Friday 20 January 2012

Something I've Never Told Anyone

If it weren't for rediscovering something I've written a while ago, I probably never would have brought it up.
As some of you know, I'm what they consider an Army Brat, though I loathe that term with a burning fiery passion, for reasons I can not to discuss. My dad served for 26 years, and he's seen a lot of shit. We've been around the block a few times. I have no idea what it's like to live in one town for your entire life, to have friends for your entire life, to have a reputation that sticks with you, wherever you go. I'm used to being the new kid, to knowing that the inevitable is that your best friends will move to anywhere from Fort Hood, Texas to Okinawa Japan. Those who live in a military setting know that a tour generally lasts two to three years, but can vary incredibly. It's a rinse and repeat cycle. Nothing stays the same, but at the same time, absolutely nothing is changing. Same procedure, just a few new faces.
I don't know what it's like to live in a world where people don't know what MP means, (for those of you who don't, it means Military Police) and a while ago, I didn't even consider to think that that was the case, not until I had to explain to someone what it meant. I've moved so many times, I've left the country, the continent even. A lot of people don't even leave their state, or hell, even town.
A few years ago, sometime during my fifth grade year, my dad had gotten orders to deploy to Iraq. The news... I didn't really know all too much about the war back then, I didn't really understand why he had to go, but I just knew he wasn't the only one. There were times where about 75% of the kids in class would raise their hand when our teachers asked if our parents were down range. I remember when he left. It was my first day of middle school, and normally, he would have gotten into the car and driven us to school. Us, being my older sister Michelle, and me. At the time, she was in eighth grade, so she had a clearer sense of what was going on. That morning, though, he didn't have the time to do that before he had to go. The best he could do was go with us to the bus stop and wait with us for the bus.
When I was little, in second grade or so, and we lived in Fort Benning, my dad used to walk with me to the bus stop, and he'd stand there and we'd wave at each other until the bus had gotten too far away. It seemed so normal. Happy. That was how I had to say good-bye to my dad. We had to go to school that day, while my dad went with his company to leave for war.
I remember, I was sitting in the seat behind my sister, and I could see Michelle's reflection in the dusty glass of the bus's window. She was crying, not heavily, but enough for it to be obvious. And I felt ashamed, because I couldn't bring myself to cry. Whenever I think about that - which is a lot, lately - I try to tell myself it's because I knew he wasn't going to get hurt, that nothing bad was going to happen. And for a while, that was the case. For a long while, actually, nothing bad happened to him. Granted, we rarely had the chance to talk to him. We got the occasional package from him with things like beanie babies and games. All sorts of things, and with each passing day, with every package we got, it was one step closer for him coming home.
April 17th. For some reason, that week, no matter the year, had always been slightly negative. April 17th was the day my dad enlisted, when he was fresh out of high school. Sometime during that week, I had gotten an infection on a badly done earring - first customer with the new lady, whee! - and when my mom took it out, I passed out, falling backwards and hitting my head on the floor, nearly breaking my toe in the process. Also in that week, or sometime before then, my dad got hurt.
He was sitting in a tank when another one collided, and the cannon part of it broke through the window behind he was sitting by and seriously jacked up his shoulder. I'll never forget the pictures of the damage it caused. Thankfully, nothing else happened to him, physically, at least. He still has nightmares, almost six years later. Those he'll never get rid of.
In a way, I'm glad for my lack of knowledge on the war of Iraq at the time. I've learned so much since then, and I'm constantly thankful for my dad being safe now. It was a hard year. He missed a lot. My sister finished middle school that year, and he wasn't there to see it. I started middle school and I wish he could have been there for the awards ceremonies, hell, even for dinner after we all got home.
I'm proud to say, though, that nearly two years ago, my dad retired from the military. And we've been here in Germany for just over six years (January 10th). By the time I graduate next year, I will have gone to seven different schools. Not including my kindergarten.
-Three elementary schools.
-One middle school *a surprising feat when you lead my life*
-Three high schools
It's been a long, strange trip, but now I'm getting the chance to settle down in one place. This is the longest I've ever lived in one country at a time. Granted, my family has moved while on this tour, but we're still in the same city. I'm beginning to shed the feeling of My life is going wonderfully, when will I be forced to move again? It's liberating.
I'd like to end this post with this: I'm all kinds of thankful for everything our soldiers had to go through, and still have to do, and for everything they're fighting for, but I would never wish this life on anyone. There are too many risks, so much sadness. And this is coming from someone who isn't even old enough to vote, or hell, even legally drive in this country.

I had to get that off of my chest. Every once in a while, my walls come down, and I need a little therapy session. This was one of those times.

~Lisa

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