosed amount of days in Kabul, and it's undisclosed because no one (including me) knows when I'll be out of here. But it will be soon...relatively speaking. And the reality of my transition from war to not-war is really sinking in.<br />
<br />
I haven't lived in the real world for more than eight months. For the past eight months, I have been focused on my physical safety in combat. I spent almost three months picking the brains of some really smart people as I was preparing, then five more months employing those tactics on the roads of Afghanistan. The last few weeks out here are notoriously dangerous...it's easy to lose focus, start daydreaming about home, and for something bad to happen. I've done my best to take every precaution so that I don't pose a risk to either myself or my team, and I have to believe that after all this time on the road, I can trust my instincts and I'll know when something just doesn't feel right...either with myself or the situation.<br />
<br />
But the reality of the situation is that in the next few weeks, my life is going to be drastically different than it is right now, and I will be drastically different than the last time I lived in that house, in that town, and in that country. I'll be able to have a glass of wine by the fire, which is one of the winteresque memories that keeps me sane out here. The thing I fear is being alone.<br />
<br />
For eight months, there was always someone physically next to me while I went through a huge spectrum of emotions. And when I get home, it will be just me for about six weeks, working through the freedoms that arise when the U.S. Army releases it's stranglehold on me. I'll still have people "next to me" as this all transpires, but my support system in Germany isn't at all comparable to the one I've had out here.<br />
<br />
Just as there were so many firsts while I've been out here, there are now so many lasts...and most of them are liberating. When I get out of the truck later this week, that will be my last ride in a M-ATV. My last time wearing the world's most uncomfortable headset. My last bland meal in the Dining Facility. My last night living in a shipping container.<br />
<br />
The thing I am not looking forward to, however, is the feeling of isolation that I think may come with a return back to home where there isn't the rush of daily life-and-death decisions. Where the camaraderie I've grown to love will be gone. And where watching women with endless amounts of potential find a way to start living dreams they never knew they had is no longer a daily event.<br />
<br />
Yes, there are things I will actually miss about being at war. In time, my non-war life will again become normal. And for the next few weeks, I'll be riding the tidal wave of transitional emotions, and I'll be thankful for an outlet like this one. And I'll certainly be thankful that I'll be home for Christmas. And by home, I mean back on the Mosel River in Germany with some of my favorite people in the world.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-73633175473747027602011-11-29T13:53:00.002+01:002011-11-29T13:57:58.137+01:00Starting to Say Goodbye<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's been a turbulent past few weeks around here. Perhaps that's the understatement of the deployment. First I was staying here until the end of June. Then I was staying here until the end of December. Now I'm staying here a handful more days and then I'm on my way back to Germany.<br />
<br />
As you can imagine, this was less than palatable news for Julia, who now fondly refers to herself as my Afghan sister (which I love, by the way). It's also been less than joyous news to share with the Afghans with whom I work here, and I haven't even started telling the women.<br />
<br />
Julia and I agreed that I should do something personal for the women who have made this deployment so incredible, so together she and I wrote a letter of thanks (in Dari):<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span dir="RTL" lang="FA" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">سلام و احترامات خود را خدمت تمام خانمهای قوماندانی تقدیم میدارم<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span dir="RTL" lang="FA" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">خواهر های عزیزم مه بسیار خوش بودم که میتوانم یک سال باهم همکار باشیم<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span dir="RTL" lang="FA" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">مگر از طرف فنکس گفته شود در یک هفته باید برم میخواستم بسیارکمک تان کنم<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span dir="RTL" lang="FA" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">مگر از این که وقت کم دارم باید بورم. مگر از همه شما خواهش دارم که<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span