Maggot Girl: Live, Laugh, Love

“Tonight, it seems, the freaks win, and not the prom queen.”

Ok. Stick with me on this one because we are going to review/ramble about an author and his grotesquely disturbing yet brilliant book series, Maggot Girl. Still with me? Good. Otis Bateman is an extreme horror author who proudly advertises that he is here to gross us out with tales of filth and death; he’s unapologetic just like his writing, and he’s damn good. 

While extreme horror may not be for everyone, the horror genre is like the Golden Corral of entertainment. Do you like the basic meatloaf and mashed potatoes or are you more of a John Belushi in Animal House?

Maggot Girl is John Belushi. 

Morticia is an outcast. She dresses in all black and is an easy target for bullies and the closed-minded alike. I can remember getting teased for being overweight, being a comic nerd, and just being an awkward kid like it was yesterday. Going from a high school in Norfolk VA to a high school in Ellington MO brought on a whole new level of narrow-mindedness, I’ve always considered myself non-violent, but even the most docile creature will bite back eventually. Stokely Carmichael said it best "...in order for nonviolence to work, your opponent must have a conscience." Morticia found a way to bite back and boy did she. 

While Morticia Maggot's story is filled with abuse, trauma, and a vile way of life, Otis Bateman somehow has managed to give her a soul. It's a dark soul. Darker than a Jack Kevorkian documentary narrated by Tom Araya, but a soul nonetheless. With a title like Maggot Girl, it's a dead giveaway that this book is not for everyone. It's disgusting, perverted, and birthed from the darkest corner of hell, but that's what makes this series of books great. It takes the elements of body horror and pushes the boundaries...more like it smashes the boundaries into a land of uncomfortableness. But that's the fun part of horror. Horror is supposed to make you feel uncomfortable and test your limits. But not all horror is built the same. You can have the biggest buffet but if the food sucks the selection doesn’t matter. Same thing with horror, if there’s no sustenance then what’s the point? Otis Bateman writes in brutality with the humor of a sadistic Svengoolie, and I'm here for every f*cked up entry he makes.

Maggot Girl is more than an extreme horror story. It’s a tale of revenge. It’s a tale of finding where you fit in. It’s a huge middle finger to anyone who has ever told you that you don’t belong. 

Journey Through the Past: 20 Years of Military Service - Part 6: Recruiting, Loss, and Hitting Rock Bottom

So here we are with part 6 of this journey. This one is going to be tough to write about because it was during this time that my life would forever change. Now, let's go to Jacksonville, FL.

There are three types of stateside Sailors; Norfolk, Jacksonville, and San Diego. They all have their loyalists for the life of me, I'll never understand the draw to Jacksonville. The summers are humid and disgusting, and it rains the whole damn season. The highway system is hot garbage, and the people are kind of a**holes, however, I have met some folks that for some reason love Jacksonville, they're some of the greatest souls I've ever met. To answer your question, why did I take orders to Jacksonville if I don't like it there. Easy, I've never lived in that part of FL, and everyone up to this point has ranted and raved about Jacksonville; these folks have the distinct "honor" of being referred to as the Jax Mafia.

After I got everything situated and back to Naval standards (see part 5), I decided to take orders to become a recruiter. This was met with both positive and negative feedback from colleagues. The negative aspect could be broken into two different categories. The first category would be from past recruiters; as the job is the ultimate definition of a love/hate relationship. The second category would be from folks who didn't think I could do it. This would range from "leadership" to coworkers. It's always great getting your paperwork signed by someone, and they tell you "you're probably won't make it through recruiting school." Well, 5 weeks later, and orders to Naval Recruiting District Jacksonville, the naysayers can f*ck off. I was a recruiter and I proved them wrong. 

