The Campaign continues.

I don’t know if anyone is still following but I have survived a very dark period and will be back writing gain soon.

Regards,

A.A.

The war is over…

To my followers and all those who sent me messages and discussions… I thankyou for you participation in the recounting of some of the trials I have faced during my life.

the war is over… not because I won, but because I have been broken.

 

I am currently wondring along a dark road, every now and then stopping in and establishing a connection… only to second guess them and move on shortly after.

 

I am tired.  Tired of being patient, tired of waiting, tired of caring and doing the right things and saying the right things and smiling at the right people.  Saying things how you want to hear them.  Having to listen to your fucking stupid explanations on things becuase you know better than me what i want.

Hot tip to all… if someone (like me) says to you , “No thnks” to something you offer, arguing with me and telling me how great it is and how much I will like it is not a winning conversation.  Then, after all that, getting upset because I tell you to give it a rest, because you are a complete fucking retard who cant listen to courtesy…. well, that your fucking problem.

I DONT WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT, I DONT WANT YOU TO SAY JUST ONE THING, I DONT WANT YOU TO FINISH OR WHATEVER THE FUCK EVER IS YOUR EXPLANATION.

I DONT WANT/LIKE/FEEL LIKE WHAT EVER IT IS.

FUCK OFF.

 Anyhoo…. the war is over.  This is my last entry for ever at this stage.

Raging against the machine doesn’t help.  Following all the procedures doesn’t help.  Being patient doesn’t help. All it does is let complete arse clowns prepare them selves better by being deceitful under-handed cunts and getting ready to fuck you over.

I am done team.  Thanks for the journey, however I am a spent fuel rod.

out………

I don’t know what to do…

Coming out of the darkness is always a harrowing, sometimes frightening experience.

Those you have chosen not to contact or those you have not made the effort to contact will always feel neglected and exercise some sort of judgement on a personal level.  This is they way of it and something that needs to be handled carefully.

A long time ago I made the decision that I owned my phones and not the other way around.  This may seem obvious to most of you but I don’t think you truly understand.  Because you call or message me I am not compelled to return your call and message at my earliest convenience.  This is the truth of the matter.

This decision is not made because I want to irritate people or practice some sort of aloof social approach to those around me.  It is made because sometimes I don’t feel like talking to people.  Sometimes I am so angry and so upset that I will vent on the person I am speaking with simply because they are there.

Generally I will be doing battle with my demons, trying to fend them off and appear that there are no concerns in my life if I am forced to interact with normals during this time.  I can explain it to you, but I can’t make you understand it.  This principle will generally bring most normals unstuck.  I suspect this is because they choose not to understand it and attempt to apply some sunshine based social convention or expectation and expect that I will now see the world through rose tinted glasses.

What is in me is real.  It is a tangible thing.  The darkness that is within me is seeking to take me from who I am and turn me into something that it can feed on until the end comes.    The effect that it has on me even surprises myself.  My ability to compartmentalise is heightened.  My emotional ability to justify my actions is slick.  It is the same as if I am fighting and I need to make a decision that may or may not result in the loss, or taking, of life.  It happens quickly and efficiently and is based on meeting the outcome with economy of effort.  I am me.  Just darker.

Darker.  There are a few people who have truly seen the darkness that seeks comfort within me.  It has caused me most recently to loose someone who was very close to me.  A valued friend and confidant that I pushed away through my own frustration.  My frustration at not being able to see what they saw as important to them, as being important to me.  They are gone.  I am worse off because of this.  I miss my friend.  I ache for them.

In an attempt to emerge from my dark period sooner I am writing in a coffee shop today.  Now I am sitting here, writing, with large, salt laden tears rolling down my face to rest on my lips.  I taste them.  Their bitterness cuts into me as I feel my bitterness at loosing my friend grown into disdain and anger.

Right now I am surrounded by normals.  Laughing, smiling, pretending.  They disgust me in a way that makes me want to scream at them to shut their fucking pig mouths and let me work in quiet.  I feel the darkness stir within me.  It is my demon. Sensing my vulnerability he wakes from his slumber and stretches.  A satisfied sigh escapes his mouth and the corners of his lips turn up slightly as he lets forth a deep chuckle.

