The other day, I wrote concerning my walk in darkness. It opened memories of things I had buried deep under many layers of pain, Oxy, and alcohol. These memories are so extreme, I doubt I ever share them with anyone. I don’t want people to know what I’ve done.
It was so fierce, my stomach has been tied in knots for days. I write a lot about war and some of the horrors, I have witnessed. Or rather, I gloss over them. There is no way to describe the flood of adrenaline when you’re life is endangered. Or the horror of watching your friends die in the most devastating ways ever engineered by mankind.
Words do not do justice to the devastation found in a war zone. Homes are turned into rubble. Schools are completely wiped out. Hospitals are used by insurgents to ambush patrols. Religious centers are used to train fighters to carry out attacks, and to remind them of the promise of a better life when they die.
Given this knowledge, how could I verbally paint a picture to provide those who love me, of the monstrous deeds I committed in the name of freedom? In the short story Redemption, I said I couldn’t forgive myself. Then I went to church and as I grew stronger in Christ, redemption found me. This is true, but last night was so frightful, I doubted the redemption I had discovered.
Apparently, I haven’t dealt with some of the more potent memories. If I had hidden them deep, they need to be hidden away deeper. I am unsure of whether I should attempt to sleep tonight.
In the end, it doesn’t matter. My walk in darkness isn’t over, it just happens to come and go with the tides. The struggle for normalcy continues.