Recruiting is a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't type of job. It's 36 one-month tours; you can be a hero in March but a disappointment in April. I've always thought everyone should be a recruiter once in their military career. I think if more people would take a peek at the "business side" of the military, they would have a better understanding of how it operates and the reality that soldiers and sailors are numbers and nothing more. Now, some folks, I'm sure will have different takes on this, but when your instructor who's a career recruiter (aka rate change (changed jobs)) can't say "Recruits are more than numbers" with a straight face, it kind of makes the argument pretty solid. Luckily for me, I fully embraced that every single soldier, sailor, and airmen is nothing more than a number. Numbers that are easily replaceable and categorized by race, gender, and age. Some days MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) will only accept females of color. On other days it may be white males only, some days it's based solely on ASVAB scores. Numbers. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't fault the military for operating their recruiting efforts like this, all corporations do. My gripe is: why try and pass it off as something it's not. Own it! 

We've all heard stories about recruiters doing evil things, and my time in Jacksonville was no exception. While I was there, every case of assault, thievery, etc meant more "death by Powerpoint" training with leadership hoping it doesn't come to their district. There's nothing like hearing the first presenter start their suicide awareness training by saying: "We're here today so that none of you suck start a nine millimeter." Unfortunately, the leadership that actually means well, more often than not will always get drowned out by the "good ol' boys" club, which is ever present in the community. Same with the recruiters in the field. 

I enjoyed my time recruiting to an extent. It opened my eyes to a side of the military that I wasn't too familiar with, and I learned a lot about the Navy and myself. I made great connections and friends and was able to get promoted. My wife was able to have life-saving surgery; there were some fun times we had. They had/have some rad comic shops and dope hole-in-the-wall concert venues (shout out to Jack Rabbits!). I get the draw to the area, but it's not for me, especially in this day and age. But I digress. It's 2010, and my time in Jacksonville has come to an end. I was going overseas, but the universe had other plans. 

I remember my detailer calling me and saying she was canceling my orders to Africa and keeping me stateside, but I had to go back to sea. Looking back, I wasn't ready to go back to sea and deploy. Even now, as I'm writing this, I'm overcome with emotion. But I gotta talk about it. His memory deserves it. He deserves it. 

I live that night over and over and over. My hands shake, my chest tightens up, and I tear up every time I think about it. The sounds, the conversations; you never get over the pain;  you become accustomed to it. It's been 13 years, and it still hurts. 

I knew that I wasn't ready for ship life, but I'd been running from my mental health for thirty-plus years. Surely I can pack this with everything else and continue on. Right? Little did I know that my journey into hell was just beginning. These next two years would prove to be some of my worst. 

Thanks for reading.   

Life...

Let's take it back to square one and figure out how all this bullshit began...

I never knew why my toys needed to be in a certain order. I never knew why my hair had to be a certain way. I remember arranging my He-Man, G.I. Joe, Centurions, and the like, which seemed to never be in their proper order. All my mom asked me was to clean up my room. My room is clean. It doesn't feel right. Nothing feels right. It was time for school. My hair wasn't right. My clothes… what if my clothes created a catastrophe? What if I didn't have my toys in the right order? The horror that would descend the world would be my fault. 

So much yelling. There's no room for your problems. You're fine. You're just having a bad day. Decades would pass, and I would put on a mask as if it were Halloween. Surely the problem is you. Me! Your father believed in the bottle more than he believed in you. It was your fault. Your mom believed in herself more than you. It was your fault. Those thoughts are your fault. 

You may not understand why you have to leave a store a certain way or why you have to count to eight when setting your alarm clock. You count to eight while putting on deodorant. When you think about it, your hands shake. It's your fault. Thoughts of your childhood start to sink in. You block them out. They creep back in. Something is wrong with you. Figure it out. Figure it out on your own time. 

I can't sleep, too many voices trying to talk to me...

You can't tell her. She just married you! What will she think? Keep the feelings in; you're a pro. Suck it up; you're in the military, and there's no time for you to feel sorry for yourself. You got to be strong. 

