Searching For Life After War

The following is an edited excerpt from the book, When Sinners Like Me Come Home: Searching for Life After War by Steele J. Kelly.

***

Well, late one night, she started to cry and thought, “He ain’t coming home.” She was tired of the lies, tired of the fight, but she didn’t want to see him go. She fell on her knees and said, “I haven’t prayed since I was young, but Lord above I need a miracle.”

The lyrics of the song “Miracle,” by Third Day, seem to overshadow through the stereo, resonating with me except for a few small differences. She didn’t pray for a miracle. I didn’t pray for a miracle. And she was gone.

She was not the reason for my current sadness, but she was the load-breaking card stacked up on the house of cards that made the whole thing collapse. That’s what happens when you build something on an unstable foundation. Years of ignoring my problems, pretending they didn’t exist, came back to bite me.

It had been twenty-three months since I returned from Afghanistan. Since my return, I’d moved to three states, went back to school, transferred schools, found — and then lost — the woman of my dreams. Through the fog of destruction in everything I had touched over the last two years, I realized just how much I’d changed from the twenty-year-old kid who went off to war.

I lost the kindness and softness of my heart I had promised I would keep and, ultimately, lost myself — even down to things as mundane as hobbies. Before I joined the military, I enjoyed target practice, shooting Tannerite targets, camping, and shooting the shit with the guys. Now, even cleaning them felt like work. It felt like an auto mechanic returning home from wrenching all day to pick up a wrench and fix his neighbor’s car, or a hairdresser who is only called to her friends’ houses after work to cut their hair. My once-prized firearms had been in the safe at my parents’ house collecting dust for three years. I no longer even wanted to pull them out to clean them.

I used to enjoy my friends whom I grew up with. I used to love spending weeks at a time staying with my parents and little sister. However, the post-war me — post-selling my soul, post-eating from the metaphorical Tree of Knowledge — was different.

Returning to the home I loved, surrounding myself with familiarity, was nothing more than a reminder of who I used to be — the person I will never go back to being no matter how badly I want to. I felt as if I were having an affair, hiding a mistress from my wife. Except that the person I used to be was the wife, and the mistress was the person I became after war.

I veer right off Interstate 90 West, turning left onto 19th Avenue. Without warning, the car in front of me locks their breaks, turning right instead of left, and nearly sideswipes two vehicles. I narrowly avoid rear-ending them as I yell through the windshield, “Motherfucker!!! Are you fucking kidding me?! Learn how to drive, you stupid fuck! It’s Bozeman-fucking-Montana! You drive in the snow every single winter! If you can’t, then you need to fucking move!”

With each word yelled, tiny pieces of Grizzly chewing tobacco fly out of my mouth and land on the dash. Although they can’t hear me, their license plates are out of state, and they’re clearly lost, I still find myself irate. “You can only say fuck it so many fucking times in one fucking day until you start drinking,” I say to my yellow lab as if she will understand my frustration. Riding in the front seat next to me, she gazes up at me with her soft, sad-looking eyes, almost as if she understands or can somehow sense the pain that is now cut so deeply into my heart. I feel it has taken over and consumed even the darkest depths of my existence.

Once again, the thought of returning to an empty house pierces my thoughts, ensnaring me back into my thought prison — the one I had spent years constructing for myself. Unfortunately, this thought prison is maximum security with twenty-three-footconcrete walls, rigged with razor wire and high-explosive ordinance — there’s no escape from it.

Checking both left and right tow mirrors on my Dodge Ram 2500, I back into my parking spot.

“Maybe if you didn’t park over the fucking line you fucking bitch, I would have more fucking space to get out of my truck! But no! You don’t know how to drive a want-to-be SUV!” I bark at the empty car next to me.

Opening the door, the snowy air hits my face. As I turn my body around, shifting my feet, the snow crunches beneath me. I lift the dog out of the truck, grab my backpack, and walk into my apartment.

