Letting Go by Daniel Marelli, MD (Guest Blogger)

Yoga practice helps me to let go of things that restrict me. Thoughts drift in and out of my mind freely. We speak of forgiving ourselves for mistakes or flaws that we are working on. Sometimes we explore our afflictions, together as a group without necessarily sharing specifics. We lift off into Warrior III and discover that by letting go of one position we gain new perspective.

The physical sensations remind me to stay in the moment and focus on my body. Some of the forms such as Pigeon, involve a slight discomfort. This enables courage and self-confidence while strengthening self-compassion. The discomfort is adjustable. It helps me build resilience in my everyday life.

Today we are children of freedom

This is the bread of our affliction

Let all those who are hungry come celebrate with us

As far as I can remember into my childhood, these words initiate the new spring season for my family. We tell the story of how our ancestors became free of servitude and gained their identity. We say that each generation must feel this transition. This has not changed for centuries.

One of the most difficult afflictions to let go of is the mindset of victimhood when a set of circumstances or a person has altered our journey or done us wrong. I became aware of this recently reading a book titled Advice not Given by Mark Epstein. A past trauma cannot always be erased. Rather than forcefully trying to delete a previous affliction, we could try to relate to it differently.

This recalled two personal events after which I had to find a way to let go.

The first occurred in my early teen years when my father died. I felt shame at school, always hoping to keep it a secret. Over the next decade I had dreams that he went off on a secret mission in the cold war and was returning. The dreams eventually formed an image in which he was out of place. The scar faded.

Today I speak freely of my father to my children. I try to inspire them with his love for all things art and architecture. We have some of his paintings on our walls. I have come to appreciate the personal and physical attributes he passed on to me. Most of all, I am grateful for the time I had with him.

The second event occurred more recently. I left my first professional job in Los Angeles in 2002. I knew it had been a bad situation for me, but I was stuck in the mindset of ‘quitters never win and winners never quit.’ I had an essential role within the team, and I was uniquely good at it. I was unable to let go because I had not yet defined the toxic environment. Was this essential? Not really, but for me it was. I felt like I had not done my best to make it work. Over the next couple of years, at every national meeting, my colleagues were all advising me that I belonged there.

Then in 2006 I went back to Los Angeles; to my old position. It was new management with the promise that all would be different. Of course, nothing had really changed, except me. Very quickly I resumed leadership of my former crew, but it was not the role I wanted. I realized that I had grown beyond the setting I was in. I started to understand that previously, my superiors had never been concerned with my development.

I now had a different perspective which unmasked all the imperfections that I had not seen in the past. I had never imagined this could be possible. After about six months I began to look for a new position. I became depressed. The traveling, explaining my difficulty at every interview, and my feeling of failure all weighed me down.

During an airport layover, I purchased a self-help book. I saved it for my office shelf. Thankfully, about a year later I relocated to Dover and resumed my journey.

I picked the book off my office shelf a few months ago. In it, I found the note pictured below …

To Daniel, 

Fire back, one bad decision is less than 10% of all the good ones. The solution to pollution is dilution.

Daniel

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Daniel Marelli is a heart surgeon in Dover Delaware. Prior to settling in the mid Atlantic he lived in Morocco , in Canada as well as in California. He is fluent in English, French, and Hebrew. He has a lifelong appreciation for literature and art and enjoys skiing. More recently, he has taken up yoga practice. 

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This blog post was curated and/or edited by The Ardent Reader, Esther Hofknecht Curtis, BSOL, MSM-HCA. The views expressed in this blog post are those of the guest blogger. Visit Esther's page at www.parrotcontent.com for more information.

Real Hope and Change by Ed Hofknecht (Guest Blogger) (Esther's Brother)

Ed and Taniqua at a Hope
Children's Home fundraiser
with a 1920s theme

When my sister asked me to write for her blog, I felt extremely honored that she would think of me. That’s precisely how I should be starting this blog post, but the truth is I am a last minute fill-in and had to offer my literary services as I was not even considered. ;)

I loved the idea of guest bloggers and thought this might be an opportunity to share my Beast writing skills with the world! I offered and there was a drop-out so I jumped at the chance. Thanks, Esther, for the vote of confidence, love you!

