This is an excerpt from my upcoming book I am a man deeply marked by the imprint of combat, a battlefield not just of dirt and sand, but of the soul itself. To say I'm flawed would be a simplification, as my very fabric seems interwoven with the complex tapestry of wartime experiences that defy any categorization. The transformation began the moment I stepped into the theater of war, and it's been a ceaseless evolution ever since—an evolution of not just in physical terms, but in emotional and psychological ones. The damage I feel manifests in a spectrum of ways, some evident, some concealed beneath layers of coping mechanisms and emotional armor. On the surface, there's the ever-present hyper-vigilance, a constant scanning of surroundings, born from an environment where the smallest oversight could have fatal consequences. Then there's the irritability, the trigger-like quickness to anger or frustration. These emotional eruptions often appear unwarranted in civilian life, yet they make perfect sense within the logic of a mind conditioned to react swiftly to threats. Further buried within are the dark complexities, the areas where my humanity was stretched to its limits, and beyond. I've been party to the machinery of death, a contributor to the undeniable devastation that's left families shattered, communities destroyed, and entire regions destabilized. I've had to dehumanize the enemy in my sights to fulfill my mission, but in the process, I've found parts of my own humanity eroded. And with every erosion, the label of ' flawed' seems increasingly understated. A particularly agonizing aspect of this is the moral injury—deep psychological distress stemming from actions or in-actions that violate my ethical or moral code. The tricky part about moral injuries is that they don't heal like physical ones. They fester, morph, and manifest in insidious ways, affecting relationships, self-worth, and views on life's purpose. Some nights, the questions torment me: "Was it right?" "Was it worth it?" "Could I have done something differently?" These are not questions with simple answers, but their weight is a constant burden, compounding the feeling of being irreparably flawed. My relationships bear the brunt of my complicated emotional landscape. Loved ones may perceive my emotional distance not as a symptom but as a choice, misunderstanding the deep-seated incapacity for vulnerability as neglect or indifference. The flashbacks and intrusive thoughts serve as internal barriers to intimacy, making the act of living 'normally' a constant battle against my own mind. I often find myself locked in a paradox: yearning for closeness and understanding while simultaneously pushing people away out of fear—fear of judgment, fear of burdening others with my trauma, fear of exposing my damaged core. In social settings, there's the ever-present feeling of being hailed as a hero and yet feeling like an imposter. The public narrative around soldiers often leaves no room for the complexities and moral uncertainties we face. I'm stuck between perceptions of valor and the haunting personal experiences that tell a more complicated story. These conflicting identities serve to exacerbate my sense of being damaged, as I cannot reconcile the person others believe me to be with the person I know myself to be. In a sense, this landscape of damage has become a battlefield of its own—a place where the struggle for self-acceptance is as fierce and unrelenting as any physical conflict I've been a part of. What complicates matters further is that, unlike a conventional battlefield where the enemy is clearly defined, the adversaries here are elusive, shape-shifting manifestations of my own psyche. There are no tactical maps to navigate this internal war zone, no field manuals outlining the strategies for engagement. The rules of warfare I once knew are inapplicable here. Instead, I'm forced to improvise, to adapt, to create new paradigms for how to cope, survive, and eventually, heal. Comments are closed.
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February 2024
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