Freeman's Front Porch Musings

“I think you are angry at me!”

My brow furrows in puzzlement, but my veins constrict and my temples pulse with anger. “What good would that do? It’s not like you are going to change your behavior any more than I am.” Classic husband and wife argument. It all boils down to money. She is angry because I decided to take 50.00 out of the bank for replacement gear without asking. In my mind it is no big deal, after all, I am the sole earner in this family. Why should I ask? On a subconscious level, I get it. It is a sign of respect, but why must I ask permission? I am a grown man, who works 100+ hours a week. There is a disconnect somewhere in our communication. Lately, all we seem to do is argue.

Welcome to the beginning of the end.

If time heals all wounds, time decided to skip over us and heal someone else. Each day just adds to the bitterness and frustrations we both feel with the other. There is no making up, it has become a contest where both sides are keeping score of their grievances. In hindsight, the divorce papers wrote themselves. I paid two hundred bucks for someone to have them signed and notarized. The ensuing fallout from the divorce proceedings eradicated any hope of ever making up. Too much has been said, too much has been done, and forgiveness is a foreign concept which seems unreachable. “You are so angry.”

Facebook floats around a meme that states: “I don’t have an anger issue; I need people to stop ticking me off.” After dealing with stupidity all day in its various forms, the last thing I want to deal with when I get home is more dumbness. At some juncture, the circus must end. It doesn’t. Instead of us attempting to reach a compromise, I move into a separate bedroom. The rift grows larger. Years pass, and we are two strangers living in the same house. I become distant, silently shutting any doors the pain of my failure as a husband may use to get to me. Emotionally, I shut down. “If I don’t respond, I can’t be called angry.”

18 October will mark my eighth year as a divorcee. It irks me to no end for people to declare I am angry even now. “How would you know?” I want to shout this from the rooftops. Most of my friends and family have never seen me angry. Trust me, if you ever do-you won’t forget it. Anger destroyed my marriage, it caused me untold amounts of stress and it robbed me of my health. Today, when people accuse me of being angry it is a slap in the face. I don’t allow most people to be close enough to me for them to witness my anger. These eight years has taught me a valuable lesson, people will use anything they can get their hands on against you when anger takes the reins. Therefore, I attempt to limit the ammunition in which people can shoot me with. It is a wasted effort on my behalf. I am cursed with an angry face. Recently, my doctor made some observations about my health (mental, physical and emotional) and I can only assume the only reason he made said observations is because I smile too much.

I am doomed to be known as an angry man.

22 September 2019

The moon is playing hide and seek with the Cheyenne Mountain Range as I drive to the monthly meeting known NCO Night Out.  There is no light shining from the celestial body, just an ethereal glow that radiates around the peak of Cheyenne Mountain. Being from Mississippi, I have never seen anything to compare to this. The closest I have ever come is seeing a full moon in Iraq. My memory stirs as I recall the moon that night. It was full, round, and it appeared to hang so low you could touch it with your hand. It was a great night.

As I drive down I-25, I think back to the passage of Scripture which declares the moon will be red like blood, which is a sign to signify the Lord’s return. Fear grips my heart as I ponder my current spiritual status. “Dear God, I am not ready to meet you. Please have mercy on my soul.” Asking for mercy is out of character for me. Usually, I am the one who is asked to show mercy. It seems a bit like role reversal and I am uncomfortable with the change.  I was raised a Christian, and I know the truth. There is no excuse I can make for the way I live. To compound my misery, I struggle with addiction and alcoholism.

My addiction is of my own making. I take the pills to kill the darkness in my heart, I drink to keep my demons at bay. None of it helps. When I take the pills, my temper is shorter than usual. This leads to numerous misunderstandings which is caused by my need to stay high. It doesn’t help me fight the darkness, nor does it keep the demons at bay. It makes me remember the horror of war, to relive every loss, every moment of tragedy plays out in the theater of my mind This is a hell of my own making.

As I make my way to the bar, I dread another empty evening. Sure, I will go through the motions and act like all is well. Whiskey will be drunk, jokes will be told, and my heart will still be empty. At any time, I could go back to church and give my heart to God, but my pride will not let me. Instead, I pour whiskey down my throat until my troubles seem small. The following morning, I pay the price for my drinking. It is the same ole song and dance. I question if God would have mercy on me because of the choices I have made. “Is there a limit to the Grace of God?” With all my heart, I hope there isn’t.

Years pass and my heart remains empty.

Then out of the clear blue sky, redemption presents itself to me as loss. 21 September 2019

“Who am I?”

Under a cloudless sky, the blazing, bright orange sun burns me through my clothes. My gaze is cast out upon the sea of endless sand, my thoughts questioning my very existence. Yellow sand swirls around me, stirred by the furious whipping of the rotors of gunships hovering overhead. “You know who you are, you’re Freeman.  You’re here to make a difference, to avenge those lost on 9/11. Own the darkness, embrace the hate, let it fuel your righteous rage!” This doesn’t sound like me at all.

“Who am I?”

“I don’t know” is the only answer I can give myself. Somewhere between the training in preparation for war and the life I left behind, I have lost the most important part of my humanity. The sun continues to torch my flesh, and I wonder if I will ever recover from this loss. “How important is it to know who you are, really? You now have an opportunity to redefine who you are!” Yellow sand beats against my dark shades and my Kevlar covered hands pull the brown gatorneck over my mouth.  I wipe the sweat from the top of my head, put on my helmet and trudge to my vehicle.

“Who am I?”

I climb into the driver’s seat and start my vehicle. The roar of the diesel engine breaks my thoughts and for a moment, I have a sense of peace. It doesn’t last. Yellow sand hits the ballistic windshield and I am thankful to be out of the sandstorm. “I don’t want to redefine who I am! I liked who I was, there was nothing wrong with the nice guy from Mississippi!” In a moment of clarity, the truth sinks in. The “nice guy” from Mississippi was killed during basic training. All the training to be a warrior decimated the remains of my past. All that remains is the angry man who is fueled by vengeance. “Give in to the hate, embrace the darkness.”

“Who am I?”

I don’t know, but I don’t like this.

21 September 2019

I could have been….

For many years, I thought I had learned all the lessons my divorce had to teach me. It turns out I was wrong. This morning, another revelation sprung to mind as I made my way home. I did not give up on the marriage, I gave up on my children. Sitting in this broke-back recliner, I can’t help but wonder why I was so hellbent to give up. Prior to breakfast, I read an article about DNA. In the article, a university did research and stated that the more partners a woman has sex with the more it changes the cells in her body. My thoughts turned to my daughters and I find myself wishing I could have been the dad they thought I was.

I could have been a good man. An example to be emulated, but instead, I gave up. I could have been a steady presence in their time of trouble, but instead, I am a faceless voice at the end of a telephone call.

I could have been…but I wasn’t.

It seems my scars will never heal.

21 September 2019