I have been reading along this month and have really enjoyed the pieces shared. I especially enjoyed my mother’s origami story. Because I never quite understood why she was so interested in paper folding, this back story shed some light on a part of my mother’s life that otherwise I may have never known.

I would like to tell a short story of how my life has been changed over the past few years. Seven years ago my wife and I were living a basically normal life. We were relative newlyweds, first time parents, and first time home buyers. Our jobs had plenty of upward mobility and promised comfortable salaries in the upcoming years. It seemed we were at the cusp of being able to fulfill the American dream.

Something was missing though; I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly, but could tell it wasn’t there. With this feeling in mind we decided that a change was necessary and indicated that to our bosses. In one year’s time, Taniqua (my lovely wife) would become a stay-at-home-mom, and I would look for work with a larger salary and better benefits. Little did we know, God had other plans for us.

At the time we were attending Cornerstone Baptist Church in Crossville Tennessee, which is an Independent Fundamental Baptist Church. For those of you who don’t speak church, that means we are not affiliated with any larger church organization, and we believe the Bible is the infallible word of God. There are IFBC churches all over the United States, and we send missionaries to all corners of the globe to reach the world for Christ.

Once a year our church holds a missions conference where we spotlight a few potential missionaries and decide whether we will support their mission. That year my schedule was in such a way that I was able to attend one night of the conference.

That night I heard a man preach about how little the average Christian was actually doing for the Lord. This hit me hard, and reminded me of a time years prior when I had a heard a preacher say that if God called someone to work in his service, any other life would amount to nothing more than a miserable existence. I headed to the altar and prayed God would use me any way he saw fit and give me the boldness to follow his plan.

That evening, I could tell that Taniqua had been affected by the sermon as well. As we drove home in silence, I could not stop thinking about the prayer I had offered up and the magnitude of what I had agreed to do.

We were nearly home when I looked over at my wife and said, “I think we are supposed to be missionaries.” She smiled the biggest smile I had ever seen and said, “Good! I thought it was just me being crazy again!” She then told me of a place in Tampa, Florida called Hope Children’s Home. As soon as we got home, we laid the baby down and pulled up their website. There were videos that told the story of the home’s beginnings, its mission “to rescue the next generation” and their needs. Then I clicked a tab that said, Positions Available. 

To make a long story short, in less than a year, we sold nearly everything we owned, paid off all our debt besides our house, and moved nearly 700 miles away from home. We were hired to be boys’ dorm houseparents, a position that involves the day to day care of boys from all walks life.

We have been in this position for six years now and have seen incredible things happen. I have seen firsthand as lives changed in dramatic ways. Little children living in the woods with no bed to sleep on, no meals to look forward to, no life at all speak of, come here and find a place to call home. I’ve seen children so neglected and abused that they can’t even smile or play, and they turn into some of the happiest kids on the planet. I’ve watched as boys grow into men and start their lives in a way that would never have been possible without Hope.

The changes here are incredible but the biggest change I have seen is what God has done in my life. I am in no way perfect, but my way of thinking has been drastically altered. I see God’s grace and mercy everywhere, and I know that He will provide for us when we follow Him. He has taken the selfish, prideful, unforgiving boy that I once was and changed me into a man that understands that but for the grace of God I could be in a situation worse than any of those that come here for help. He has shown me that through prayer and faith, incredible things can be done.

Realizing that this has gone long I want you to know the biggest change I have seen in my life. God has given me a compassion that was once foreign to me. I read news stories almost daily about parents neglecting or abusing their children in horrific ways. I hear stories of parents using their children for self gain at the expense of the little ones’ innocence. The worst may be those that - rather than ask for help - end the lives of their children because they see no way out.

After hearing these, I always find myself asking why? Why couldn’t we have crossed paths? Why wouldn’t you have brought your children to a place like Hope? Why wouldn’t those parents have just given me a chance to give their little ones a chance to live?

If you find yourself in such a position where you feel helpless to do right by your child, I beg you to reach out, find help, find someone, and find hope for your little ones. You can access our website www.hopechildrenshome.org or call (813) 961-1214 to learn more.