It hurts like hell. For years I carried these feelings, these thoughts. Chaos. That's what it is; it's chaos. Since I love analogies, I guess the best one would be my mind feels like trying to eat soup with a fork. For decades I felt helpless. It's hard to put into words if you've never had to try and convince your mind that it's going to be ok. It's tough because, at times, it's your strongest opponent. It's your most devious opponent. For some, it's the most deadly. 

Is this the end of my reality?

When does it end? Your job doesn't allow you time to reflect and share. Your wife needs you to be the foundation. She's the stronger person. Everyone knows that. You're weak. 

I know it's scary, but everything will be alright.

I remember sitting in Shands Jacksonville and thinking to myself, holding her hand and thinking, what could I have done? Surely, there was something you could have done, right? I mean, you didn't park in the first spot you saw. You didn't go in the door that you first saw. This is your fault. Her pain is your pain. You caused this pain. Don't you dare feel sorry for yourself? Do you know how many people have it worse than you? 

I've fallen into self-defeat

Good news! I'm getting help; isn't that great? There's no time for your specific problems. Are you not a team player? Oh, are you sad? Don't be such a p*ssy! Back in my day, I wish I had all of your "problems." Once you deploy again, you'll forget about all of your "problems." You're right. It's my fault.

Lie awake in my miserable mind

For decades I battled with my thoughts. I grew up listening to words that cut my heart like unintentional daggers. My only resources were music, video games, and comics. It wasn't until I was in my 40s that I would begin my journey to understand my mind. Even after therapy sessions, I would still seek out the answers and truths to help sort out my thoughts. See, in my mind, my thoughts don't stop. Batman shares the same space as figuring out what's for dinner, my daughters' Girl Scouts' meetings, my meeting at work, and I need gas. Now, you may be saying to yourself that's every person in America. Do you know the feeling of driving around the gas station looking for the perfect pump? You can't use that one; what if a fire happens? Do you know what happens when you don't arrive specifically 15 minutes early to a meeting? God forbid you show up at a time not pre-arranged in your head. It's hell. And hell never stops.

 I know I was born, and I know that I'll die; the in-between is mine.

Where do we go from here? I retired from the Navy in 2017; for the most part, I enjoyed my time. I learned a lot, and the structure will always be a cornerstone for who I am. Since my retirement, I've spent a good portion dedicated to my mental health. I've become more comfortable with talking about my feelings and thoughts and bringing who I am to the forefront. There was a time that I would be mad at people for not knowing what I was going through. Now, I share what I'm going through. It hasn't been easy; just ask my wife. I'm not sure where I would be without her; I know a lot of folks say that, but in all sincerity, she's been heaven-sent. For instance, today, she stopped what she was doing to make sure I wasn't overdoing something because she knows I anxiety clean. She stopped what she was doing to make sure I was ok, and I wasn't triggered. My mind and my heart are forever in her debt. 

Bloodshot eyes, and I still feel fine.

I've struggled with obsessive-compulsive disorder since I was a teenager. I didn't know what it was, and my parents didn't have the time to figure it out. To this day, they can't be bothered by my issues or concerns. That's ok. I have a loving wife and daughter. I have a nerdy ass volunteer organization in Comic Watch that has been a godsend. I've reconnected with my older brother and his rad family. My mind might be a mess, but I've learned that surrounding myself with people that care is priceless. Not being able to sort out thoughts is f*cking scary, but having people help sort out those thoughts is immeasurable, even if they don't know it. 

I'm so worried to be alone.

Why write this? On the surface, it's just another blog post. A rambling. True on all accounts. I needed to get some stuff off my chest and to the surface. I wanted to get these words out to folks that may need them. I can't help but think about that kid that is sitting in their room and feeling alone and not sure where those intrusive thoughts are coming from. Maybe there's someone out there that will read this and start to take those small and frightening steps to seek out a safe and comforting circle of resources. It's ok if it doesn't work out at first; go at your own pace, your own time. Just like Mitch Luker said: I know it's scary, but everything will be alright. 

Her World

See the path cut by the moon
For you to walk on
See the waves on distant shores
Awaiting your arrival

Her arrival healed wounds. Her smile continues to be the brightest lite in this world. Her world. We promised to give her the emotional strength and support we never had so she could not only navigate her world but one day lead it. Be who she wants to be. Tell us who she wants to be in her world. We vowed to make her world safe. We may fail at making her world safe, but we fail her if we don't teach her how to love her world. Love who's in it. Love is love. 

Kids are a delicate blank slate. They look towards the home for the way life is to be lived. It's easy to project one's interpretation of life. Both its beauty and ugliness are at our disposal and ready to be handed down like a t-shirt. Handing off this knowledge to such a moldable mind can be tricky. You want to make sure the message gets through without getting skewed. The other day she saw two guys kiss and responded as any 5-year-old would. We used it as a teaching moment and let her know it doesn't matter if it's two girls or two boys. Love is love.

Both my wife and I grew up in Boomer households. Loving households but Boomer households. Since day one, we have been a united front on how we would raise our kids. As the saying goes..."give your kids what you never had." That phrase is going to mean different things to different people. As parents, we want to make sure she has room to express herself, feel safe about being who she is, and show her the love and emotional support we didn't have.

Since March of 2017, her world has looked different than it did that glorious day. My wife and I talk a lot about our daughter's future and its various aspects. What does her world look like in 2 years? 10 years? Will her lifestyle be illegal? Will she have to show identification to cross state lines? Will she be able to pick her own career? Will she be considered a citizen? 

It pains me that I can't protect her from everything. All I can do is give her the proper weapons to battle for those who look like her, don't look like her, and don't love her. If we taught her how to love, and she passes that on while holding hands in solidarity, in the battle for what is right, then maybe her world will be ok. 

I want her world to be hers. I want his world to be his. I want their world to be safe.    

  

Journey Through the Past: 20 Years of Military Service - Part 5: Everlasting Leadership

 Are we already at part 5! This is crazy because if you had told me that someday I would be bold enough to put these thoughts to paper and make them available to complete strangers, my anxiety alone would have shut down the idea and kept it as a thought with no action behind it; but here we are. I've enjoyed doing this, and for the folks keeping up with the series, I hope you'll continue to dig it. 

The last entry was pretty heavy, so I wanted to level things out a bit and highlight some rad folks that helped me during this time while making sure we're staying true to experiences. The military isn't for everyone; it was barely for me. But it wasn't 20 years of doom and stormy weather. For most of my career, I tried to stay as positive as possible. Some days were easier than others. One of my favorite aspects of my career in the Navy was the number of teachable lessons that were waiting to be experienced. These range from: should racial slurs be celebrated freely to life lessons that can be applied when you get out of the military and back into the real world. 

Getting sober was huge for my family and me, as it should be for anyone battling that demon. Now that my drinking was under control, I had to lose all the extra weight I had put on to pass the semi-annual physical fitness assessment. I was on the ever-so-thin line of being discharged due to my weight. Now, it was around this time that I was contemplating getting out of the Navy, but I didn't want my time to end like this. Not knowing where to turn or where to begin with this journey of saving my job, my supervisor simply said: "just start." At this time, I was on the USS GEORGE WASHINGTON (an aircraft carrier), which is a floating city of sorts. Food is served pretty much 24 hours (in some fashion), gyms, a library, and about 5,000 of your closet and, at times, stinkiest friends. So I got familiar with a treadmill, which unlocked my minor joy of running. Since that day, I have run a few half-marathons and numerous 5 and 10Ks. I don't do it too much nowadays because of my knees, but such is life, I suppose. 

