Through the fog. A journey through the hell of war and PTSD. Part II.

Part II

I was born in 87’ to a Munchausen mother monster on meth. Father wanted that abortion. Or so says the meth monster. 27 years later the question posed to the father after he fucked my family over for $40,000. Thanks, James! Anyways, he says no, he didn’t. Spits out a story completely contradicting hers. I know I was an anchor pregnancy. Try to cast the time, but she forgot to tie the knot. Meth does that I suppose.

But hey, she was so cool. “You should go spend the four-day weekend with your 14-year-old self and your 14-year-old, absolute trailer trash, girlfriend. I know her parents won’t be home, how else can my son get her pregnant so he is trapped in the web of her living room. We love watching movies in this family and if someone has a problem in the home we press the feelings way down. Hide em, people think they are disgusting.

Somehow I dodged that bullet, despite my 14-year-old self’s desires and accomplishments. You are supposed to have friends to brag to about that kind of weekend, but when did I ever have friends? Brian? He just one day suddenly hated me. High stakes for a 6-year-old. I am sure my mother had something to do with that. Never turn from your mother, I am the only one that loves you. Like I told you a hundred times, you were born with half your brain not functioning. The doctors said you should be aborted, but I said no. They said you should be put in a home because you would never be able to function in society. I refused what they said, I took you home. The only memory of her teaching me anything was the word special.




Never forget. Except forget that these stories changed over and over throughout the coming years. Now the really surprising thing was this statement. You only have PTSD because you are a pussy soldier. Somehow shocking to me. Follow the thought. She is throwing up flak cannons of shame. It coats me like the toxic sand that lives deep in my lungs. Every inch crawling. She smacks the idea around. She is evolution, she is change, she is control, she is death. Ha ha ha. She begins her dark dance weaving a path of acid burning into the floor. She is a serpent. She has a bottle of pills and a doll in her serpent hands. The pills are my fault. I drove her to them with my betrayal. The psychologist says that she is all better now though! But her bipolar acts up every now and then. She has all my problems because all my problems are hers. She holds up the doll, it is run through with hundreds of pins. The doll is voodoo, she is an evil witch as well. So many hats and some are pointed, like her KKK cloak of racism. Blood drips from the cotton form. If she wore a trench coat she would traffic in souls and pain. It is her specialty. There is that word again… She said she wanted to be in the FBI as a child, I think she would have fit in.

You know what is weird? When a 14-year-old boy finds himself with not only his girlfriend but her 12-year-old friend. They want a threeway because everyone is just so fucking curious how everything works. And it is the 14-year-old boy who refuses. This is in the haze of three days worth of pot and liquor. Remember when your father said not to fuck my life up with weed? While he was toking. Meth does that I suppose. Speaking of meth, super awesome parenting mom! You ensured that I had all the proper tools to navigate. You were fine with the goth girl, nothing happened with her though. At least I got away from the trailer trash. She did what? Oh, so she is with a 45-year-old trucker lesbian? Okay, well that is done. Left my memory card at her house. She deleted my Final Fantasy some number save. I was on disc 3. Bitch. I guess the Final Fantasy was having a functional life.

Remember the collector knife set I bought you with the naked ladies on it? Perfect at 14. The goth girl would say anal while looking at them. She was referring to her being anal. Not what my mind conceived, you tease. Wait, you started masturbating at 7? You would stick your dick in the vacuum and mutilate yourself with burning and pinching and tearing. I have a slave to the desires you bestowed upon me. How can you live with yourself? Oh, maybe it was that fact that I traded you to your gay cousin for some meth.

That is what swells in those weird scary dreams you have. You know the one. Candy. Toys. A tent. Pain. Fear. Can’t move, trapped, cornered, a helpless animal. Treated like a mouse that a cat has captured. A ball and chain for life. An insatiable sexual desire. Thank god for the internet, how else would I have gotten the porn? At 14, man you loved that age. At 14 you told me how my gay cousin wants to fuck me. And his sexual desires of being taken to the dam, tied up, and whipped with tree branches? Pissing on your Lex from Jurassic Park, it must be normal behavior. I loved eating the people with the dinosaurs. Especially the T-Rex. So much powerless in front of it. You cannot run. You can hide in his mouth and stomach while he digests you. Whoops. Sorry folks, not sure what just bled through there. Just let me put a curtain over this and we will repair that tear later on. Just jam plaster into the wound. Make it invisible. It is the best feeling I have.

I don’t know how I didn’t flunk high school. The first day of the sophomore year was so weird. Why do I have the same teacher for every class? It is because I barely had enough skin in the game to graduate at the current rate I was going. Had I failed any of these things I would have been kicked out of high school for good. So I turned that shit around. It is a shame to not have somebody teach you something. Math, you bitch. Of course later on after many psychological studies and IQ test. I am told that I should be a wizard at math. I excel in all those marks. Engineering. Go build the aircraft that you love so much. Except you cannot. Except that no matter how hard you try on YouTube and Khan Academy to pass math. Pre-algebra and algebra two? Just a few months. One of the best engineering schools is right up the street. But thanks to that traumatic brain injury and PTSD. You can kiss that dream to buy. The bipolar and borderline personality disorder said in. Lowest of the low. Air conditioning repair slips the fingers. Appliance repair slips through the fingers. Computer security slips to the fingers. Am I made of ice? I never had fire put in me.

Hey serpent, I flew on UH-60’s for 6 years. That is a helicopter. 720 flight hours, I got an award for 500+ combat hours. Also one for being a good mechanic. I fought fires and transported Generals. I wanted four things joining the Army. Go to combat, 38 months nailed down. Get the Air Medal, it has nice colors, blue and orange. The bird has power. My spirit animal is the Turkey Vulture, they circle death like me. Funny enough, my flight company was called the Vultures. The Generals just wanted to go to better dining facilities and go fuck their whores. Can’t keep their dick out of what should reasonably be a “no-fly zone.” You should hear my PTSD stories! They will scare the pants straight off you. Those Generals would have me killed if it served their purpose. Funny, it would also serve the meth monsters, (I almost spelled it momsters), she yearned only for me to die. So she could be a gold star mother. Pity me! Feel sorry for me! Oh, my loss. By the way, I did get the medal.

Third, I wanted to be a good shooter. I almost failed qualification so many times. I had tears. I do not want to restart basic. I skid by. 6 years later, Expert Marksman 39/40. German shooting badge? Gold. Top honors. Really good at shooting from a moving helicopter. It is an art. I feel like fucking Mark Bryan. I also wanted to make Staff Sergeant. It is the best looking enlisted rank. Later I wanted to make Captain. Railroad tracks. Company Commander. A Major told me I should become an officer. Never happened. Slips through the fingers.

Explosions. IED’s, mortars, the meth monster. Junior year of high school. Army JROTC private to Lieutenant in one year. Made the S3, something about doing things. Top 5% of students in first responder class. First Sergeant, old Vietnam veteran. Airborne. Fucked knees. “No one ever jumps on a grenade saying “for the flag!” It is for the men in your company. You will have a brotherhood like no other.” I guess I got the wrong operating system. Brotherhood abandoned, brotherhood ignored, brotherhood thrown out the door. “Only pussies have PTSD. Marcus Luttrell got over it, your just a bitch.” But.. Marcus Luttrell has that brotherhood. Apparently, the Cavalry forgot the brotherhood. Such a tear. Like the tear in my soul. My heritage, white trailer trash, Choctaw Indian. The two clash. White skin says no heritage. I eschew my white. Great Spirit watch over me, things are dark.