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This blog post was curated and/or edited by The Ardent Reader, Esther Hofknecht Curtis, BSOL, MSM-HCA. The views expressed in this blog post are those of the guest blogger. Visit Esther's page at www.parrotcontent.com for more information.

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When a father smirks by Leah Subar (Guest Blogger)

My father had a smirk. His smirk generally accompanied a statement that accused his subject of being wrong, dishonest, or hypocritical. And the unnerving part was that my father was always right.

Except regarding my life’s path.

I was his youngest child and only daughter. When I became Torah-observant, my father was beside himself. He didn’t understand why I had to do it; why change my life and embrace the ancient traditions his grandparents left behind?  Why spend a full year forging new relationships with old texts and those who adhere?

My decision came not from intellect. It came from my gut, from someplace so deep I couldn’t translate it into words that made sense. I didn’t have reasons; I had feelings. 

And so his smirk told me I didn’t know what I was doing; that I was making the biggest mistake of my life; that I was too afraid of dorm life and enormous study halls and academic pressure and so… just running away from it all.

But I knew my father loved me. It was the way he held my hand; the cadence in his voice when he called my name.

And his love followed me everywhere -- including over the ocean where I eventually set up my home in Israel. But his smirk followed me as well; I was a chronic self-doubter. 

When my youngest child started nursery school I went back to school, too. Eventually, I entered a graduate program and became a dance/movement psychotherapist. Naturally, I shared my career decision with my father -- but not with enough time to fully describe my dream because as it turned out, my father was quite sick. I lost him one week before orientation day.

As a dance therapist, I pay attention to the body -- and especially how the way we hold our bodies contradicts the words we say, or adds a certain nuance. I have a client, for example, who sometimes flicks her nose with her index finger in such a way that seems out of place in sessions and in her real life. After reviewing the videos of our sessions and doing collaborative work with my client, we discovered she flicks her nose whenever she feels threatened; anytime she feels pushed out of her comfort zone. 

And because I video most sessions, not only do I learn about my clients’ use of body -- I learn about my own. 

I discovered I smirk. 

The first time I saw this I was shocked. I recognized that face; it was his. But it was mine. 

I studied more videos  I didn’t smirk with every client; mostly, my smirk surfaced during sessions with one particular client. She was my most challenging one; the one who stretched me to my limits; who forced me to stay on my toes and keep calm; the client who caught all my contradictions and made me wonder why I ever thought I could do this. 

But the precise moment the smirk escaped was usually after I'd made a subtle yet astute comment that served to shake up my client's reality. I smirked whenever I felt I'd come on too strong. My normal expression would disappear and the smirk came to lighten the effect. It came when I wanted her to get my message, but didn't want it to hurt. 

Not every smirk comes to soften; each gesture is delivered within its own context, depending on its owner. But in those moments that I tracked my own smirk and felt it in my own body, I knew something about my father.

I knew something about him that nobody else did.

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Leah Subar is a dance/movement therapist in Jerusalem and Petach Tikva, offering one-on-one consultations and ExploreMovement workshops. Leah helps women get back their ZEST by engaging the transformative power of emotions and body experience. Join her list and receive a monthly post about living at your emotional best: leahsubar@gmail.com

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This blog post was curated and/or edited by The Ardent Reader, Esther Hofknecht Curtis, BSOL, MSM-HCA. The views expressed in this blog post are those of the guest blogger. Visit Esther's page at www.parrotcontent.com for more information.

How Arté Lives On Washington Street by Bill McCool (Guest Blogger)

Bill McCool

My friend Arté lives in an apartment on Washington Street. I have known him since he was three years old. Today, he is in his mid-thirties. He lives in a spacious apartment, has a job he enjoys, goes out to the movies and shopping, listens to music, and is greatly loved by family and friends. None of this sounds unusual.

Everyone I know who knows Arté will comment about his smile. When his face lights up, you light up too. During the summer, he volunteers at a camp for children with and without disabilities. He attended the camp when he was kid. He knows first-hand how important camp is to them. He knows they love the pool, being with their friends, being outside and playing. He loved it too. All of the kids at camp want their picture taken with Arté and his big smile.