Crossing the threshold of the front door, I’m once again doused with the reminder that she’s gone — and she isn’t coming back. Looking around, the couches are strategically positioned at specific angles in the living room. The TV is turned to an angle complementing the arrangement of the sofas, with a lamp resting on a side table next to the couch by the door. Stacked on top of the table are hunting and rifle magazines displayed with corners rotating like a spiral staircase, with a decor candle strategically placed on top. In the kitchen, there are two flawlessly folded decorative towels hanging from the handle of the oven, and another candle, still unburnt, set in the center of the island counter. It is apparent that this twenty-four-year-old did not decorate the interior.

Rather, the décor is the result of meticulous planning and placement by a female with a knack for interior decorating. My heart skips a beat with the memory of us snuggling on the couch watching Shark Tank. I can feel her head on my chest with her arm dangling over me. It has been months since she left, yet the feelings and memory of her are so vivid I can smell her perfume, remembering the warmth she brought to my heart and soul, pushing me to become the best version of myself.

Tossing my keys on the counter, they impact with a metallic jingle sound as I walk through the hallway to my office. Dropping my backpack next to my desk, books and my new MacBook Pro hit the ground with a clank, no regard given for potential damage. Grasping my wallet out of my pocket, slamming it on the desk, a glisten of light off the glass and walnut frame of an Army commendation catches my eye.

“While deployed to Afghanistan in support of Operation Enduring Freedom, SPC Kelly contributed significantly to the Troop’s success. His performance during combat operations was outstanding by providing accurate and precise technical decisions ensuring mission success. Throughout the deployment, SPC Kelly proved to be a vital asset. He completed every combat patrol as the Forward Observer and Radio Telephone Operator in the Herat Provence, Afghanistan. In September 2015, SPC Kelly was a vital asset to the platoon as an M240B machine gunner for the first Troop-size air assault mission to Farah, Afghanistan. This mission was essential to the safety and security of Forward Operation Base Farah, Afghanistan. His skill set was crucial in helping the platoon secure the landing zone for the rest of the Troop to land and secure the area for twenty-four hours until the mission was complete.

“SPC Kelly served as one of the four Joint Tactical Air Controllers during two direct fire engagements with the enemy. He coordinated the surveillance of four villages from fixed wing and rotary wing aircraft to the Platoon Leader. This resulted in the accurate reporting of enemy activity, giving the platoon fire superiority advantage, aiding the Troop’s sixteen confirmed enemies killed in action and fourteen enemies wounded in action.”

Glancing down, I think of how this award meant so much to me when I received it. Yet now, two years later, with the things I loved most gone, it doesn’t signify anything more than a piece of paper on the wall.

Walking into the kitchen, I reach for the gallon of Pendleton Whiskey and pick it up. Half-empty already? I just bought this last night. Fuck me, guess I’ll get more tomorrow.

Without regard for the standard three-finger pour, the bottle glugs, sucking air through the river of aged liquid heaven. Half a pint glass should do. Without warning, it hits me. The text message I had received earlier that day. I apparently didn’t push down far enough.

“Hey brother, I hate to be the one to tell you this, especially over text, but Jason — Jason killed himself last night. He left a note to his wife and kids. He took a bunch of sleeping pills and a fifth. Yeah, man this is the third one for you in the last six months. I’m sorry, bro.”

Downing the glass, my jaw begins to clench as my throat tightens, clinging to the familiar, now-weak burn of whiskey. Hot tears that I struggle to hold back begin to blur the label on the bottle of Pendleton as I set the glass down on the counter. With my back sliding down against the cabinets, I sit on the floor with my knees pulled up to my heaving chest. I place my elbows on my knees and sob.

I had tried five different antidepressants, two sleep medications, a muscle relaxer, and other methods over the last nearly two years with not even an ounce of success. For the first time in my life, I begin to have an emotional breakdown.

This is it. You are never going to feel happiness again. You are one of the 10–20 percenters that antidepressants won’t even work on. You fucked up, man. You sold your soul to Ares and Odin without even realizing it.

This was my harsh reality, and it was never going to change. Nothing I ever did — work out, move, change friends, or anything else, would rid the overwhelming feelings of depression and survivor’s guilt that seemed to pester me even in my dreams. There was never going to be an escape.

Then, the thought occurs to me. Well, there is a way for the pain to end. I mean you have tried every other aspect possible. I push the idea away. Suicide isn’t an option. Watching the destruction from my friends who committed suicide and the toll it takes on their families, I realize why many religions and ideologies condemn suicide — because it doesn’t fix your pain. It only passes it on, a sort of nuclear fallout burdening every surviving loved one formerly in your life. I begin to sob harder. I’m trapped with no way out.

I stand up, wiping the tears from my face. I reach for the glass covered in condensation sweat and gulp down the nearly six shots worth of whiskey. Grabbing my phone, I scroll through the phonebook list, searching for my longtime friend in Chandler, Arizona. I was looking for some comfort, advice, or “suck it up” speech. Grabbing the bottle one more time, I pour myself another half-pint glass of whiskey and tap “Call.”

“Hello?” she says.

“Hey, I’m having a hard time. I don’t know how to fix it, but I want to before it’s too late.”

“I’m all ears,” she says, distinctly concerned.

I explain what’s going on, trying to hold back any sound of emotional weakness or evidence that would suggest I had been crying. I hold it back until, without thinking, I say, “I feel like I lost all the things about me that I loved and wanted to intertwine into the man that I want to be, but there’s no way to find them.”

“Steele, they’re not lost. I know it’s hard to see right now, but there’s a reason you’ve gone through absolute hell the last two years. I don’t know what it is, but I know you’re the only one who can figure it out. Nobody else can. I think you need to take some time and find it. You didn’t survive combat or all those crazy things in your civilian life to crumble like this. You forget how strong, courageous, and brave you are.”

The conversation ends, leaving me once again to my thoughts and empty apartment. Sitting on the couch with the dog at my feet, I leisurely put my feet on her, petting her. She rolls over putting her paws in the air in a “Scratch my belly,” kind of way. I begin staring off into the distance, listening to the show on TV. Once again, I’m reminded of the woman who seemed to bring rays of sunshine even to the dimmest days. I wasn’t going to bed and laying next to her. I wasn’t going to wake up and have her magically back in my life. Just like my depression and PTSD weren’t going to magically disappear by morning.

Sluggishly standing up, swaying slightly back and forth from the liquor, I bend backward, cracking my back. Feeling the muscles around my spine begin to spasm, gradually, as if I were ninety years old with a cane, I step toward the counter. Grabbing the half-empty pill bottle, I pour out two muscle relaxers into my open hand and pop them into my mouth. Closing my eyes, I look up toward the ceiling and gulp them down. I pause for a second as if I’m going to receive instant relief. I set the muscle relaxers down and reach for the sleep medication. Pouring another pill into my hand, I start to pop it into my mouth. I hesitate, thinking of my friend who used sleep medication and whiskey to take his life the night prior. Maybe you’ve consumed too much alcohol to take muscle relaxers and sleep medication? No, you’ve drunk way more and have been fine. What you need is to get more than three or four hours of sleep for once. I pop the pill into my mouth, swallow it, and walk toward mybedroom.

Lowering myself into bed, I feel the icy sheets against me. My Labrador circles around curling up next to my feet, pulling her “guard shift” watching the bedroom door. Closing my eyes, I silently begin to pray.

Hey, Big J, I know it’s been a long time since you and I have talked, and even longer since we regularly talked. I don’t understand why I’ve survived all these things, just to live through misery and hopelessness. I don’t understand why you haven’t just taken me by now. I need help. I can’t put the bottle down. I have no idea how to pick the pieces up, let alone where to even begin. I try to find things that make me happy, but nothing does anymore. The harder I try, the less I find. I haven’t been acting like the man I want to be, and I have no idea how to become him. Before life happened, I was the happy, optimistic person. Now the only things I feel are pain or nothing at all. Just broken. Please, give me a sign — any sign — of where I go from here.

Closing my eyes, I feel the pills churning and mixing with the whiskey in my stomach. Slowly but surely, my thoughts slow down, and I drift into nothing but a dream.

Feeling the wind on my face, I swing my axe, breaking the hard crust of ice that had formed on the roughly 70 percent pitch. I’m wondering why in the world I decided to climb a mountain.

“You’ve never climbed before, why couldn’t you pick a beginner mountain like Mount Hood or Sisters first? But no, you’re Steele Kelly. You had to start in the fucking Himalayas,” I say, struggling to catch my breath in the thin air at 20,000 feet.

“One more step, push yourself.” Reaching up, I slide my ascender along the fixed rope, struggling to take another step. Everything fades to black.

On my knees, the early morning sun beating down on me, I reach over and grab my ice axe. I begin swinging it at the ice near my feet on the summit of the mountain. I continue swinging and digging a hole. My breath clouds the air with each fast, shallow exhale. I reach up to the zipper hidden by my Carhartt face mask and beanie. The teeth of the zipper hiss as I unzip my jacket to my waist. Pulling my right glove off, I reveal my bare hand, steaming from the physical exertion of the climb in the frigid mountain air. Carefully placing the glove in my jacket, I reach into the chest pocket with my right hand and pull the shiny, platinum diamond ring out of my jacket. Holding the ring at eye level and gazing at it, the sun hits the diamond, illuminating the precise edges of the princess cut, its clarity unmatched.

With one smooth motion, I slowly move my arm toward the hole. With hesitation, I open my hand, allowing the ring to tumble into the hole. I hesitate again, holding the picture from my wallet. She looked so beautiful in that picture. We looked so happy. What a shame it had to come to an end. I knew it would; I just didn’t think it would happen for another eighty years. I miss her and wish it had ended differently. Closing my eyes, I let go of the picture. It falls like a feather into its shallow grave. The world abruptly fades to black.

Suddenly, wet slobber and a warm tongue slide across my face. I open my eyes, seeing my eighty-pound dog on my chest. “Yeah, yeah, I know, Lucy Goose. It’s time to go to chemistry and you want your breakfast.”

I begin to realize it was all just a dream. Even though it felt so real, complete with the wind on my face, it was nothing more than a figment of my imagination.

I slide out of bed, bending over toward my toes, swaying side to side, cracking my back to the left and right. Standing up slowly, I walk toward the closet. Grabbing a pair of jeans and a shirt, I look to the right. There it sat. Reaching up slowly, I feel the felt of the ring box against my fingers. I open the case and see the shimmering diamond and platinum ring.

Would have looked a lot better on her finger.

***

Sitting in chemistry class, the muffled voice of the instructor fades into silence as I slip deep into thought. What if that was your sign? I mean, you did ask God what to do next. In your dream, you were in the Himalayas. Nepal. Maybe you need to climb a mountain and leave the ring there. Maybe the dream was telling you to find the lost pieces of your soul.

Quietly pulling my laptop out of my backpack, I cruise the internet searching for mountains to climb in Nepal. I froze.

No fucking way.

There it stood at just shy of 21,000 feet — the mountain from my dream. Imja Tse? Never heard of it, but Google images don’t lie. That’s it. That’s where you’re supposed to go.

Without any hesitation, I pull my credit card out and book a flight to Kathmandu, Nepal.

Well, you have a little more than three weeks to learn everything you can about mountaineering. ’Cause your ass has never climbed before. You’re going to climb just shy of 21,000 feet, almost twice the altitude of Mt. Hood, you crazy fuck.

I have no idea why I felt the need to do this. I can’t explain it, but for some reason, I knew I had to get away. I knew I had to leave everything I was comfortable with in order to fix what was broken and find the part of myself that was lost.

I knew, with the severity of how lost I felt, I was headed for a place that I couldn’t come back from. With confidence and determination, I knew I was either going to find what I was looking for, or I would die trying.

To keep reading, grab your copy of When Sinners Like Me Come Home: Searching for Life After War by Steele J. Kelly.