That battle to lose weight was tough, but so was my supervisor. Her words were stern, but her soul and intentions were honest. Even when I didn't work for her and switched to a different department on the ship, she always managed to stop by and say a few words. To this day, I still think about her leadership and how she carried herself. She was the first person I had come in contact with who wanted to impart wisdom for the job and life. Until then, I wasn't too sure that was a thing. Is it possible to set aside the fact that the military isn't the be-all, end-all, and it's ok to teach authentic life lessons without worrying about how you can pad your evaluation with in-authentic mentoring bullets? YES! Is it popular? NO!

I remember getting my advancement eligibility reinstated after I had dropped the weight and passed my physical examination. She was the first in line to congratulate me. I'm not sure if I'm writing this today without her. She significantly shaped my outlook on the Navy and how people are treated. Now, I could sit here and give shitty example after shitty example, but I want this to be about her. I want this to be a reminder that the soul needs to eat and the importance of filling it with the right stuff. There are two kinds of people in the Navy. Those that share their knowledgeable souls and those that don't. 

Thanks for reading. 

Sitting on a Park Bench

I can't think of a time in my life when I wasn't scared of the future. All these events deserve their own space on the shelf: starting a new grade, high school graduation, or getting fired for the first time. Now I just have to figure out a way to make more space for more fears. I married five years ago, and Jacob will be here in four months; I've never known such fear or resentment. Fear, because I'm not sure if I can care for another life; I can barely take care of two. Resentment because Sarah is bound to find out I'm a fraud and a waste of her time. 

I used to come here as a kid and loved it. There was so much to do. Sometimes Sarah and I would just sit on the grass and look into the horizon and feel ourselves existing while the world went on by. That seems like such a long time ago. 

It looks surreal, lonely, and intimidating all at the same time. It's cold in my hand. I have fifteen tries to get it right, although I don't think it will ever be right. 

So I come here. This bench, this park, this sky. The same sky that she and I look at makes me wonder if she thinks the same things. Life is funny sometimes.

"Can I sit here?"

 I knew that voice. It was calming and loved. His slicked-back hair. His Dollar Tree aftershave smelled fabulous. I sat there in shock as my grandfather smiled and spoke.

"You don't have to say anything as I imagine this is odd," he consoled. "We all go through things in life that may seem like they weigh a thousand pounds, but when it comes time to lift them, they're light as a feather. I remember I was getting ready to ship out with the 101st Airborne and got held up in Georgia. Turns out flat feet are no good for war. So they sent me home. You wanna talk about deflating an ego? I was sent off with a hero's parade only to return to sad faces and disappointed neighbors. For years I thought your grandmother thought I was a failure. I thought she didn't know about the loose floorboard by the bathroom where I kept the gin. I looked at your father and knew it was inevitable. I couldn't bear putting another me into society. I walked out to the shed, and I saw your grandmother. In one hand, she had the gun, and the other, the bullets. 

The sound of the bullets hitting the ground mixed with the silence of her tears was louder than any bomb we could have dropped. I dropped to my knees; I couldn't cry. The disappointment wouldn't let me. As your father lay in his crib, your grandmother told me that your aunt was on her way. I wasn't a failure. I loved your grandmother, your father, and your aunt. I just didn't know how to express it. 

We sat with our backs to the shed wall in silence. I felt her head gently resting on my shoulder, her grip on my hand tightened. At that point, I knew I was worth it, and I needed to get some help. It was the hardest decision I've ever made.   

At first, the words came slow. Sometimes I didn't want a response, but only an ear. Life is scary. It's scarier when you go at it alone. You're not alone. 

It's going to be ok. Trust your heart. Trust her smile. You can't undo the past, but you can write a new story. It wasn't until your father was in middle school and they put on a play of Bambi, and I saw him up there on stage, and I was immediately sent back to that night in the shed when I loaded the gun. 

