Love After War: A Narrative (Conclusion)

Part V.

In August 2005, my roommate decided to move back home to Frederick, MD – a place often jokingly referred to as Fred-Neck because of its rural and conservative philosophy. So I threw him a “redneck party” for his going away: dress like a hillbilly and drink from the keg for free. Lisa wasn’t invited, but she showed up anyway.

At about 11pm the party was pulsing and everyone was enjoying their last night with my popular roommate. It gave me great pleasure to be able to send him off this way; he had been a good friend.
Then, without so much as a knock, Lisa barged in (the first time at my place in months), all tricked out with a shiny nylon halter top and a pound of makeup. I guess she had just come from the club. I guess she couldn’t find anyone there to love her for a night.

I told her that she had to leave, but she wanted to plead with me instead. I didn’t really think it was appropriate to speak with her in the crowd so I took her to my master bedroom at the end of the hallway and closed the door.

I had to hold her upright; drunkenness destroyed her balance. She began tracing her lips on my neck and ear and telling me how sorry she was – how much she missed me – how much she loved me.

And for a moment I believed her when she began to disrobe. I wanted it to be true. I was so alone.

But I stopped us. If she was indeed genuine in this desire to be with me (we had never actually done anything sexual) then she would stay all night and we could be close later. It was my friend’s going away party. I was the host. I didn’t want to forsake him or anyone else by getting with her.

Lisa put her top back on and raged. “Why don’t you care about me, Dario? Why do you treat me like s***?”

And I clenched my fists in anger, too. I’m sure no one else in her entire life had bought her flowers at her work. I’m sure no one else had ever tucked her in or walked away after she threw herself at them. I’m sure that chaos was all that she knew.

She exited my room, stomping her feet, and tried to make out with the first man she saw. And finally, that was the one unpardonable action that made me ready to let her go forever. The popular opinion of everyone at the party forced her exit shortly thereafter.

I’ve seen her in the years after our fleeting, tumultuous love – sometimes as a guest at the restaurant that I continued working at periodically; sometimes as a fellow patron out on the town. We stared at each other like we still hated one another, but I know that kind of passion can only exist when the feelings still remain.

She has kids and a husband now and I hope that’s what she needs to keep her tame and happy.

My world is more fragile and tenuous. I make a living off of prostituting my struggle in some abstract idea of the power of story – how words can help others and shape the world. I’ve been happy for a time too, but sometimes I don’t know if the alcohol and self-destruction I’ve poisoned into me just works slowly. Sometimes I don’t know if I’ll go into depression remission.

Sometimes I don’t know why I can’t entirely let her go.   

Connect with Dario online:

Personal Website (Free Writing, Podcast, Dario in the Media, Biography, Books, Blogs)

20 Something Magazine (Editor-in-Chief, Creator)

JMWW Literary Journal (Senior Nonfiction Editor)

The Veterans Writing Project (Instructor, Nonfiction Editor)

LinkedIn (Professional Stuff)

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Ten Years Ago, Today

Ten years ago, to this day, I waited on the edge of the parade deck at Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island, South Carolina. After the impending graduation ceremony, the command “dismissed” would arrive, and I’d be relieved of my duties as a recruit and finally, officially, I’d become a Marine – a title I’d have earned and could never lose.

Boot camp to this point was tough, no doubt. I had endured thousands of push-ups, hundreds of miles of marches and runs, and 13 weeks of the toughest basic training in the U.S. Military. I thought that in this moment, my heavy belt drill instructor, Staff Sergeant Crandall, would finally let up on my training platoon.

But he didn’t. And that angered me. I didn’t understand why, in these last moments of basic training, he was still screaming at my platoon and pointing out our flaws. I thought we deserved some of his respect; we were just about to complete the same training he did, probably a decade before. Boot camp is the connection that’s supposed to bond all Marines, regardless of generation. It’s supposed to entail and demand a mutual respect – why was he still screaming?

It took me two combat tours, six years in the Marine Corps Reserve, and many years as a civilian to finally figure out why he maintained this hardness until the end, never ever letting up on us. In the military, there’s never an easy moment. There’s not supposed to be. When you’re a Marine – or a soldier, or sailor, or any warrior with a job in the combat arms – your job is to be a warfighter, a killer. And war means that you may die, or your buddy may die, and most certainly that your life will change and continue to be changed, especially when you get out.

He was hard on us until the end because that was his final lesson to us: your life in the military is going to be lonely and rough. Your duty station will change. The wars will come. Your friends will die. So be hard. Always. The green machine will use you, and doesn’t care about how you feel.

I wonder how he is doing today, and if he still feels the same. I wonder if he feels regret, knowing he trained hundreds of Marines for war, and more than likely, some of them are dead.

I wonder if he still feels the need to be hard, even as his career is probably at its twilight, and he’s probably getting ready to soon return home for good as a civilian.

I wonder if he’ll realize now, despite the good intention of his final lesson – numb yourself and be hard to deal with the life you’ve chosen – that he’s not alone in his pain. 

Connect with Dario online:

Personal Website (Free Writing, Podcast, Dario in the Media, Biography, Books, Blogs)

20 Something Magazine (Editor-in-Chief, Creator)

JMWW Literary Journal (Senior Nonfiction Editor)

The Veterans Writing Project (Instructor, Nonfiction Editor)

LinkedIn (Professional Stuff)

Facebook (Be my friend?)