Arté has Cerebral Palsy. He uses a power wheelchair to get around. He cannot stand. He cannot get in and out of his wheelchair or his bed on his own. He cannot use the bathroom on his own. When you realize these things, you might begin to wonder how he does it. Or maybe you don’t realize how significant this is because we see many people with physical disabilities living and working around us every day. It’s so commonplace we might forget to think about how it’s happening.

When he was in his early twenties, Arté lived in a nursing home that had over fifty residents. The place where he lived was wonderful. The folks living there were mostly younger people with the same types of needs as his. The home had lots of fun activities, it had an accessible pool, and it had transportation so that they could get out and about. The staff helped Arté to get his first job; it was part-time, but Arté loved the job. He still has that job.

It’s hard to imagine a young man who would go into a nursing home in his twenties and would then live there for the rest of his life. Arté did not want to live there forever, even if it was a great place.

This is not a story about courage. Arté doesn’t think he has any more courage than anyone else. He is living the life he lives and like everyone else there are good parts and difficult parts.

This story is about how separate pieces of public policy have come together to enabled Arté to live the good and difficult parts on his own terms.

Arté talked to our agency staff when he learned that we were renovating as historical home to be an accessible apartment building. He asked to be put on our waiting list. I admit I was a little skeptical, and asked him if he was sure he wanted to do this. He was sure. He was the second person on our list.

Arté signed a lease and rented an apartment from us. Six year later, he still lives there. He is successful because the planets of his world have somehow come in alignment.

Our building was made possible because of HUD funding that gave us the most of the capital we needed for its construction. It allowed us to put up a three story building with seven apartments and an elevator. We put in wide doorways, accessible bathrooms with roll-in showers, big living areas, and secure entryways.

Just as important as the capital, were the rent subsidies that came with the project. Each resident would pay only 30% of their income toward rent; the subsidy would pay the remainder. Arté didn’t have to work full-time to live there. He could keep his part-time job and afford the rent. If he went full-time, his rent would still be 30% of his income. He could keep his employment and still afford the rent.

Arté would need assistance, but not twenty-four/seven, live-in help. He knew he only needed assistance for particular things at certain times of day. Arté utilized Personal Care Attendants; he needs about four hours a day. He is able to let his attendants into the building and his apartment with remote control door openers. They help him in the mornings to get up, with his personal care, and, in the late evenings, to go back to bed. Arté manages the rest of the day on his own.

A change in Federal funding has enabled folks like Arté to hire, train, and pay for their own attendants, and to utilize those attendants in their home. He would longer have to be in a nursing home to get assistance. Arté is in charge; he sets his own schedule.

Most of us did not know that federal capital to build accessible living spaces, rent subsidies, attendant services were lining up and creating new possibilities for people with disabilities. Most of us don’t know how these things work together, so we might be unaware of how Arté came to live and work alongside us.

Arté fully knows how it works because he is now able to live on Washington Street, the way he wants to live.

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Bill McCool has been the Executive Director of United Cerebral Palsy of Delaware, Inc. (UCP) for over 30 years. He and his wife Kathy live in Wilmington. They have two sons. 

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This blog post was curated and/or edited by The Ardent Reader, Esther Hofknecht Curtis, BSOL, MSM-HCA. The views expressed in this blog post are those of the guest blogger. Visit Esther's page at www.parrotcontent.com for more information.

Geneology by David "Bud" Wisor (Guest Post)

David "Bud" Wisor

I have been interested in genealogy for as long as I can remember.

When I was growing up, although genealogy was fulfilling, it was certainly drudgery. It involved face to face conversations with some of your oldest known relatives, asking them what they remembered about their parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. When those were interviews were finished, you would head to cemeteries, churches and other places they might hold records.

If you were fortunate, you'd find confirmation of what you were told. Often the information remembered was either completely wrong or just misleading. My first run in with this was a great-great-great-great grandmother who was referred to as "A grand old lady of the South." However, I later found records clearly indicate she is from Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. Did she pretend to be from the South? Speak with a Southern accent? I'll probably never find out where the story came from.