August 9, 1999, I came here to look at the water and remember the day I asked your grandmother to marry me. Five hours earlier, I said goodbye to her as the cancer took her away. I never thanked her for that night in the shed. Uncertainty is frightening, but you owe it to yourself and your family to keep going. Your family is an army, and armies win battles. You have some really great people that want to help you win this battle. Go recruit them."

I sat there exhausted and sad. What seemed like hours had passed as my grandfather talked to me was only minutes in real-time. I didn't know if I was sad or reluctant that I knew that I must be going crazy. I missed my grandparents. I never knew…

"This summer, I hear the drumming…Four dead in Ohio…." 

That song. There's always been something about Neil Young that reminds me of my father. He was always playing Neil Young, always talking about how many times he saw him live. I guess I really don't have an opinion on Neil either way. He did that record with Pearl Jam, but I still couldn't get into him. It was nice to see my dad happy when he would listen to him, so I just soaked it up. Later in life, I would lean on those memories when things got rough; it somehow made it better. 

There was this one time…

Jesus Christ. It's him. My father. I start to cry and attempt to leave, but it's as if a thousand bricks held me down.

"The bench, huh?" His voice pierced my soul. I couldn't move. Hell, I could barely breathe. He's the epitome of evil. I keep asking myself why is here? He continued: "You can't leave. That's not how this works. Hear me out; when I'm done talking, then you can leave. It's no secret that I wasn't the best dad out there. Even now, I live with extreme guilt for what I put you through. But you have a chance to change what you know. I can sit here and tell you I wish things were different, but I'm not going to. I want you to know that I was at the bar when you were born. The police arrested me when your sister was born for disorderly conduct. I saw your little sister turn blue, but I was too drunk to do anything. There wasn't a day that the bottle didn't tell me what to do. You're built differently, though. Your soul is strong.

I can't stress this enough, listen to your heart. Listen to the wind's message; you're loved. More importantly, you're loved by your family, and you know that. That's something that I could never fathom. My family loved me, and in turn, I didn't love them back. I can't take back what I did. No apologies will remedy that. You can't leave early. We see Sarah, we see Jacob, and at times we see you. What scares me is that we don't see you all the time."

It was at this time he touched my hand. It was warm. In a blink of an eye, he was gone. At that moment, I knew it was ok to cry. It was ok to be scared. It was ok to break the cycle.   

Journey Through the Past: 20 Years of Military Service - Part 4 (1 of 1): I Got Married?

 WOW! Here we are, part 4! This has been really rad to do, and I would be lying if I said that this was a little bit therapeutic. I'm definitely holding on to the idea that folks are enjoying these to some extent. So without further ado, let's jump into part 4!

I'M MARRIED! Fresh off my first deployment, I'm on shore duty and life is pretty good. Nicki and I are figuring out this whole marriage thing, I'm digging my job, but more importantly, I'm not on a ship and deploying, yay me. Now, where I was working, the building required key card access due to the classified information we held. I worked in what we referred to as "the vault" which is where most of our classified information was held (stick with me, this comes into play later on). On October 12, 2000, the USS Cole was bombed while docked in Yemen. As October 12, 2001, rolled around, the country is still remembering those who perished in the senseless attack and attempting to make sense out of it because ships have gone into the Port of Yemen for years with no issues. 

Two months later, the country would forever change.

September 11, 2001, started like every other day. Alarm, coffee, shower, coffee, car, work. In that order. I got to work, started my morning routine in the office, I did turnover as I had duty that day (basically I had an issued cell phone that I was attached to for 24 hours) so I started my rounds on base to grab the mail, and other assorted paperwork, etc. As I entered the base post office,  I get a call on my phone telling me to get back to the building immediately. As I hung up the phone and headed to the car, the base police cars seemed to be everywhere with sirens blasting. I started to notice that they were setting up barriers and closing roads. 

I get back to my building and headed into my office and the t.v. was on. We stood there in silence as flight 175 flew into the South Tower. 

