Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
If I was going for hurt, it doesn’t register with Aspen. She dodges the blows I try to stick and land. Ones that I need to stick and land. “We tell ourselves stories, Rick. About who we are and where we came from, and then we live that, and it dictates where we’re going.”
“Don’t say we can change the narrative. It’s not that easy.”
“We can change the narrative. You know we can. Having people worry about you and care about you is not such a terrible thing,” Aspen says softly.
It is a terrible thing. It’s a terrible thing because it’s the one thing I’ve wanted my whole life. I did want it, but then I made peace with not having it. If someone is denied something for long enough, they stop missing it. Eventually, that phantom limb pain is going to fuck off, and you’re going to be left with a hard deadness in its place. Maybe we all need more of that—that hardness. Not less. Maybe the happy tra-la-la that a large portion of the self-help inspirational world is selling is bullshit.
What?
The world has collectively gotten a lot of shit wrong in the past. They could be wrong on this one too.
“I think you want to stop. You told me you wanted to leave, even before your grandpa got you home. You told me you wanted out. That means you wanted to stop fighting. You wanted to stop being a soldier.”
I can’t stop. I got out, but I haven’t ever really stopped. I haven’t lowered or released the burdens I’ve been shouldering long before I ever became an adult.
“Rick?” So soft. The way she says my name. God, I love the way she says my name. It makes me warm and unbrushed-teeth-style fuzzy on the inside. Ugh, maybe fuzzy-blanket-style fuzzy. The other one is too gross. “Do you want to stop? If you do, we’ll help you. We’ll all help you. Even if it’s not easy, you can get there. You can just lower all of it down, set it all down, and just be you. You can stop fighting and let us take care of you. You can let us be your friends, and you can let us love you. You might not think you’re capable of love, but you are capable of being loved.”
If I stop, will it make every death of every friend I ever had, of every brother and sister who served with me pointless? Does it make it all useless? I can’t just set it down. Because where would that leave me? It would leave me open to any kind of attack. Any injury. It would leave me open to complete and total destruction. No one just sets it all down. No one.
“We could go anywhere. If you don’t want to be here or in Atlanta, we could travel. We could pick a place. If it’s not in the States, that’s okay too. We could go off and learn how to live.”
“Very new age,” I comment.
“Seriously though. Isn’t everyone? I hope so.”
“Because the second you stop learning, that’s where you’ve really gone wrong?” Does it get any dryer? I don’t think so. Does it get any more asshole? Probably not. I’m setting the bar high right now.
Aspen is too good. She keeps insisting she can save me from myself, but what if the whole notion of needing and wanting to be saved is total bullshit? It’s just such a gross concept to me. Relying on others, letting down my guard, and letting them or some professional fix the broken parts of me. That’s likely not even possible. It’s corny. It’s terrible. It’s so mushy and romantic, and not in the sense of anything that has to do with love but more in the spirit of unrealistic expectations. It means being gentle with myself, but the very idea of that goes against my nature. I don’t want to be gentle with myself. Soldiers, even ex-soldiers, are not gentle people.
But in the shower I was just thinking about how Aspen is already under all those layers. She’s already past the fact that I’m not gentle. She doesn’t think I let her brother get killed by not being there to have his back. She doesn’t hold me responsible. She offered me her family even though I’ve shown her the worst of myself. She fed me, held me, and even helped me sleep. She had sex with me, but she also loved me with her body. And she’d love me with even more of her if I let her.
She’s made it clear that if I stopped fighting, that would be okay and not cowardly. She’s one of the gentlest people I know, but she’s a warrior in her own right. If I just couldn’t do it anymore, she’d probably pick up the mantle or pick me up and carry me and all my burdens.