My transition is complete.  My senses are heightened and I am aware of everything.  Without looking I know where everyone within the shop is. Yes.  Everyone.  My skin is tingling and I feel my heart accelerate slightly as I have slipped into fight or flight.  I have chosen fight.  I should choose flight, I should leave.  I don’t.  This is who I am.  I am not in danger, I am the danger.  I control my breathing and let my heart settle so that I can take advantage or my bodies heightened state.  For no reason at all I feel slightly nervous.  It is good to be nervous.

Around me the social cannon fodder continue their mundane routine that they equate to life.  I have now just remembered that I am writing about missing my friend.  This was supposed to be an article that they could read.  I close my eyes and picture my demon.  He leans out of the shadow, revelling in his accomplishment and looking like something that belongs in an MIB movie and not my head.  The light catches his face and he lets forth a long low moan.  It is a wail of despair.  He is laughing at me.

Fuck you.

The Normal’s are glancing and gossiping.  I can see confusion spread across the tables as they watch me quietly sit here and cry as I work.  So fearful of anything that doesn’t meet their social expectations.  I pity them and hate them all at once.  I want to grab the largest male and crush him.  You are not worthy of looking at me in pity and contempt.  You are a Normal.  I want to run away in anger and shame.  I want to break something.  Destroy something beautiful.

I remain alone.

I miss my friend.

They are gone.  Maybe forever.

I look to my God.  To my Angel and Saint to guide me.  They are angry, jealous and vengeful.  Yet they do not smite my demon.  

I feel alone.

I am filled with anger and hate and rage.

The darkness overtakes me.  My demon grown larger and stronger.  He walks into the light with new confidence.  His moan grows into a roar.

He is coming for me.

As I close my eyes in the corner of this shop I imagine he is a real enemy.  That I am checking my kit.  My brain flicks between swords and spears to my modern weaponry of rifles and grenades.  I see him.  I continue to check my kit as he gets closer.  I do not rush.  He picks up speed.  The darkness is coming with him in a tidal wave of sorrow and despair.  He is coming.

Fuck you.

I run towards him.  Picking up speed, gaining comfort from the familiar weight of my kit.   In  my mind I am screaming.  It is a sound of animalistic rage.  It does not sound like any word but anyone who hears this noise knows what it means.  It is a noise for battle.  It is is for war  It is a sound for those who have nothing left to lose but life itself and will fight as if even that means nothing.  The thing of it is, he doesn’t even want to take me today.  He just wants to continue the war with a small encounter battle.   Making him work for the wounds he wants to cause is all I can do right now.  Right now there is no subtlety.  This fight today is about attrition.  Who will last?

The battle has been joined.

I must leave now.  I have finished my third tear soaked napkin and I fear that the poor Normal’s cannot stand much more.  They are delicate things.

As I turned to leave the darkness wraps around me.  I sob.  They stare.

I look at the groomed and manicured men in their fashionably tight business shirts complimented by an equally fashionable product-enhanced hair style.  I look at one.  In my
mind I imagine stepping wide for power and smashing his face or head with my elbow.  I smile.  He smiles awkwardly in return.

I keep walking and smile wider.

It always amuses me when food doesn’t even know it is food.

The darkness that seeks comfort in my soul…

I am pretending to live.

The well is nearly dry.  There is enough left to keep me puttering around from day to day.

The normal trials and tribulations of life aside, like many others I have experienced a few major traumatic incidents will affect me for the rest of my life.  Some of these are from the deprivations and challenges faced when fighting in wars.  Some of them are from my family.   Drugs, alcohol, violence and betrayal.

These moments have saddened me.  They have driven me to great depths within a  dark abyss.  I have been suicidal.  Angry at the world, the system, the Army and any person I had the misfortune to run into.  One time I even planned it out and figured out the best way to go.  I was happy with my plan and my decision.  Fortunately I chose not to take that path and continued on the journey.