If you were really lucky, someone else did the work for you. In the 1930's, many families wrote family history books. My grandmother (along with a few generations before her), were in a book called the Eash book, which attempted to identify all the descendants of an Amish Bishop, Jacob Eash. Another book mentions my Great-great grandfather Levi Foust and some of his ancestors. 

The LDS church, more commonly known as Mormon Church, has been collecting copies of genealogical records for a long time, and those records are available through their website and at local family history centers. Many of these records are only available on microfilm, but more and more are digitized.

The "game-changer" for genealogy was Ancestry.com. A combination of free and subscription genealogical records, all online, with a database that grows every year. While there are other online services, and most of the physical copies still exist, Ancestry's library means i can uncover more family history in a day than I used to be able to find in months.

The latest breakthrough has been DNA testing. DNA testing allows individuals to confirm existing relationships, as well as identify new branches of their family tree they weren't even aware of.

I now have a substantial family tree. I know who all of grandparents are back to my great-great-great grandparents. That's 62 ancestors in all, and a few of my lines go back as many as 16 generations. 

Genealogy is a pastime that is quite fulfilling. One of the first things I learned was that, despite our belief that people were different, they were very much the same people we are today. Some lived in multi-generational houses or next door to each other, while others moved thousands of miles away. Sometimes they lived long and happy lives, and others were sickly, and many died fairly young. Yes, they had premarital sex, they cheated on their spouses, they even divorced sometimes. When things were really tough, they might make their kids go to work, or give up their kids to be indentured or place them in a home. At least one of my ancestors even committed suicide. 

All genealogists have these “Wow!” moments, where they realize their ancestors weren't holy, or better than them. They were just people, just doing their best, and trying to live their lives, just like you and me. 

Thank you for your time and if you somehow have made it this far into this blog post, and you have any questions, please feel free to reach out to me. I'm happy to help you to start your journey.

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David "Bud" Wisor is a lifelong resident of the Philadelphia tristate region. Bud and his wife Theresa have 4 children and 5 grandchildren. In addition to genealogy, he has a passion for learning new things, and enjoys trivia, karaoke and spending time with his friends and family.

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This blog post was curated and/or edited by The Ardent Reader, Esther Hofknecht Curtis, BSOL, MSM-HCA. The views expressed in this blog post are those of the guest blogger. Visit Esther's page at www.parrotcontent.com for more information.

In Spirit, Still Here by Gwen Guerke (Guest Blogger)

No one who’s had a long, solid, rewarding friendship since they we were seven or eight years old ever thinks about the absence of that friend, the funeral, the memories, the ache of absence... until death changes the landscape. Sharon and I were friends for more than 60 years. Neither of us could pinpoint where that bond started developing, but we believed it was when we were both in Brownies in the late 1950s. We know we weren’t in the same elementary school classes; we grew up in a Mayberry-esque town. Probably this friendship began at a little Girl Scout day camp on the lake. Believe it or not, it was called Camp We Love It. Really! We were so naïve – and evidently so were the adults – that we never snickered at the name until decades later. After our paths crossed making crafts and some-mores, our parents must have realized that Sharon’s home was a block away from my paternal grandparents, so I could ride my bike to their house and go down the street to hers. This friendship thrived and survived through adolescence and high school, and we shared all the angst of proms, not going to homecoming dances, babysitting, silly crushes on unsuspecting boys, the agony of gym class for the less than athletic girls that we were. But there were plenty of laughs and good times; Sharon had a car. I didn’t. She also had access to a family beach cottage, and generously invited friends for new adventures. Fast forward, and we grew up, went to separate colleges, married – she was a bridesmaid in my wedding, had children. I divorced. My oldest son, her godchild, died of leukemia. Through whatever life tossed us, our friendship flourished even though as adults there were things we didn’t share: I enjoyed running and yoga and going to the gym. She didn’t. She was a very devout Christian. I am a prayer warrior in my own way. We had friends in common, as well as friends separately. We are still friends, only she is in heaven or wherever souls go after they leave this earth. I had almost a year to come to terms with her eventual dying from pancreatic cancer. She texted me to come to the hospital emergency room immediately after she was diagnosed, just before she was transported to another medical center. I knew she had been sick, but who would have thought pancreatic cancer? Not even the doctors she had consulted prior. What follows is somewhat predictable: chemo, weight loss, pain, fear, anger, an urgency to make memories. She set goals and remarkably achieved them, until February when she knew the chemo was no longer working and the tumor was winning the race. When she stopped those treatments, as they are called, she thought she had a couple of months to live, but it was only a couple of weeks. As she was dying, she took time to plan every last detail of her funeral service, an Episcopalian mass. She asked me to present not a eulogy, but her final thoughts thanking her co-workers, friends, family for contributing to the quality of life. Neither her husband nor her children knew what was going on until I stepped up to the lectern and delivered her message. No one, I believe, ever thinks they will be honored this way. I sat by her bedside as she told me what she wanted to say. She had mentally categorized her thoughts. I wrote a rough draft, then came back a couple of days later to read it to her. It wasn’t exactly what she had in mind because I had inserted some editorial comments about what a great person she was. A few days later, as she was obviously declining and aware of that, I read her the revised version. Much better, but she had written an introductory anecdote she wanted to add. When I came back to review the final draft, she was very, very weak, but she had the energy to declare it “perfect.” Two days later she was gone.
At her funeral, a packed congregation plus about 100 people in the overflow room, hung on to every word as I shared her thoughts. There was some levity, but every time I looked out someone was wiping away tears. And when I sat down, I thought I have to tell Sharon – that it went well, who was there, and I had questions for her too. I guess the point of this is that we never know what we can do until we have to, and that friendship and love and gratitude are eternal. Death has no hold. Love prevails.