dir="RTL" lang="FA" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">متوجه یکی دیگر باشید مه از همه شما بسیار خوش هستم میخواهم به یاد <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span dir="RTL" lang="FA" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">من هر یک شمبه لباس نظامی تان را در جان تان کنین. و تشکر از همه چیز <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span dir="RTL" lang="FA" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">همرای خود تمام یاد های تان را میبرم مه همیش برای شما و فامیل تان <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span dir="RTL" lang="FA" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">دعا میکنم که صحت مند باشین<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span dir="RTL" lang="FA" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> با احترام خواهر شما<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=8340268342118285305&postID=7363317547374702760" name="_GoBack"></a><o:p></o:p></span></div><span dir="RTL" lang="FA" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><span dir="RTL" lang="FA" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> لیزا باربار</span></div><br />
And here's what we said roughly translated into English:<br />
<br />
<i>Hello to all of the women who work at Headquarters XY (my sisters),</i><br />
<i>I would love to keep working with you and helping you, but unfortunately I do not have much time. I have been ordered to return to Germany very soon.</i><br />
<i>I am very proud of all of you. You are all doing a wonderful job. I have a request for all of you...please take care of each other and if you want to remember me, wear your uniform every Sunday even when I am gone.</i><br />
<i>Thanks for everything and I will take the great memories we shared together with me forever.</i><br />
<i>I will pray for your success and for your families.</i><br />
<i>Your sister,</i><br />
<i>Lisa</i><br />
<br />
Each woman will receive an envelope with her name on it, and enclosed will be the letter and a picture of me in my American uniform wearing a head scarf, since that is how they all remember me. I will pass out the envelopes on Sunday when I see the women at our last meeting together.<br />
<br />
The end crept up on me so fast, and I still have no idea how to process it all. But I'm sure in time I'll sort through it all, and what I've said to the women is so true...I will forever cherish my memories of the beautiful women of Afghanistan and of the Afghan National Army.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-76841592934875448712011-11-26T18:33:00.000+01:002011-11-26T18:33:59.427+01:00Another Saturday Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Perhaps you're wondering what a Saturday night is like in Afghanistan. I'm more than happy to oblige. And I'll get there. Stick with me.<br />
<br />
We affectionately refer to Saturdays in Afghanistan as Afghan Mondays. As the weekend here is Thursday afternoon and Friday (the Muslim holy day), Saturday morning is usually when we see our Afghan counterparts for the first time that week. So already the days are all jumbled. We did that today...headed out to work and tried to have a few meetings, but our counterparts were all scattered elsewhere in the city today (unbeknownst to us, and impossible to predict as we cannot call ahead to schedule meetings since that might jeopardize our security). We ate a very unmemorable lunch (imagine previously frozen lunch meat, sliced cheese, tomatoes, and oops, someone forgot to bring the bread). And finally we were just sick of sitting around, so we left. There really aren't working hours here, so the fact that we left in the very early afternoon was no big deal. Work was done. We left.<br />
<br />
We returned to our base and decided that since we had some extra time, we would wash our trucks. I know, lots of people wash cars on the weekends, so this really isn't much of a stretch. Except these trucks are gigantic. And they were caked with inches and inches of mud on the undercarriage, in the wheel wells, and plastered to the sides of the monstrous vehicles That ordeal took about an hour of power washing using non-potable water that kept splattering in our faces. Don't think about that. We didn't. Disgusting.<br />
<br />
And even after all of that, it was hardly late afternoon. So I went to the gym for the second time today, because quite frankly I couldn't think of anything else to do. Then I took one of my guys who is celebrating his 40th birthday today "out" to "birthday dinner" which is to say that we sat in the same dining facility where we always sit, ate the same mediocre food, celebrated with dessert, and then about 30 minutes later went back to our own rooms.<br />
<br />
