Driven to Serve
Can We Learn?
“I've got a bad case of the 3:00 am guilts - you know, when you lie in bed awake and replay all those things you didn't do right? Because, as we all know, nothing solves insomnia like a nice warm glass of regret, depression and self-loathing.”
―D.D. Barant, Dying Bites
Welcome to Hell. I’m your Bartender. What’s your drink of choice? Guilt, shame, or denial?
I knew I was going to write a post about service and sacrifice for Memorial Day. What I didn’t know is what angle I would come at it from. Leave it to me find a way to honor the ultimate sacrifice of the most noble among us: “…a nice warm glass of regret, depression and self-loathing.”
Keep with me here. Much like Lt. Dan, we idealize death in battle as a symbol of an honorable life. Every warrior since time immemorial has done so. The family back home sacrifices and suffers in stoic silence. It’s probably the only way to face the uncertainty that awaits the soldier. But what if they don’t die?
Thoughts about that warm glass of toxic emotions that we all pour for ourselves at 3 am occupy not only my 3 am thoughts, but my 3 pm ideas as well. What I’ve learned is that while I can pour that drink all day long, I really don’t have to drink it. Neither does anyone else. We choose that drink above all others at times. Why?
Cheated Out of My Destiny
The flood of emotions that consume “normal” people are magnified beyond imagination for “veterans”. The first essay below talks about the peculiar and unique struggles: emotional, physical, spiritual for sure. But also how veterans struggle to fit back in. How to reassimilate. To become “normal” again. It’s hard.
The second speaks to grief generally, but more specifically from the street corner of the friend or loved one reacting to the news. It’s hard and uncomfortable to deal with those feelings on one’s own, in our own time. But when forced to confront them in public, in real time, a lot of us freeze. Or stammer out the platitudes listed out in the piece. We suck at at empathy and compassion.
Don’t get me wrong - there’s universal truth in a good platitude “People don’t do what you expect, they do what you inspect.” But raw, ripped-open wounds are rarely triaged by threadbare gauze. The assuagement comes to the affirmer. Helping oneself by not helping the other seems to be an American pastime. Whatever you need soon becomes whatever.
I get it. Life is hard enough as it is. How can we help everyone? We cannot. We can only help the person in front of us. Silently asking for help. Our answers do not need to be out loud. Unspoken feelings just seem more genuine than ones blurted out.
Take some time today. Reflect upon us, America. Because this is what we are. A collection of differences wrapped up in a ball of the same thing. Ever seen one of those rubber-band balls? Well, now you have.
The Flag is crinkled, wrinkled, and stained. But it is flying. And it wraps us all in a blanket of citizenship that we cannot shake off. Each and every action in your life was paid for by someone that died for that ideal of individual liberty.
We bounce around like the rubber ball: bumping into, colliding with, and adding onto our collective. The men and women that jumped into the fray, that wrapped themselves up into the giant rubber ball, are now bouncing back to us.
And all of us that did not choose or get chosen, what is our duty? What is our collective responsibility to these warriors? Our veterans are no longer out-of-sight | out-of-mind. Our dead soldiers are laid to rest. We pray that they rest in peace. But what’s left of the one’s that don’t die? They are right here in front of us.
Here is Metallica describing a real harsh reality of war. Can you stomach this? I skip this song sometimes during the day - that makes me feel bad. I don’t want to think about the consequences. But then, I’m not suffering those realities of war.
Metallica used clips from the movie Johnny Got His Gun about a WWI soldier that suffers a fate worse than death. Imprisonment in one’s own body is Hell, living without individual agency or personal choice. What is freedom? Is it death?
Writing of War wrings emotions from a soul. It may be a method I use to cope. I’m interested in your stories. What can we learn from listening? How do you cope? Who do you honor?
A personal regret in my life is that I did not serve in the military. I salute each and every one of you that did. I packed a lot into this one. Unpack at will. And with care. This post is dedicated to my niece and her three children. May their hero RIP.
Ric
The Revel by Bartholomew Dowling WE MEET 'neath the sounding rafter, And the walls around are bare; As they shout back our peals of laughter It seems that the dead are there. Then stand to your glasses, steady! We drink in our comrades' eyes: One cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies! Not here are the goblets glowing, Not here is the vintage sweet; 'Tis cold as our hearts are growing, And dark as the doom we meet. But stand to your glasses, steady! And soon shall our pulses rise: A cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies! There's many a hand that's shaking, And many a cheek that's sunk; But soon, though our hearts are breaking, They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. Then stand to your glasses, steady! 'Tis here the revival lies: Quaff a cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies. Time was when we laughed at others; We thought we were wiser then; Ha! Ha! Let them think of their mothers, Who hope to see them again. No! stand to your glasses, steady! The thoughtless is here the wise: One cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies! Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, Not a tear for the friends that sink; We'll fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles, As mute as the wine we drink. Come, stand to your glasses, steady! 'Tis this that the respite buys: A cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies! There's a mist on the glass congealing, 'Tis the hurricane's sultry breath; And thus does the warmth of feeling Turn ice in the grasp of Death. But stand to your glasses, steady! For a moment the vapor flies: Quaff a cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies! Who dreads to the dust returning? Who shrinks from the sable shore, Where the high and haughty yearning Of the soul can sting no more? No, stand to your glasses, steady! The world is a world of lies: A cup to the dead already— And hurrah for the next that dies! Cut off from the land that bore us, Betrayed by the land we find, When the brightest have gone before us, And the dullest are most behind— Stand, stand to your glasses, steady! 'Tis all we have left to prize: One cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies!