When I was 17, I was a badass infantryman, anxious to do what I was trained to do. To close with and destroy the enemy. To kick ass, take names, and notch belts.
Now I’m 32 and I shovel poo.
Door kicking isn’t just a title. It was my way of life. It’s what pulled me out of my spiral and gave me purpose.
Now my life is level… and it makes me crazy.
I lived for the excitement of a gun fight. The rush of not knowing what’s on the other side of a door. To an extent even the confusion after a blast.
Now I hide from the world. Worried what I might do if I lose control of the switch.
That switch my platoon sergeant used to talk about. Being able to be kind and courteous one moment, react to violence with overwhelming force, and than return to that kind courteous ambassador of our nation.
Now I have a weak grip on that switch. I feel it slip sometimes. I feel that rage I’d use to apply superior firepower, but I don’t have a target for it. Family becoming collateral damage is my biggest fear.
That or the the possibility I’ve irreparably damaged my sons. My struggles with rage are now theirs. Recognizing my failures I’m trying to turn the corner. Trying not to become complacent about my feelings.
Jedi mind tricks and what not. Staying mindful of my anger. Progress in this arena isn’t optional. It is slow though.
Life after door kicking. 