Taking Chances

Taking chances.  Really no explanation needed for that two word statement.  Taking chances.  That's what life is all about.  You take a chance when you get in the car to go to the store.  You take a chance  when you place an order at the restaurant.  Or when you buy clothes for your picky ass kid.  Or when you purchase that refurbished "smart" TV on Groupon.  (What?...it still works fine.  I just need it to show Netlflix.)  Of course, there is very little personal risk with any of these meager examples (OK...maybe getting the right clothes for the munchkin...you always wanna keep peace whenever you have an opportunity to do so.)

But make no mistake, many of us take chances on a daily basis that affects our very lives.  One little fuck up could have enormous consequences.  Clearly, police officers make such decisions all the time.  And every time we do, we're taking a risk.  Most times, it weighs on us.  Taking a chance that we're making the right call.  That our decision, say, to not arrest someone in that domestic violence incident and instead "encourage" them to find another place to sleep it off will not lead to a deadly conclusion later on.  Or we take a chance when we're running lights and siren to that personal injury collision and, as we're working our way through shitty rush hour traffic, we're hoping no one will jump out in front of us or that car won't make that last second, unexpected turn and we make impact on body or automobile.

None of this, really, is a grand revelation.  And, quite frankly, even "announcing" that everyone takes chances is trivial.  We all know that we do.  Or, at least, I hope everyone knows that they do.

But some of our greatest chances are made from within.  I read a friend of mine's writing recently, which brought me to this theme.  (Admittedly, I "stole" her title to her blog and it now rests atop this one as well.  No...never said I was overtly creative.  And why reinvent the wheel?)  The risk taking arising from inside us can be the most significant we ever make.

The author wrote, "What holds you back from taking a chance on something that peaks your interest or from doing something you dream of doing?  Fear, usually.  The comfort of the known, maybe."  How very true her words are.

Fear.  And comfort.

She hit the nail right on the head with both.  When I talk to people about my own personal struggles, particularly with my ruinous relationship that constituted a marriage, I speak of the "known" and the "unknown."  If things were so bad for years, why did I stay?  Why did she stay?  I truthfully have no sure idea about her.  Maybe it was the last vestiges of hope in salvaging a sinking ship.  Me?  That's easy.  Well, easy to explain now that I've stepped out of it and can see with clearer eyes.  But not easy while mired in a sea of shit.

Fear paralyzes us.  Most are able to overcome it, but not necessarily when it comes to the big ticket items like changing a career or leaving or starting a relationship.  When we take a chance in one of those arenas we're in the big leagues.  We're playing with our livelihoods.  Our confidence.  And, in all likelihood, our hearts.  If we let that trepidation set in and let it slither through our body, mind, and soul, then it begins to rule our ability to make decisions.  We cripple at the thought of failure.  What if I take that new job, perhaps in another part of the country or even world, and I hate it?  Or suck at it?  Or what if I let my heart go and begin to let my guard down for someone else and then it doesn't work out?  We go our separate ways and I'm scarred.  Burned and hurt.

And that's where comfort comes in.  Those possible outcomes and their ramifications on our psyche, our spirit, can be devastating.  So, we just stay put.  It may totally suck where we've settled, but it's familiar.  We know what to expect.  The problem is, it's mostly bad shit.  But it's more comfortable for us.  Knowing what to expect lets us know to prepare our bodies and minds for the vortex of pain that usually comes when living and experiencing that "bad shit".  (I really wanted to drive the point home here...not too dramatic, I hope, with "vortex".)

That's the way it was for me.  I was miserable.  Arguably, we both were.  But I was debilitated by the fear of the unknown.  And accepting of the known however distressing it was for me.  My mind and, subsequently, my body got into a routine of preparing itself for the worst.  Constantly.  Although cortisol is an important hormone, particularly when it comes to our "fight or flight" mode, excessive amounts of it at sustained levels can have destructive affects on the body.  When we're in a depressed and sorrowful situation, we're in that "fight or flight" mode.  We're always prepared to fight our way out of a complete bullshit argument over dishes or to fly the hell out of that inevitable quarrel and seek refuge somewhere, anywhere, else and thus avoiding the real issue altogether.  I'm confident my cortisol levels were high.  All the time.  Yet even after the separation occurred, I desperately wanted to be back in that defective relationship for no other reason than because it was familiar.  Comfortable per se.

Yet, without having read her blog before, I did what my sweet friend was sharing and advocating.  I took a chance.  On me and what I wanted and needed.  And I lived.  Am living.

If you are there, in a place where you are gripped by fear or moored in a bad spot because you're "comfortable", get up, get out...and take a chance.  On yourself.  On someone else.  Rise up.  Live.  Your life is out there waiting for you.

P.S. A heartfelt thank you to her.  Her own message was an inspiration for mine.

Casualties of War

Casualties of War is a late-1980s movie staring Michael J. Fox and Sean Penn.  It was centered on the Vietnam War and based on actual events.   The story is related through Fox's character, a private in the U.S. Army.  It didn't get the best reviews and it was't up for any Oscars.  The film was, I dunno, trite, but it simply wasn't one that leaves an indelible mark on the brain like say, Platoon or Full Metal Jacket.  Casualties of War was actually considered a box office loss.

The premise of the movie is a flashback of Private Max Erikkson, Fox's character.  The long and short of it...Erikkson is part of a squad that kidnaps a Viet Cong girl to be their sex slave.  Erikkson is vehemently against this and tries in vain to protect her.  In the end, she is killed by the squad and her murder is covered up.  The whole thing is a traumatic experience for Erikkson, as one can imagine.  Someone even attempts to kill him as he pushes to tell the truth.


