everything off you so you don’t die.
Well, I was standing at the bottom, waiting for my turn to start. My heart was slamming against my ribs. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I might pass out, but I just kept my eyes straight ahead, waiting for my name to be called. Then I heard a splash, and then screams, and my RI shouting. His face was white. He dropped the megaphone and ran to the water. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Panic like you have never felt, the kind that freezes you in place and makes you fight against it just to move, took over. Skinner, I think his name was—I can’t remember anymore, I never saw him again—had fallen into the water. We had been briefed on how to fall if we lost our balance, but when it happens, you forget your training—well, he did, at least. He hit the water wrong and broke his neck. We heard later that he lived, but he was paralyzed.
Anyway, they pulled him out of the water, strapped him to a board, and loaded him up. As soon as the medic pulled away, my RI called my name. I didn’t know if this guy was dead or alive at that point, but it was my turn to do the same thing that just took him down.
Bear in mind, if you hesitate, you’ve failed. You can’t stop to psyche yourself up in a warzone. You just go. So what did I do? I bent over and threw up. Vomit everywhere—on me, my shoes, in the water. It was over. I felt my chance slipping away. I was either going to pass out or throw up again. My heart was beating too fast. I was dizzy. My vision started to go black around the edges. I closed my eyes and I saw the board with the names of the soldiers who'd died in Ranger School—27 men in total.
And then I remembered the beginning of training, the promise I made to myself—I would either die or I would pass, those were my only two choices. 75% of men drop out or fail during those nine weeks, but I was not going to be one of them. So, I wiped the vomit off my mouth and I did it. I did not look down. I just did it.
So, why am I telling you this? Certainly not to impress you, because nothing kills the illusion of bravery more than a grown man throwing up on himself. I'm telling you so you understand that I don’t give in. If I set my mind to something, I do it. Always.
Until you.
So what happened?
Allow me to tell you another story that will paint me in an equally unflattering light. I was doing a pretty good job at not thinking about you. I stopped reading your letters. They were in a box, under my cot, not in my pocket anymore. Well, I might as well say it, I finally had some alone time to use the lotion you sent me. And you were there. You were all I thought about. You in that dress. You smiling. You saying outrageous things. It was you touching me. You were with me. And yes, I should be freaking you out now, because who in the hell admits this to a complete stranger?
Turns out, I was doing a piss poor job at forgetting you. There is no forgetting you. Trust me, I have tried. So, there you have it. I can’t stop writing to you, so you need to stop writing to me, because this isn’t right. This isn’t going anywhere.
If I haven’t given you ample reason to end this right now, and possibly take out a restraining order, let me break it down for you further—you are right to be scared.
I might not come back from this tour or the next. There is every possibility that someone would knock on your door to tell you I’m dead. That is the reality. I won’t sugar coat it. Can you live with that? Never knowing if this is the day?
I told my brother about you after I decided to stop writing. Told him everything I know about you. You want to know why? Because if I die, I want him to be able to let you know. I need you to know that. I can’t bear to think about you not knowing.
While we are on the subject of my brother, I asked him to find your home address for me. I knew if I Googled you, I would learn where you worked and who your partner is, and I
Well, I was standing at the bottom, waiting for my turn to start. My heart was slamming against my ribs. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I might pass out, but I just kept my eyes straight ahead, waiting for my name to be called. Then I heard a splash, and then screams, and my RI shouting. His face was white. He dropped the megaphone and ran to the water. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Panic like you have never felt, the kind that freezes you in place and makes you fight against it just to move, took over. Skinner, I think his name was—I can’t remember anymore, I never saw him again—had fallen into the water. We had been briefed on how to fall if we lost our balance, but when it happens, you forget your training—well, he did, at least. He hit the water wrong and broke his neck. We heard later that he lived, but he was paralyzed.
Anyway, they pulled him out of the water, strapped him to a board, and loaded him up. As soon as the medic pulled away, my RI called my name. I didn’t know if this guy was dead or alive at that point, but it was my turn to do the same thing that just took him down.
Bear in mind, if you hesitate, you’ve failed. You can’t stop to psyche yourself up in a warzone. You just go. So what did I do? I bent over and threw up. Vomit everywhere—on me, my shoes, in the water. It was over. I felt my chance slipping away. I was either going to pass out or throw up again. My heart was beating too fast. I was dizzy. My vision started to go black around the edges. I closed my eyes and I saw the board with the names of the soldiers who'd died in Ranger School—27 men in total.
And then I remembered the beginning of training, the promise I made to myself—I would either die or I would pass, those were my only two choices. 75% of men drop out or fail during those nine weeks, but I was not going to be one of them. So, I wiped the vomit off my mouth and I did it. I did not look down. I just did it.
So, why am I telling you this? Certainly not to impress you, because nothing kills the illusion of bravery more than a grown man throwing up on himself. I'm telling you so you understand that I don’t give in. If I set my mind to something, I do it. Always.
Until you.
So what happened?
Allow me to tell you another story that will paint me in an equally unflattering light. I was doing a pretty good job at not thinking about you. I stopped reading your letters. They were in a box, under my cot, not in my pocket anymore. Well, I might as well say it, I finally had some alone time to use the lotion you sent me. And you were there. You were all I thought about. You in that dress. You smiling. You saying outrageous things. It was you touching me. You were with me. And yes, I should be freaking you out now, because who in the hell admits this to a complete stranger?
Turns out, I was doing a piss poor job at forgetting you. There is no forgetting you. Trust me, I have tried. So, there you have it. I can’t stop writing to you, so you need to stop writing to me, because this isn’t right. This isn’t going anywhere.
If I haven’t given you ample reason to end this right now, and possibly take out a restraining order, let me break it down for you further—you are right to be scared.
I might not come back from this tour or the next. There is every possibility that someone would knock on your door to tell you I’m dead. That is the reality. I won’t sugar coat it. Can you live with that? Never knowing if this is the day?
I told my brother about you after I decided to stop writing. Told him everything I know about you. You want to know why? Because if I die, I want him to be able to let you know. I need you to know that. I can’t bear to think about you not knowing.
While we are on the subject of my brother, I asked him to find your home address for me. I knew if I Googled you, I would learn where you worked and who your partner is, and I
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