Recently I have experienced an incident that has taken me past all of these points.  I have left thoughts of “suicide” and “rage”, and “acting out in anger” long behind.  There is nothing left but pain and sadness. From time to time I enjoy moments of calm and happiness.  They are few and far between.

Like a man holding a torch in the forest, the flame sputters and flicks, the circle of light closing.  Beyond in the darkness his demons wait for him.  He sees them coming, closing in.  He knows he will be fighting for everything.  His sanity and his soul are like the king and queen in a chess match.  This fight is an all or nothing outcome.

Like that man, I see my own torch spluttering as I pass through the forrest of life.  As the journey continues the circle of light grows weaker, smaller.  Occasionally it will flare up and drive back the darkness.  A beacon of hope and salvation that tempts me.  I sense a grim laugh within myself.  I know what waits for me in the darkness.  I know it is patient and that sooner or later it will come.  I know the demon that is waiting for me.  My demon. It is despair.

My demon knows he will not take me this time.  Not the next either.  He doesn’t want to steal me away in the night and let it be done.  He wants me to squirm.  To suffer through this emotional torment that I am living. He enjoys watching me struggle against the incoming tide that is the red tape of normal society.  He knows that I will win against him… the struggle will be brief… a few hours, maybe a couple of days.  Best case scenario he might even tempt me to battle for a week.  I will find another torch though.  The darkness will be pushed back.  The journey will continue.  He will be patient yet again.

The journey is the issue.  Am I on the right path?  Do I need everything you (society) tell me that I need?  I don’t even understand why I want it.  The house, the car, the career, the wife and children and the dog.  I struggled for these things because you told me I needed them.  Now I have lost nearly all of them and my life is filling with darkness. I am afraid that there are not enough torches to light in the forrest to guide me for the rest of my journey.

You don’t want to help me.  You can’t help me.  You are in this position because you choose to be.  You make wonderful rules that fill you with rainbows and happiness and make you feel or warm and fuzzy.  This is because you feel like you have achieved something.  You haven’t.  Your rules are fucked.  They are for you, not for me.  They help you, not me.  Your rules don’t help the emotional detritus of this civilised society. Your rules  are fucked.

The journey will continue.  We will come across each other again.  The darkness in my soul will embitter me and I will deal with you from a position of detached rage and social disgust.  You are normal.  Like your rules, you are also fucked.  I see you as something to consume, to use as fuel to drive me towards the freedom that I am seeking from this social cage I have locked myself in.

Soon I will find another torch.  My demon will be forced back into the shadows to wait.  We will lick our wounds and watch each other.  Waiting.

This is my current war.  I will not get any more medals for this campaign.  I will still savour the
battles that are being fought.  My time will come… I don’t know when, but it will.  It makes me a little nervous.  It is good to be nervous.

The light is failing. My demon beckons.  He is smiling at me.  I smile back.

Contact…..wait out.

Quietly existing within their world….

I have not written for a while.  This is because I have been a bit of a mess lately.

Initially someone I had trusted to tell them about my blog so they could learn more about me had a go at me about some of the things I had written.  To me this was a great betrayal.  I write here so I can express myself without judgement.  So I can vent.  So I can escape the fucking retarded social conventions I allegedly “need” to endure to communicate with the arse-clowns I encounter day to day.

Anyway… I did discuss this with this person.  I wrote my next piece and it was different because I was trying to now shape previously un-filtered emotion to suit my friends social concerns and emotional response.  This is exactly what I had wanted to avoid in the first place.  Needless to say I haven’t told anyone else about my writing since then.

I nearly did today.  Nearly…. Then I remembered this story and I managed to get myself out of it.

What a fuck head.  I mean, you think that i would learn from my mistakes.  Fucking arse-clown.

So…. on top of all this I have been dealing with my normal array of issues along with some domestic trouble.  Not a revolution…. well it is a revolution of sorts I guess.  I am currently doing battle with the politically correct legal world on how to separate from ones wife without being arse fucked too hard by the legal system and the State and Federal Governments.

I am no angel.  I can assure you of that.  The people who know me will never support anyone who ever said that I claimed to be one either.  I have started, finished and caused my own share of dramas through-out the world.