So, let's get a bird's eye view on this for a sec...this is taking place in Vietnam, arguably one of the shittiest wars the United States has ever been involved in for a multitude of reasons.  And Erikkson is a private.  Not a corporal or even a specialist.  A private.  There ain't jack below that.  And then, for the most part because of peer pressure on the weaklings, his entire squad is against him on this...the taking of someone who "belongs" to the enemy, the Viet Cong.  Throw in the whole someone tries to kill your ass with a splash of superiors who don't give a shit and you basically have a no-win situation brewing.  And yet, that dude does not give up.  He perseveres   And not only that, Erikkson brings the truth to light and members of his squad, who participated in the kidnapping, rape, and murder of that girl, are brought to justice.  That took balls.

And yet, there is fallout.  Losses.  Of course, the girl.  But also in and with Erikkson.

Without a doubt, there are those that lambasted him for "ratting" on his own troops and "sticking up" for the dreaded "VC".  But how about the reflections of the events that haunt him, arguably, to this day?  Trauma has consequences.  Perhaps Erikkson suffered from nightmares, flashbacks or unexpected outbursts as a result of it all.  Maybe he questioned himself for years after as to whether or not he could've done something more.  There's a good chance, despite the high moral road that he took to maintain his honor and try to save the girl, he lost friends.  Unexplainable shit like that happens.

The term "posttraumatic stress disorder", PTSD, grew out of the Vietnam War.  And U.S. military personnel suffered from it as a result of seeing or experiencing some crazy, fucked up shit...like this.  Clearly, the term casualties has several meanings with this film.  The obvious is the death of the girl.  But the demise of servicemen, morally and physically, to such a horrific incident can be seen as a loss.  However, since the story is told as a flashback for Erikkson, I think its safe to surmise that the greatest casualty of all is his loss of years of unencumbered mental and emotional anguish.  Erikkson suffered, I'm sure, greatly.

Of course, I didn't go to Vietnam.  Duh...um, not born yet.  And although I'm a reservist in the military (yes, the Coast Guard is technically a military service...get off my ass about it), the chances of me seeing combat or anything of the like are minuscule, at best.

But I've fought a war.

With myself.

For almost 13 years, I fought a conflict that I didn't really even know I was involved in.  And I got my ass beat.  Not knowing I was engaged in a struggle left me clearly not knowing how to fight it.  It wasn't until my marriage was finally and officially over (more officially than finally since it was certainly over before it became "official") that I could feel my wounds.  All those years of getting hit, from small arms (the everyday police shit) to the heavy artillery (big calls, like murders, deaths, or anything bad with kids), left me hemorrhaging emotionally and mentally.

There were most certainly casualties with my war.  The marriage.  Lost moments with my family.  And I believe I've healed nicely from those particular injuries.  I've moved on from the marriage and am looking at brighter horizons.  There has been more time spent with the folks, my siblings and all their munchkins.  But my biggest blow has been to some dear friends.  And that shit hurts.

I've got two buddies of mine whom I love dearly, but haven't spoken to, let alone gotten together with, in years.  Years.  I wish it was some lame dick excuse like they live so far away, like in another country, or they've gone off the grid and I simply can't track their asses down or whatever.  No.  I know where they live.  Even have their phone numbers.  I get why it happened.  And I absolutely harbor no ill will towards them.  Its just they have their own lives and my battles were more they could handle at the time.  That doesn't make them shitty friends or bad people.  People who suffer from PTSD and/or depression withdraw.  They isolate themselves from, ironically enough, loved ones.  Its what happens.  Its easier to simply not talk to or deal with personal issues.  Stuff that shit away in a box and stow it somewhere in a dark place where you hope you never have to go to it again.

Here's a tip...that doesn't work.  (pretend I'm whispering...)  Shhhhh...because its still there.  (talking normal again)  You HAVE to address it, process whatever is going on within you.  Your close confidants can be your greatest asset and most powerful ally in your struggle to break through the hurt and suffering.  Reach out to them.  Talk to them.  Simply BE with them.  As corny as that quote may be about a true friend, its dead-the-fuck on for those of us that have silently suffered.  I had many a talks with my friend, Al, about the difficulties of my marriage and how it was affecting me as a person.  He was a support, but I just could not get out from underneath it all.  Still, I needed him to be there.  But after a while, he wasn't.  And that was on me.

It is OK to acknowledge that you cannot win the war alone.  The pounding takes its toll and your resources to defend and turn the tide are simply too limited.  You need help.  I sure as shit did.  But I was knee deep in it before I realized what the hell was going on.  My family...I can always count on.  They are good to me.  Tolerant.  My brothers and sisters-in-arms...although may not be the most therapeutic bunch, are people I share my darkest moments with and that forges special bonds.  I will always need them.  Mental health professionals.  Well, come on.  Seriously?  Those fuckers are everywhere.  You just gotta find the right one and, thankfully, I did (shout out to Gary Bush and pointing me to Rapid Resolution Therapy).  And so there are the friends, an uniquely qualified core group of people who probably know you more intimately than any of those others.  Yet, they may be the first ones out of your resources batch to be jettisoned, consciously or subconsciously.

Hold on to them.  Cherish the multifaceted value they have in your life.  Do not let them be a casualty of war like some of mine were...they'll stick with you, if you let them.  According to the dictionary, the word "friend" is from an Indo-European root meaning "to love".

But even if some do stray or depart, for whatever reasons, circle around and get back to them.  Own your shit, especially the fuck ups you made to them.  (I know I had many.)  Share your struggle.  I'm betting they'll be compassionate as to what you had to go through in order to get back to where you need to be or where you are.

Me?  Well, Al and Bob, if you're reading this, I'll be calling soon.  If you're not, well, tough shit, I'm calling anyway.  Its been too long and I'm not where I was before.

Can't wait to talk to you guys again...