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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