But readers, in my recent dapple into legal system and other agencies, I have discovered such wonderfully developed new levels of retardation in personalities and policies that I am truly amazed.  This is what has been keeping me occupied and hence too much of a piece of shit to write for the last few weeks.

I pray to my God for guidance.  He is a jealous and vengeful God, so I occasionally ask for a smiting.  Only every now and then.  I don’t want to be greedy.  Maybe he doesn’t call it smiting any more…. maybe fire and brimstone is out of fashion with the Angels in this day and age.  I may even try my old JTAC and see if I get some ECAS or FFE happening.  Maybe the heavens have moved with technology.  If I figure out what it is and see a result I will let you know.

Wither way I am facing a variety of challenges at the moment.  I have become remarkably dismissive of things that normally would bother me.

No plan? Thats ok…. I have one…

I actually have no plan.

That makes me smile and laugh as I read it….

I have no plan.

I normally have plans for everything.  I shape my environment.  It exists for me in that fashion that I have chosen.

I couldn’t be fucked anymore.  At this point the normals and their retarded rules and expectations have defeated me.  I have lost this battle…. not the war though….

Everything that needed to be done was done.  Every “i” dotted and every “t” crossed.  I filled things out in triplicate and I jumped through hoops.  I asked for help.  I even shed my pride and literally begged for it.  I was admonished and dismissed.  I was made to feel that all my problems, these things that were destroying my life, were irrelevant.  I was nebulous.

That was fucked.  So I started to self-reflect.  I looked at everything again.  Was I being too sensitive?  Is the expectation of gender equality in a court-of-law still a pipe dream?  Were these big issues simply big because I had chosen to make them so?  I began to experience paralysis by analysis.  I was thinking too much.  I was no longer decisive.  People who normally wouldn’t have a hope were convincing me to do things that I didn’t want to.  I couldn’t function properly.  I had to hold some ground….I decided to exist.

That is where I have been.  Existing.  I am trying to come back from it…I don’t like it.  It is fucked up and gay as fuck.  I don’t how people exist in that manner.  How they live that life.  I haven’t been anywhere for a long time (I haven’t been shot at, blown up or rocketed in a few years) and I feel more lost than ever.

There are no kit checks.  No scheduled servicing.  I only shoot for fun, not to qualify or keep an edge on my skill set.  No intelligence briefs.  No debriefs.  No stand-by’s.

Seriously.  What the fuck do you people do with yourselves?

At this point the well is dry.  I am a spent fuel rod.  I am on the defensive and holding ground within my existence.

The ultimate aim of defensive operations is the destruction of the enemy, rather than the holding of ground.

All I need is an objective to commence preparation for.

The problem is I am struggling to give a fuck at the moment.  They all seem pointless.

Because the reality of it is….really….. no-one gives a fuck.

Standing by…….

Fight tyranny abroad…… face it at home….

I have taken a few days to myself at this point in time.  Self assessment is a strong point within my personality and I often enjoy the objective separation that can be achieved emotionally, so as to watch the internal evolution of my being as I make a decision.  Wow.  That sounds pretty fucked up and out there.

My point is….. I am at an important cross road and need to make a choice that is going to have an effect on me for the rest of my life.  I am trying to war game the outcome and see what will happen.  It is not very easy.

All of us, all soldiers, all branches of the military, have all travelled abroad for work related reasons.  Well, not all, there are some who miss out, but run with me, unlike the federal government I do not allow a vocal minority to ruin the story for the rest of us.

Generally when we have travelled it has been to places that are less than ideal, to confront situations that are not your every-day occurrence within our own allegedly “civilised” society. For the guys who step outside and go on patrol for whatever reason, these situations are generally only to been seen by the vast majority of our nations people on TV.  To be read about in the paper, or in books from the military section or maybe even watch it in a movie.

The thing is, what we do, why we go, it is an extension of political policy that is to be implemented through force.  Thats it.  Thats the reason.  The same knuckle heads you all voted in are the ones who get to make these decisions.  Now, I know most of you won’t go because the sheer concept of giving yourself up entirely (yes, that means maybe dying) for something other than personal gain is so audacious and frightening that you feel it is best to remain at home and watch it on telly, or cheer from the sidelines.