Then I started getting creative. What do really crazy people do on a Saturday night in Afghanistan? They bleach their socks and washcloths in their trashcan. In their room. Yes, that's what cool people do. So I did that. And performed decoupage on the new city route map we need to put in our trucks...using contact paper and a straight knife. And printed a bunch of pictures I took of the young cops who work at the main gate at our Afghan base (Julia and I fondly refer to them as the DAWGS). And started writing Christmas cards. And listened to <i>This American Life.</i><br />
<br />
Every day in Afghanistan blends into the next one. Saturday is like Tuesday. Thursday is like Tuesday. Tuesday is like Tuesday. But the silver lining here is that although tonight was just another Saturday night in Afghanistan, I have less than a handful of such evenings left here before my return to spending Saturday nights in various European cities, nursing a glass of wine and enjoying great company. And that's a Saturday night experience I can't wait to relive.</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-79853164814988149132011-11-23T18:38:00.002+01:002011-11-23T18:44:51.828+01:00R-E-S-P-E-C-T<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There is a fascinating sequence of events unfolding on the Afghan base at which I work, and the women who work there have no viable voice or advocate. I only have a few weeks left, but this is a battle worth fighting...and my argument below to the senior leaders at the Coalition's decision-making base is an interesting insight into the life and struggles of Afghan military woman.<br />
<br />
------------<br />
<br />
Ma'am,<br />
<br />
I appreciated the opportunity to provide you with information about the 28 military women who work at Headquarters X. Y. earlier this month. They were thrilled to share their personal stories with me, and I'd like to provide you with an update on their well-being a few weeks later.<br />
<br />
Approximately three months ago, the Coalition pushed hard to make significant changes in one unit's manning document, which happens to be the unit in which 9 of the 28 military women at HQ X.Y. are employed. During that reorganization, 37 Afghan National Army military members were demoted (based solely on lack of positions, and not based on merit), including 7 of the 9 women employed in the unit.<br />
<br />
The impacted women, Del Jahn (former E-9), Sahibo (former E-9), Wahida (former E-8), Mina (former E-8), Shafika (former E-7), Nadia (former E-7), and Fahima (former E-6) have all been demoted to lower-level positions with neither notice nor justification. The command's Afghan personnel officer worked with his superiors at two higher echelons to resolve the matter, but was told that the women could search for vacant positions in other organizations elsewhere in the Afghan National Army (at various geographic locations) or accept the demotions and corresponding cut in pay.<br />
<br />
My concern is that such a policy at a time when the Coalition and Afghan National Army are both focused on women's integration, these demotions send a very mixed message to the Afghan women brave enough to accept military jobs. This group of 28 women has worked together at HQ X.Y. since the command stood up six years ago. Some of them have worked in the military (and together) as many as 30 years. Of the 28 women, only five are currently married. The remaining 23 (and all of the recently demoted women) are sole providers for their families and are either war widows or their husbands have left them, in most cases taking their daughters, in accordance with Afghan law.<br />
<br />
When I ask the women why they stay in jobs where they receive less than idea treatment, they tell me that the answer for them is simple...they consider each other family. The Coalition and the Afghan government have both invested significant resources in aiding the women at HQ X.Y. We anticipate opening a kindergarten for 20 children, particularly those of female employees, in mid-December (funded by the Afghan Ministry of Defense and the Ministry of Social Labor Affairs). We've built the Women's Center, a dedicated facility where women can meet for lunch, literacy and English classes, and for their regular Sunday morning meeting. They have taken many positive steps, and I've watched them grow and thrive over the past five months I've spent with them in Afghanistan.<br />
<br />
Afghan women, particularly in the military, lack a viable advocate. In this case, I fear that their lack of a voice at higher-levels of military leadership will deter many of them (and their daughters) from future service. It will surely break the close female bonds they find so valuable on the base. I firmly believe in the role of a Combat Advisor, and I have provided the women, particularly the Women's Center Officer, MAJ Nadia, advice and counsel over the past three weeks without giving them the solution, but it is now evident that they are not able to resolve this matter without Coalition intervention. That is not for lack of trying. It's mostly out of fear for their jobs (even a lower-paying job is still a job) and their families.<br />