No, I don’t have Parkinson’s: My story of PTSD by Bob "B", CMSgt, USAF (Ret.) (Guest Blogger)

I shake sometimes. I have an illness that affects my central nervous system and my spine, plus I have post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD.) My head shakes so fast, it gives me migraines from the muscles firing 10,000 times a day.

I pushed it to the back of my skull for 15 years. I never sought out treatment because I had a bunch of near misses. I never had to have a blood transfusion to save a team member from bleeding out. I never had to scrape brains off my face when my buddy sitting/standing next to me got sniped. I never had to carry my best friend’s stump of a leg back to the aid station to get it sewn back on.

I kept telling myself, I never, I never…  and that I wasn’t worthy to walk the halls of the PTSD psych ward.

I finally decided I couldn't continue that way. My hands and head shake like Parkinson's. It’s from stress related to trauma. I’m lucky to have never killed someone in my life, but I almost wasn’t. I came just two inch pounds of pressure away from juicing an Iraqi man and his friend in March 2003.

That night on the highway outside of Irbil is etched into my mind like yesterday. I have flashbacks of that night to this day.

We were about six weeks into the second Iraq War. I was driving in a two vehicle convoy to get parts for my helicopters. I was riding in the passenger seat of the SUV we bought with a bag of cash driving from Bashur to Irbil, Iraq, on a supply run.

We got a flat tire about six miles outside the city on a major highway. We didn’t have a spare.

A Kurdish family driving a station wagon full of kids stopped to help. The father spoke English and said he’d take our tire into the city to get it fixed. Our coworkers in the operational vehicle went with them, leaving me and a female second lieutenant I’ll call “Jen” on the side of the highway.

We decided not to abandon our vehicle so we could get back to Bashur with the supplies and team members.

The hours dragged on. Cars were whizzing past us. I felt like everyone was staring at the #$%@ing Americans. The day turned to night. We weren’t issued night vision goggles (NVGs) and there were no lights except the those from the cars and trucks that passed us.

I don’t think I can fully explain what it’s like to be in a war zone in an exposed position for hours on end. It felt like the longest 6 hours of my life.

Then it got worse.

Out of nowhere - the bushes maybe - two guys approached us to about 20 yards away and stopped. I propped open the door of the broken SUV as if that would stop a bullet or RPG.

I yelled at them to show me their hands. I’m not sure if they understood, knowing they didn't speak English, and I didn't speak Farsi or Peshmerga, or whatever language they spoke.