To actually ensure something that actually, or mildly, resembles this political decision is occurring you need the right sort of blokes.  What you get though, is us.  The ones who showed the ability to be moulded during training.  The ones who displayed certain characteristics that could be enhanced and put to use.  You created us.  You all did.  Your desire to sit at home and eat your take away food, whilst passing judgement on a foreign leader and then taking pause to click “Like” on facebook to show you support some poor fucker in the third world or a cute dog or what-ever-the-fuck it is this time. You are why we exist.

This may be a revelation for you all.  But it is true.  All of your “rights”.  All of your perceived “entitlements” that you enjoy.  Your freedom.  This is all given to you by those who have been, and it is kept safe now, by us.  So your demands over time created us.  Now though, when we return to your highly retarded “civilised” society you need to deal with us.  Rather, we need to deal with you.  We are too awkward to look at, or listen to.  We make the children uncomfortable, or the dinner conversation seems to feed off that awkward pause when there is controversy in the air.

My proposal to you is this.  When you called out, throughout the generations, we answered.  We stopped what we were doing and we came to help you.  Thats who we are.  When the ugly, shitty stuff was done. When the cliche speeches and the politicians crocodile tears were shed, we went back to doing what we were doing.  Now though, I need your help.  I need to you try and not to be the self-centered whining society you are.  I need you to look past yourself and see the trees in front of you, not the forrest (insert whatever fucking philosophical line you prefer).

I don’t need to be judged by you.  That happened on the battlefield.  Afterwards it happened again by the blokes I was fighting with.  When I get back I don’t need you to look down your nose and at me and tell me I “took off for months on end”.  It wasn’t a fucking Schoolies party or something akin to Spring Break.  It was horrible and shitty and generally pretty fucked.  It was almost always really hot or bloody cold.  What I need, really need, is your help.

Give me a fair go.  Give me a shot being that bloke.  Everything I do from now on doesn’t have to be attributed to everything I have done.  I am capable of independent thought and emotion.  I am not a robot and we aren’t all the same.  I hear you cry out for the poor and the persecuted.  The asylum seekers and the starving masses.  I hear you.  I understand your passion.  I need you to cry out for me.  For us.  I need you to make us an important, vocal minority and give us some help.

I do not want to be judged by a society I served without question for so long.  I do not expect to be held above the law, just to have the bright light of equality turned upon me when it may happen.  For some reason you hold us to higher standards then yourselves.  You really need to take a look at yourselves on this one.  Most of us are binge drinking alcoholics, violent, aggressive people who think the majority of the rubbish that goes on around us is ridiculous.  We are not moral supermen.  We are soldiers.

Just because I am home that doesn’t mean you forget why you have needed and wanted, my services.

It means that you give me a break and help me when I ask for it.  I am asking for it now.

It’s alright mate….. I know …….

There is a particular situation that I had experienced a few times throughout my career.  It is brought on by a terrible situation and it is at times the beginning of the end for another bright soul.  This is a brief retelling of seeing one young mans eyes opened to the reality of his chosen workplace.

In the lead up to this engagement with enemy there had been some smaller, sporadic contacts with various insurgents, militia, anti-coalition forces or whatever the fuck the were called this day.  There had been an influx of rockets (large ones used for indirect fire, generally a 107 or 122mm high explosive round) and IED’s into our AO.  We has been taking a lot of indirect fire from rockets and mortars.  It was starting to wear on us… as one of the blokes said..

“This shit is really starting to tongue my fucking arse”….

I always appreciate the ways the lads express their feelings.  Makes it easier to understand them.

A few days later we were involved in a bit of shin dig.  As they call it in the CP…. we have a TIC…

I dont really want to get into the details of the contact itself but will provide a brief out look.  It involved an enemy numbering around 30 – 40 who were using dug in heavy machine gun, assault rifle and the good old RPG (Rocket propelled grenade)….

As the fight progressed we have a couple of guys hit, minor wounds, some bullet, some fragmentation.  We had a lot of RPG’s that thankfully went high.  It is a unique experience firing a machine gun as RPG’s streak past between vehicles and over vehicles.  The sound and smell is something that will stay with me.