<br />
I see this unfortunate incident as a great opportunity for the Coalition and Afghan National Army to work together to build confidence in the women at HQ X.Y. We have more military women working at this location than any other, and they eagerly await any expert advice that you and other senior advocates for women's issues in the Afghan National Army may be able to provide.<br />
<br />
I look forward to discussing this matter with you at your convenience,<br />
<br />
v/r<br />
<br />
Lisa<br />
<br />
</div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8340268342118285305.post-51502613202920807032011-11-19T16:47:00.000+01:002011-11-19T16:47:34.377+01:00She Was an American Girl<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">With time and distance (and sleep) come perspective. And with the ongoing Loya Jirga come travel restrictions in the Kabul region...which I appreciate, since my team's safety is more important than anything we could do at work this week. But knowing that I might have just a few more weeks in Afghanistan is an every day reminder that my primary mission here is to take care of Julia and her daughter, and to be the example of a thoughtful, intelligent woman that I think those two so truly deserve.<br />
<br />
So today Julia and I did just that. I met her at the main gate of our base this morning, and whisked her away for a Girl's Day in true American girl fashion. We started with a few hours in the coffee shop, drinking lattes together and talking about boys and makeup (some girly traits are transparent across Eastern and Western cultures). We surfed through my Facebook account and she was fascinated by all of the places Rob and I have discovered together. Her dream is to walk on the beach with her daughter.<br />
<br />
We headed off to lunch at the Dining Facility, and in our way in the door, she was warned (in Dari) by one of the employees that the food was terrible today, but that she might enjoy the Afghani Bar (full of traditional dishes she would recognize). Doesn't hurt that she is absolutely gorgeous, of course. We sat with one of the guys from my team and talked again about her hopes and dreams, while I think he just stared at her in absolute awe. Her cousin also works on the base, and he came and shared some stories of the five years he's worked as an interpreter for Coalition Forces across Afghanistan. No perfect meal would be complete without ice cream, so we indulged, then headed back to my room.<br />
<br />
We took our shoes off and sat on my bed together for a while reading Oprah Magazine (the concept of talk shows is completely lost on her). Then Skype started ringing and it was John calling from Germany to say hello to Julia. She was blown away by the fact that we could see him and he could see us and we're all so many miles apart...when we were here, the three of us were inseparable. Just watching the look of amazement on her face was worth it to me. We gushed about that for a while.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkwgGdL0-dazPhVL1BVlOvv6ohTe8n7PEDPUGq9nf08HbzdadZfTSurDX51x-d3BNoNbpCG7Mr2t0VsiypHsHxawiv-imBgXETRTmJMkg8eRkK3HyxGdoSmHpsLO2iuBbbELIgXY2d1RWO/s1600/Sonia+and+Lisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkwgGdL0-dazPhVL1BVlOvv6ohTe8n7PEDPUGq9nf08HbzdadZfTSurDX51x-d3BNoNbpCG7Mr2t0VsiypHsHxawiv-imBgXETRTmJMkg8eRkK3HyxGdoSmHpsLO2iuBbbELIgXY2d1RWO/s200/Sonia+and+Lisa.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>Then she insisted that we needed to do a facial, and was again astounded at the amount of girly products I have amassed in my room. She picked through them carefully, and off we went to our "spa" (a semi-clean public bathroom) where I'm sure we made the funniest scene anyone could ever imagine...so funny, in fact, that I couldn't resist asking someone to take a picture.<br />
<br />
As I walked her back out to the gate, she said "Ma'am, thank you for today. I will remember it always." And that is why we send Americans to Afghanistan. Because the personal difference we can make in the lives of individual Afghan citizens is something they will remember the rest of their lives. Drinking lattes and reading Oprah are regular (guilty) habits for me. But for a young Afghan mother who has been considered an adult since age 14, today was a day where she really experienced the American culture for which she so desperately longs. And the verdict is that she will fit in just fine. </div>Wanderlust2011http://www.blogger.com/profile/17049669087030442218noreply@blogger.com2