Just keep it up! If you pass you go straight into EMT class. Past that straight into an internship with LA County fire. Finish up the fire technology classes I am doing. All free! Back when California was not such a shit state. Save lives, help others. But the acid dripped in. She opened her bomb bay doors and burned down my opportunities like they were Dresden Germany. The call. Your stepfather and I are getting a divorce. He is the one I call the police on twice because he was beating her with a table fan. Hauled away in handcuffs. The alcohol. The yelling. Locked in his room all day long. I look back now and I wish he beat her more with the fan. It is not something I say lightly. Someone would have to live the life to understand. At some point, the monster should be punished. That was a small punishment that I can take with me. I know she deserved it. Racking up credit card bills straight into bankruptcy. It is okay I will just ask my son who is in the Army to send me money. Ways never change if they don’t suit here. His wife and child be damned. I need money so that I can buy online video game coins. That is where I spend my $600 a week grocery budget on. And meth. She had a good decency to stop trafficking in me. But you are the man of the house now. You need to take care of me And your two younger brothers. Both have problems. Oh and that divorce? Just kidding! Oh, you already dropped your classes? Eh… Bury that shit.

The only paperwork she ever produced about the so-called brain damage was a paper that had every sign pointing to shaken baby syndrome. But you can only shake a baby when there is nobody around. So when your next child came you had to do something different. Remember Monster? It is not 1990 anymore. You cannot just take your two-year-old to a psychiatrist so that he can be put on Ritalin. He is too crazy! I just cannot control him! He also has learning disabilities! Did I tell you that he was born with half his brain not working? Do not worry, he started working again. I am so proud! It is because I just would not accept the doctor’s opinions. What do they know? I believed in him. A mother’s love is the strongest power of medicine that there is. No shaken baby for the second one. He arrived not fully powered up. The wardrobe would be your domain. Locking them into a small cubicle fear. Marinating them. Them, because she does not stop. She opens daycare. Cloud Nine it says. She must have bought a thousand pens, red and shiny. If the kid is rowdy, Johnny have them step up the door number one. What we have inside for them? Monsters. Monsters inside monsters outside. The serpent proves that monsters can smile. Monsters have faces. That is what makes them so terrifying. Who are they where are they? We never thought that he would be capable of doing such a thing. He was always such a happy person.

“Please do not contact my husband again, he is having a severe case of PTSD and Suicidal ideation.” My wife pleads to the serpent. The pleas fall on nonexistent ears. Ears required listening to pleas. She abandoned them long ago so that she can focus on herself. Mission first. Maybe that is why she thinks I am a pussy? She is a better soldier than I am. I do not know what he could possibly be suicidal about. He has a family and a baby on the way. He should focus on the things that are important.” She had just moments before threatened to steal our kids.

Hey mom, do you have any idea what I did in the Army? Oh, wait forgot, no ears. You would think growing up without my whole life I would have learned that by now. But the TBI makes it so that I cannot remember where the spoons go most of the time. Heaven forbid, my wife move something. That will take months Of reprogramming.

It would be pretty cool if you cared. I mean, I know that you never thought I would actually make it to the Army. I am sure you sat patiently near the phone every single day waiting for me to call. I just cannot take it. Mommy, I want to come home. I never want to leave your side again. What was I thinking? I wonder when you began to worry? That is something that I get to hold dearly. I know at some point, you realize that you fucked up. Signing those papers for the Army. You told my future wife that the two of you should break my leg so that I would not have to go. Just one of the many times you used her. She was a threat to you. She was intelligent. She knew all about being broken. She was beyond her years. You caught us warming up in the bedroom. If you get her pregnant. It will ruin your life. Funny how her feelings changed after just a year. She was my lifeboat. She was rowing towards me. The serpent reached me first. She capsized the lifeboat. Her soul hooking tail wrapping around my leg and pulling me under. Years of separation. We reconnected. I bet you hated that. Good. 10 years later I ask you where the fuck are you now? Because I am not talking to you directly anymore.

You know the worst thing about all this? I was completely unaware. It would take me until 27 to realize. Even at 30, it feels like I am learning new things every day. It is like a school that I can never get out of.

There are more stories of course. But at some point, you have to stop.