During the battle we killed a number of the enemy.  Some were close….some were further out.  The enemy fought hard to recover the bodies but eventually gave up as this effort was really only getting more of them killed.

It was the first time a number of our blokes had been in a fight. The first time a lot of them had actually been able to see the people who were trying to kill them.  Had watched these other people, these enemy, fire at them and their mates with all sorts of weapons.

As I walked around and checked on the blokes, doing the normal sort of stuff.  Make sure there aren’t any wounds that haven’t been reported, make sure the guns have been checked and reloaded, that they are still scanning instead of spending their time gossiping about who did what in the after battle euphoria.  Most importantly…. to check on morale.

There was a young commander leaning forwards, listening to his radio come through his helmet.  He was sweaty and dirty, and smoking a cigarette.  I was a little surprised as he wasn’t known as a smoker and was very conscious of his health and fitness.  He couldn’t see me coming, so from a few metres away I called out to him…

“You those helmets work better when they are on your head mate…..”

I get the typical tired smile and he nods in understanding.  As he goes to pick up his helmet I point at his cigarette and ask…

“Whats going on with that?”

The look is now different.  It is empty.  His eyes are sad and old.  He looks very tired all of a sudden, exhausted even.  He is coming down off the adrenalin high and starting to process what has happened. He shrugs…

“I don’t know… I just thought….. fuck….. I just wanted to have a smoke”

He tries to put his helmet on to end the conversation.

“Hey!”

I get his attention again.  It is the same look.  Only this time there is frustration and anger mixed in.

“How did you go?”

Now I have his full attention.  He doesn’t want to answer but he feels compelled to.  I can see the turmoil he is facing between keeping his own counsel and answering his sergeant. The anger and exhaustion are written across his face and showing in his gloved hand where the dangling cigarette is shaking slightly. He stares straight at me with those old sad eyes in his fresh young face….

“It’s all just………..”

“It’s just fuckin fucked.  You know?”

Right then I feel as if I have betrayed this young mans hopes and dreams. Did I do enough to prepare them?  Did I tell them enough, without annoying them by telling them too much?  Did I miss something?

Each time a man prepares for battle his must also prepare himself mentally and emotionally for what may happen.  Each time a man goes to war, fundamentally, he will come home a different person.  I watch the first big change in this young man.  It saddens me.  I do the only thing I can.  I take of my oakleys and look back at him.  Engaging those old sad eyes….

“It’s alright mate…… I know….. I get it”

He nods. Puts on his helmet.  Takes a drag on his cigarette and turns to keep watching his sector.

I leave.

We still have many more months left before we will get to go home.

What sort of man will he, will we, be by then?

Well…yeah…but….you won’t get it… you don’t even really understand your question

From time to time I will be asked, or be in a conversation that will be steered towards a particular question. It is a difficult questions to answer.  It is a question that people like a definitive answer to.  This is because we have allowed out society to be shaped by retards and cowards who are afraid of the vocal minority.  Everything has to be someones fault.  Everything has to be caused by a definitive incident.  Something can’t just be because……

Throughout my time on peace making, peace keeping and war based operations there have been a number of “definitive” incidents.  Recently in conversation I had a young man, whose exposure to the trauma of battle was firmly centred on the experience gained through his XBOX, who worked for a government department that supports veterans ask me the same question.

“So………. what actually caused your PTSD?”….

He sat there expectantly.  Leaning slightly forwards whilst sitting in his government purchased adjustable chair.  His bulk purchased pen poised above what I imagined was a relatively important document… Looking at me with an expression that reminded me of someone who was tired of listening to answers that the person giving them thought were important.

Breathe…… Allow the response to travel from the primitive part of my brain to my frontal lobe.  This takes approximately 8 seconds and will allow me to process it with logic instead of the primal urge to see if I can re-create a certain bar scene from the movie Casino.  A pen is also involved.

This piece of urban cannon fodder does not know me.  Does not really care to either. I am a statistic that may provide a potentially entertaining story for him to regale his faggoty friends with next time they are masquerading as “successful urbanites” at where-ever-the-fuck these idiots socialise.  I don’t know him…. I don’t want to.

