The Broken Soldier

My step and I are watching Strong Bad videos (”I don’t have hair, Dusseldorka”).  I just finished a second cup of heavily sugared and creamed coffee and a couple Djarum Lights.  Caleb’s taking a nap on my chest.  I’m pretty well-rested, so the pain I’m feeling is manageable.  All in all, it’s shaping up to be a pretty good day.

I’ve been feeling better for the last week or so.  Note well the comparative, rather than superlative, language.  Just so we’re clear, and to avoid a premature celebratory suck off involving the members of my posse and I, I’m still in a lot of pain.  I still walk, hobble more apt, with a cane.  But with the sleep meds I’m taking (Restoril), I’m getting a good 5-6 hours of restful, rejuvenative sleep a night.  That’s made all the difference.

I have a high tolerance for pain of all sorts.  That my body (and psyche) is scarred and tattooed and I’m still kicking should demonstrate this.  Some asshole said some-it bout ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’  Makes sense if you have shit for brains.  It’d be hard to argue I’m stronger having lived through the last year and half.

It’s a matter of discipline.  Mind over matter.  Whatever description blows your hair back.  I’ve found the mind loses its potency when sleep-deprived for over 18 months, and the pain has more of an impact.  More pain, less sleep.  Less sleep, more depression.  More depression, more pain, and so on and so forth.

Better has me seeing things a bit clearer.  I realize I’m not ready to hang it up yet.  I have a lot left to do.  And I will do these things, basically as planned, with slight modifications to the original plan to accommodate for the actions and inactions of idiots.  In fact, I’ve already set the original plan in motion, getting back to law school, regardless of what the Army and the MIARNG do or don’t do.  I’ve given these folks too much power.  Power to affect my life greater than they actually possess.  No more.