We got orders to shut down the building and leave the base to go home. What was normally a 5-8 minute drive to get off the base turned into about 2 hours. Every car was getting checked as it left. Traffic to get home was insane. As events unfolded that day, I remember turning off the television to get a break from the horror. I grabbed a cigarette and headed out to the balcony that overlooked the boulevard in front of our apartment. I didn't see anyone or anything. It felt apocalyptic. 

For about 2 weeks the country was one soul. As the American flags showed up in the Wal-Mart discount bins, we weaponized our anger and dressed up racism as patriotism. March of 2003, we invaded Iraq. Now, I don't want to take up too much space with the Iraq War, if you've made it this far in my blog series, you should have a pretty good idea of where I stand with certain issues. I did learn pretty quickly that you can't call the Vice President a war criminal and be on active duty, especially on My Space. I still remember being in my LCPO's (Leading Cheif Petty Officer. In civilian terms, I would say they would be like an assistant manager. The Department Head is the manager. Hope that makes sense) office and he just sat there with his head in his hands shaking his head. He called me a dumbass and told me to check my privacy settings, and don't say specific names. We had a mild chuckle and then we went out back to smoke and that was that. That wasn't the first time my social media accounts were being monitored and definitely wasn't the last. Thankfully I had some really great luck with folks I worked for that when I was tattled on I was never reprimanded or got in any sort of trouble that needed documenting and when the doors were closed sometimes we shared the same ideals. 

It's 2004. It's time to go back to sea! When picking orders for your next duty station, you usually pick like 3 or 4 choices and then your detailer (person who "approves" your orders) lets you know what you got chosen for. Since my first ship was an aircraft carrier I was trying to shoot for something smaller. I had picked smaller ships such as cruisers and destroyers. Really it was for a change of pace. I also bought into the myth that going to different types of duty stations would make a difference in my career. Right. Anyway, I got a call from my detailer and she said I had been picked for the USS George Washington (an aircraft carrier). This was my first lesson in you can wish in one hand and sh*t in the other, then try and figure out the difference. 😂

So, I guess I'm staying in Norfolk, Va and I'm back on a carrier. Such is life in the military. Realistically I was fine with it. I'm from Norfolk, I knew the carrier life, I wasn't disappointed but it would have been nice to leave Virginia for a little bit. Later in life, I would realize that you need to be careful about what you wish for! 

Deployments during this time took on a whole vibe. I still missed Nicki and home but I started to re-visit some writing ideas and really look inward and how I can do things differently with my life. It was also at this time that I felt my mental health get a little off-track. Unfortunately, the military doesn't do mental health. It's one of the most taboo topics you could bring up. It's easy to mock and it makes a great punchline. The military is filled with dark humor and at some point in time, you will be a part of that. I'm not exempt but I learned to use it to my advantage. It made a great shield, but that shield has a very weak foundation.  

As with any deployments, care packages are gold! I remember one time Nicki asked me if I had any special requests for a care package that she was getting together. My mind began to rattle off album after album book title after book title. But when you need Coheed and Cambria and Drizzt, you gotta have them. When those packages came in, it was like a new day has dawned. 

What would get me through all those deployments wasn't necessarily what was in those boxes, but that the items would smell like home. It sounds weird but those are some of my best memories of getting those packages. It was great to get those packages but you never forget that smell of home. Marvelous. Just writing and remembering about those experiences, I got such a huge smile on my face opening those boxes and seeing the Singles soundtrack or Midnight Mauraders, or a new copy of the Icewind Dale Trilogy because mine was so worn out. One of the most rad things she sent was a small photo album with pictures of her, the dog, our friends, etc. I still have that album. It will always be something I'll always get emotional over. There's nothing better in life than when you don't have to question if you're loved and appreciated by someone. You know it. You feel it. It's magical. 

So, we are going to stop it here because we have gone on long enough and the next installment is pretty heavy and is another long one. Thanks for reading.