“Why?”  Is my answer………

Apply condescending smile to unstable and potentially violent person standing in front of you.  Add condescending tone.  Provide answer.

“Well, this needs to go to the board so they can figure out what is happening…. everyone tells us.”

I don’t even have my normal range of responses.  My head doesn’t even tingle a bit.  Not even a tease.  There is no pressure in the back of my head.  My heart rate is about as elevated as if I was looking in my fridge trying to figure out what to have for dinner.  Thats why.  I get it.

My body. My primal brain.  My instincts.  My yin and fucking yang.  Whatever you want to call it.  It knows.  Like the food in my fridge this well groomed meat sack with arms like a marionette puppet is a piece of social prey waiting to be culled.  I stare at him.  He smiles and waits.  I know I don’t need to answer the question. I leave it long enough to be awkward.

“So…………?” asks my newly met meat sack.

I stare.  I see his hair that is groomed in the current style of urban mess packed hard with some sort of product.  His embellished button up shirt and proudly placed name tag is only bettered by the ridiculously labelled tape around his neck that is used to carry an equally nebulous ID card.

I am a spent fuel rod.

“Whatever dude……”  I turn to leave….

Meat sack rolls his eyes as I leave.  As I reach the door I hear “Yeah….whatever is right”

I stop and turn to look at meat sack.  He is watching me, the floor, the roof.  But always checking on me.  I start to laugh.  He can’t help but look at me. He can’t help but ask.

“What……?”

“You fucking faggot”

I leave.

I am a spent fuel rod.

You want me to be something I am not.  You want me to be the product of a society that I helped to protect.  You want me to think that you are doing me a personal favour by doing your job.

You have you job because of blokes like me doing our job over the last hundred odd years.

I can assure you, you are not the one who has been doing society the favours…..

The sad thing is you don’t even know it.

Thank you God for modern societies indifference to suffering…

Right now I am sitting in a bar in an airport, having a drink and watching the spectacle that is the social interactions of the Normals.  Given I am in a place that is transient by nature it is a people watchers dream. There are a variety of Normals here… from the cute soccer mom types, the grungy communist hippie cock suckers who smell like old arse….. your normal Normals…. the young and old tough guys who want to eyeball everyone….. and…. me.

My day started out alright.  Nothing spectacular.  Nothing bad.  After about an hour or so of being awake, and suffering through some forced interaction with the people I was visiting, I felt myself slip into the polite detachment of predatory observation.  Everything was sharper… every mumble was heard… every little annoying thing was noticed…. every weakness was identified.  I needed to get out of there.  Not because of any expectation of violence, but because I had zero interest in listening to what had all of a sudden turned to a whinging, whining back and forth over mouse shit.

I watch.  The back of my head starts to tingle in the same place.  I only realise this when I see that I am scratching at it.  There is no relief from the tingling.  With my hair a little longer I have found that twirling my fingers through it I can discreetly pull it quite hard.  Sometimes this helps.  As I am writing this my head has just started tingling……

The conversation/argument progresses though a series of well used snippets of snide conversation. As the sensation in my head increases I attempt to counter it by pulling harder.  All I want to do is scream at them to shut the fuck up and get over it….  Do you realise what the fuck you are arguing about?…..  Do you realise how fucking retarded you sound?……..  How fucking normal you are?……….. I visual slapping one of them and smile.  The smile is the first time my facial expression has changed throughout the sad and irritating display I am experiencing.  As my smile increases I see one of these people look at my with an expression of confusion and curiosity.  I need to change to a different coping mechanism.

A counting activity designed to allow me time to process my thoughts and emotions prior to acting on them comes to mind.  The focus required to make this effective whilst this retarded charade continues in front of me is more than I expected it to be.  Apparently it is also more than my coping mechanism thinks it should be.  It all falls away…..the numbers……the visualisation……the slowing of the emotional process…… I am hit with this chemical dump in my brain and it feels like the back of my head is in a vice.  I know where this is going so I leave the room and have a shower.  The irritation is like a residue.  I can’t wash it all away.