I told the second lieutenant to charge her weapon. We didn’t work together often, and she didn’t read the urgency in my voice. Instead, she asked, “Why?”

“I can't see their hands, Ma'am, charge your #$%@ing  weapon.” I switched my M-16 from safe to semi/fire.

I was still yelling at them as if they understood me when the dude closest to us reached into his black robes. My heart was pounding out of my chest. (My hands are shaking as I type.)

I screamed, “Don't make me shoot you, mother#$%@er!”

He pulled out a cigarette lighter and blinded me with the flash.

I didn't shoot. But if he or his friend wanted to kill us, they could’ve done it from the darkness. Then they disappeared into the shadows as quickly as they first appeared.

For the next few hours until our convoy returned, I was terrified they would come back with a bigger force, kill me, rape her, and take her hostage.

All that time, I had no idea who had eyes on us from what distance, and what kinds of weapons they had trained on us. I was on high alert for hours. I had never been so scared in my whole life. We were sitting ducks in pitch blackness. In a surreal moment, a little old man brought us Chai tea from a house in the distance. I was grateful, but I still couldn’t let down my guard.

Our comrades finally returned with the spare. When it was installed, I asked, if we were going into the city to get to the Forward Operating Base (FOB) to sleep “inside the wire.”

The resource officer said, “No, it’s too hot. We’re going back to Bashur.”

Instead, we had to drive over a 4,000 - 5,000 foot mountain range in the pitch dark. There were no guard rails, and cliffs drop straight down 600 feet. We were driving an unmarked vehicle, and the AC-130 gunships flying overhead could’ve mistaken us for the enemy and taken us out. Somehow we made the hour and a half journey with no problems. I came through it feeling unbelievably lucky.

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Being under such extreme stress for a long time changed me forever. The night is no longer my friend. I'm terrified if I hear sounds in the dark that I can't see. I know there's nobody there gonna get me, but I can't ever forget that night on the highway outside of Irbil.

I have PTSD. I suffer from recurring nightmares, flashbacks, vivid dreams, and hypervigilance. My mind is on guard all the time.

In a restaurant, I can’t sit still and enjoy coffee and conversation with the person in front of me. Instead, I’m scanning the room around me, mapping out exits, and watching for aggressive acts by fellow patrons which could turn into a fight. There are too many mass shootings in public places these days.

I'm in therapy, but it's gonna be a lifetime of therapy.

I thank God I never had to kill anybody, and I hope I never do. I'm trained to put three rounds in the center of mass. You think it's easy until you actually have to do it, and then it's hell for the rest of your life regretting taking that life. Until I was faced with that choice, I thought, “F%$# that! It's them or me.” But in reality it's not easy to pull the 2-6 pounds of pressure to squeeze off that three-round burst.

PTSD knows no rank, rate, income level, political affiliation. It eats at my soul every day. I can't talk about it without shaking, crying, or throwing up.

Now I know why my Dad never talked about WWII. He was an infantry soldier in the 36th Division, 142nd Infantry Regiment, Company L. He was a Technical Sergeant, with a green bar below his chevrons. They are now called a Sergeant First Class.

My dad got a battlefield promotion to second Lieutenant by Major General Omar Bradley. The general asked, “Where is your Company Commander?” My dad said, “Dead, sir.” The general asked, “Where’s your Platoon Leader? My dad answered, “Dead, sir.” The general asked, “Who’s been leading these men, Sergeant?” My dad said, “I have, sir.” The general responded, “You’re out of uniform... pin these on”.

By the time that paperwork reached HQ Army, the war in Germany was over. They said he had to go to OCS to keep the lieutenant bars and after that, go to the Pacific to continue to fight. He had enough points to go home. He had been wounded twice and seen his share of death. So he passed on the opportunity to attend Officer Candidate School (OCS) at Fort Benning.

He pinned his Tech Sergeant stripes back on and took a ship from Europe back to the States. One thing he did miss about Fort Benning was Jane Russell. She was married to a captain in the Army at the time. They were neighbors. She would sunbathe in the backyard. She was a pin up girl. “Vava vavoom,” he'd say.

Phew… I need a break. I'm OK... this shit is hard.