Real Love Never Has a Happy Ending
drunken stupor and on a whim, I walked into an army recruiting office, signed on the dotted line, and after boot camp I wound spending 11-months being taught basically how to assassinate people. It was no ordinary army AIT (Advanced Infantry training). Idiotically, I chose Spec Force OP because other than physical attributes, my only other skill was speed reading. And my language abilities would have landed me in Korea as a desk jockey, cracking codes. Besides, it was peace-time, so what could go wrong? I soon found out there is no peace-time in Spec Force OP. They pray for conflict and they’re not too fussy about where. Any global hot-spot will do.
After more advanced training, we were flown to a “relaxing vacation paradise” to frolic in the deep, hilly wastelands of Angola, Africa for an eight-month sweat-box summer, followed by a four-month fun-fest in Somalia. Seems there were always violent groups of militant puppet regimes violating human rights issues while trying to force a government overthrow.
In a nutshell, everybody was killing each other. So picture it: Me, the former 15-year-old stick boy, transformed into a brainwashed, grizzled, cold-blooded killer by experts; I was part of an elite unit split into platoons of four-man teams, armed to the teeth and moving only by night. That’s right, me, smoking weed and sucking down beer and cheap whiskey every chance I got. All that plus taking occasional mortar and small arms fire by some prepubescent rebel snipers, or their grandfathers. Twenty-minutes of terror, followed weeks of utter boredom, then more terror, and so on.
The whole time my mind was occupied elsewhere, such as knowing another one like her would never come my way. Pretty bizarre? I thought so too.Of course, that premonition would turn out to be false. There would be other women. Apparently, broken souls must be voluntarily purged so they can heal. My soul did mend over time. All except for one small crack. And to my dismay, the overall healing process took much longer than I expected. All those subsequent girlfriends did ugahts (nothing) to expedite my recovery.
Decades later, I would locate your daughter again, in a manner of speaking. But not to rekindle a soaked branch, that’s for sure. I needed answers in order to finally put this thing to rest, to fix that one last crack in my soul. The computer age affords us such blather. I decided to write her a letter. What was to lose? Those paralyzing fears that once governed my brain were expelled long ago by harnessed power and confidence. I was too well trained and born again hard for life, by the experts. So, who cared whether or not my probing questions might temporarily disrupt some woman who probably scarcely remembered me in the first place? And even if she did recollect anything at all, would she have given a damn? Hell no, I had to figure.
I was correct. Realizing this might be a one-shot chance to get answers, I worded the letter in a direct yet lucid tone. Placing blame was not my directive. I layered in vivid detail the events of yesteryear, inviting her to correct me if anything she read was inaccurate. Once I sent the letter, the only question left was: would she have the emotional integrity required to respond truthfully, if at all?
Alas, the letter was read but no return text was sent. She took the easy way out. Only sometimes there is no easy way out; not in the long-run. So I let three-months go by before sending a reminder. No doubt, your daughter feared I might harass her to no end, because she finally threw together several hastily written sentences which answered absolutely nothing…at least not at first glance. She just wanted me to disappear. They were not kind words, or even legitimate. Evidently, I overestimated her inner fortitude. She didn’t address any of my questions in the original letter, claiming not to understand them or why I asked them. And for the kicker, she dismissed me by suggesting I’m not the only person in the world who has problems. I found that hilarious considering my chosen career (helping other people to overcome their problems). Jesus.
Her deflection was interesting…and revealing. It doesn’t take a pill-pushing psychiatrist to ascertain that at some point in her life, ill fate must have hit her very hard. Could the girl have been ousted? Widowed? Or worse? Worse is my guess.
Le conseguenze dell’amore? (The consequences of love?)
Your daughter’s minimalistic response was disappointing, but not that surprising. And I sensed that her poor grammar may have been a deliberate dissuasive tactic. (At least I hope it was deliberate). Otherwise, God bless the public school system’s hooked-on-phonics policy. (Laughing my ass off here)!Err…sorry. Having to take countless hours of boring psychology in college to become a certified alcohol and drug counselor (at age-42, no less), I know what emotional evasiveness is. It is a