Later in the day I am sitting in a bar.  A friend of my hits “like” on a particular photo on my Facebook account.  The notification comes up.  I check to see which one it is.  As the photo opens everything around me begins to quieten down.  This image has always prompted a strong emotional response whenever I look at it. The image captivates me…… I read and re-read the caption printed across the middle.

Without warning the sadness hits me like a wave of warm water.  It is everywhere I look.  Tears roll down my cheeks.  I blink.  It doesn’t matter.  Around me life continues as normal.  Normal.   Regardless of the loss, the fear, the courage or the cowardice, the sacrifice or selfishness that is happening, these people continue with their normal lives.  They watch me…. they judge me…. they ignore me.

I refuse to wipe my eyes.  In my mind I can see brothers I have lost in battle.  There is no shame in my tears.  Next to me is an old lady who is reading her book and drinking her wine.  She is trying to appear sophisticated, her wardrobe and accessories don’t match her attitude.  She glances at me every 30 seconds or so.  She keeps reading.  Soon she will pretend to leave…. really she will look for another table to share that is out of sight from mine.  She is too interested in reading her book and too afraid of the answer to the question she feels she may ask.  Her shame hangs from her.  It is the best accessory she has.

Shortly after this she leaves.  My table sits six.  It is an island of sad tranquility in a crowded bar.  I revel in my sad isolation.  Looking around the bar I catch the eye of the gossipers, the hippies and the tough guys.  They all quickly look away as our eyes meet.  They gossip, then glance back.  They are Normals.

This feeling will leave me slower than it came.  But it will leave.  This I know.  What was this image that inspired this deep sadness….

My head is tingling again…….

One of my favourite war time experiences…..

There is one thing that always gets me.  The one moment that I will cherish and look forward to on each trip.  This moment is that first fighting patrol out of the front gate.  I don’t mean your hand over patrol, or maybe an orientation patrol for commanders.  None of that gay shit.  I am talking about your first patrol. Your first mission.

From the moment you get the mission, through the planning phase and issuing your orders, checking your kit, checking your blokes, checking your kit again, checking the vehicles and all of their kit, test firing, checking your kit, final rehearsals, checking your kit and so on… It is a unique experience.

I get butterflies in my stomach.  I am nervous.  It is good to be nervous.  Everything is a little bit clearer, a little bit sharper.  My weapon systems are all functional and the test fire was perfect.  The comms are working and the lads are across all of their extra responsibilities in case it all heads south.  Everything just seems to fit.  I am nervous though.  It is good to be nervous.

We all want the same thing.  A good patrol.  A bit of excitement and everyone gets bedded in and we all come home.  The problem that arises is what is considered to be exciting is all about perspective.  For us, this means that we need someone to try and blow us up, shoot us or just have a crack at killing one of us.  As I read what I have just written I am smiling at just how retarded that sounds.  Those guys who deploy as fighting soldiers will understand.

As I have been writing I consider what it has taken for me to be able to produce this blog.  What I have sacrificed, sometimes voluntarily, but not always.  What I have lost over my life and what I will continue to loose.  The struggle that comes with what is supposed to be a “normal relationship”.  I wonder about that person I would have been.  Who that guy was going to be if he didn’t get his mother to sign his enlistment papers, because he was under-age and needed her permission to join.  Fuck him…

The thing of it is…. I would check my kit and stack up with my mates in a heart beat if I had the chance.  I no longer care “who” or “what” the cause is anymore.  It has been a long time since I have cared for the politics and reasoning and the public relations spin.  I just want to be standing with that group of blokes, with butterflies in my stomach and a bout of nervous laughter on my lips as I get ready to step off.  To know that as a group we will lay everything on the line, sacrifice it all to fight for each other, to be measured against whatever will confront us.  That is when I have felt most alive and rarely more so then the very first time of each tour.

Knowing what it has done to me, not even really understanding what this, my “disorder” is, and what it is going to do to me in the future.  I would still do it all again.

Even knowing what I know about how it affected me…. I don’t even know why I would truly go back, just that I would….