Growing Up

February 11, 2005

At long last, the letter you’ve waited for and the letter I’ve resisted writing. I've waited because I don't think my fingers are capable of keeping up with my thoughts. I can barely process what is happening inside my heart, and more significantly, inside my head.

I have thousands of memories from my tour of duty in Iraq, but few are as vivid as the moment I stepped on the plane en route to Iraq in November 2003, and the moment I stepped on the plane en route to America in November 2004. Each of those moments overwhelmed me emotionally. My emotions weren’t tangible and apparent to those around me – not that I know of anyway. We all kind of kept to ourselves as we individually absorbed the impact these impending plane rides would have on our lives.

In November 2003, I stepped on to the C-17 a modest and unsure 27-year-old Army Specialist. I knew only the basics of military life and I certainly had no idea what to expect of military life in a combat zone. Naivety may have been my ally because I wasn’t over thinking the political, emotional, and physical ramifications of the situation.

A year later, however, I stepped on to the C-17 a more mature and jaded 28-year old Army Sergeant. I experienced a year of absolute chaos, fear, patriotism, honor, and pride – a list far too long to rattle off. I was on my way home to America – a place so familiar but now, so new - a different kind of America. Or was I a different kind of Addie? Clearly, I was over thinking the situation. I still am.

I grew up so much in a year. Funny thing is I thought I was already a fairly mature and level-headed adult in the making. Little did I know how much I was about to learn. I learned about honor and how motivating it is. I learned about duty and how unconditional it is. I learned about fear and how paralyzing it is. More than anything else, I learned about sacrifice and how final is.

Fast forward two months and now I am a jaded 28-year-old civilian named Addie who drives around in a new SUV, spends sunny afternoons laughing with my friends, works for a network television show, and lives in Hollywood – a far cry from sleeping in bombed out ex-palaces, carrying my M16 to the bathroom, and looking over my shoulder for suicide bombers. It’s hard to explain what happens to a person who serves in an environment like that for an extended period of time (and I’m not even a front line soldier). It’s not just the obvious emotional and physical toll it takes. It’s also the stuff many of us didn’t expect. It’s the politics and unrelenting news; it’s the lack of control and nowhere-to-run element; it’s the fear of the unknown; it’s the questioning of tactics and policies.

But it’s also what enabled me to see that life around the world isn’t what we experience on a daily basis in America - that no matter the designer jean I can’t afford or the celebrity I can’t meet, I still have a charmed life, simply because I am free. I see now that happiness doesn’t come from having cable television or a few extra dollars in my bank account. Happiness comes from walking in my home, turning on my lights, pouring clean drinking water, and sleeping without fear of dying. Happiness comes from knowing my family is safe. Happiness comes from knowing I am helping humanity.

I have had a blast reuniting with my friends and family, and I've enjoyed the pats on the back. Sure, it’s nice to drive my new SUV and wear my new designer jeans, but it’s not necessary, and I certainly don’t wish for those materialistic things anymore. And when I see what I bought with my deployment money, I am reminded of what it took to get those things, and for the first time in my life, I truly appreciate it.

I am two months shy of my 29th birthday and I just grew up. I may have experienced hell in Iraq, but it was a gift because it saved me from losing the real value of my life. In spite of it all, I would not give back one moment of my experience over the last year. That is why I long to go back, and why I wince when I think of how many times I wished to be home. I don’t sit peacefully in my ergonomically designed chair at work. I don’t read the newspaper or watch the news without an anchor tugging at my heart. I don’t shrug off the fact that people are still dying and that the situation is still very much out of control.

These are the reasons I, and many others, wish we were still there. We live in a time when service and sacrifice is available to us, and not committing ourselves to it is hard. It’s difficult to completely walk away from this experience. So many of us want to go back and help our friends, help the Iraqis, and help the Middle East. We rode a 365 adrenaline rush and we are unsure of how to process it now that the rush is gone.

I don’t think these feelings are indications we should all seek therapy. I think they are very real and honest reactions to traumatic experiences in our lives. It’s not easy to match the feeling of pride and accomplishment from service in defense of your country’s safety and another country’s freedom. Very few of us will elaborate on our feelings because we can’t make sense of them, or we don’t want to burden you with them. We realize you don’t know what to say to us because you couldn’t possibly understand what we went through. We wouldn’t do that to you. That’s why we have each other - our battle buddies - and I am confident we will figure it out as we go.

For me, however, I am going to resist the temptation to head back to the sand box for now. I am going to contribute and help in any way I can while sitting in my ergonomically designed chair at work and while driving my shiny new Toyota 4-Runner along the Pacific Coast Highway. But while I sit there and while I drive, I will always think of the sacrifices we all have made, the consequence it will have on the rest of our lives, and the effect it will have on the world. One thing I know for sure is I have more to do. Once I find out what it is, I hope the unrelenting tug on my heart goes away.

With Love,
Addie