Byline: Michael Ware
As thousands of veterans return, one reporter faces the abyss--and survives.
I should be dead. I wish I was.
Those eight words were not easy to write. It's even harder now reading them back. Seeing them there, sullen and sad and monosyllabic in their black and white.
For the longest time I wished I was dead. I wished one of my multitude of near-misses wasn't. Later there then came a time--when I'd first stopped living in war and first found Brooklyn--a time when I consciously, achingly desired death. Craved it. Longed so hard and bitterly for it that it became some taut tripwire strung within me where no one could see. But then, perhaps, thinking back, decoding it anew, maybe the wish was not to be dead? Not entirely? Not when I drill down into it. Maybe my wish rather was for all the pain to simply end?
Yes, that's starting to seem more like it. Maybe it wasn't death I wanted so much as it was oblivion.
I won't tell you how close I did or did not come in those angry days, after what feels now like an unspeakable decade of reporting wars; wars from Lebanon to Georgia, to Pakistan and Afghanistan; all mere accompaniments to six or seven years in Iraq. But I will tell you of when, on a day I cannot distinctly remember, that I came to know I wouldn't do it. That no matter what, no matter how badly I pined for it, I would nonetheless continue. Even if that meant being sentenced to a slow, quiet torment for the term of my natural life. That was the day I finally accepted it was a choice no longer mine to make.
I know one day my now-young son will read this, hopefully when he himself is a man. I pray not sooner. It's for him, and only for him, that I resisted. Once I realized even a deadbeat father, should I become one, is still better than the specter of a dead dad, especially at his own hand.
The decision, however, was far from palliative. I've since had thoughts, remembrances of that urge, despite knowing the execution of them is off the table. Because it doesn't alter the immutable sense that my race is run. That I'm done. That all the rest, now, is busy work.
To this day my mind still reels with war's usual kaleidoscope: dead kids splayed out, often in bits; screaming mates; crimson tides from al Qaeda suicide bombings creeping across asphalt. I still see ... things.
Other things I cannot remember, even when told of them, but I know they haunt my sleep; I tore my left shoulder right out of its socket during a dream one Friday night; awakened by the hellish sound of someone screaming before realizing it was me. So, yes, I still see things.
Mired in a falsehood of self-medication, I applied blizzards of booze and drugs to buy me time. To get me from one dawn to another sleep. To give me the time to reconcile my decision to live. All stealing for me just one more day, one more day. Though in a perverted way it helped save me, it didn't immunize me against the price for it all.
For now, I'm …