#11

Sometimes, I still can’t believe that my uncle’s life ended so tragically.

My beloved Uncle Brian.

He knew how to handle goodbyes with me each time he had to leave for active duty. He’d get in his boxer stance, fists up, bouncing back and forth from foot to foot, and jokingly say, “Put ’em up, soldier, put ’em up.” He started this when I was so young. I’m unsure if he invited me into it or if I naturally mimicked him, but I’d do it back. Somewhere along the way, this became our goodbye. I didn’t realize how precious that exchange would become to me.

I never got to talk to him about his experiences. I didn’t know to cherish the moments I had because they would be few compared to what I hoped I would have. I’m still trying to understand why it happened the way it did.

He found so much purpose in the military. He was responsible for the lives of his men, and he was respected and looked up to in that sphere.

But when he showed up back home, everything was different. He didn’t have the same weight of responsibility he’d grown used to, and he didn’t garner the same respect he’d become familiar with. Without the specific structure and stability he’d come to rely on, life felt aimless. I have to imagine it was like fumbling around in the dark. Everyone around him made small things so big as if they were life and death when his reality had so often been life and death.

He couldn’t connect, cope, understand, or be understood. He knew deep emotional pain, the kind you want to escape for fear it will swallow you whole. This pain became the connective basis for his relationships – he gravitated toward others who experienced deep, internal suffering and wanted to escape it.

I think it was time that made the need to escape so strong. He had gotten so used to not having time to process pain or fear or grief, and then he came home and felt it all. And he had nothing but time.

Time can be such a beautiful thing. But when you’ve survived some of the scariest situations you could dream up…what do you do with unfilled time? It becomes like a noose around your neck tightening every time you think of another thing you didn’t have the time to process before. Time becomes like a sentence in solitary confinement, making you feel isolated no matter how many others may be around you.

You can’t connect with anyone except those running from time, and the pain time beckons them to face. You may not even connect, but you can spend time with these people. They get you on the level they need to and don’t wish to understand you on a deeper level because they don’t want to be seen on a deeper level. Rejection is the uneasy cloud hanging thick in the air. If you expose what’s hidden, you might be rejected, viewed as weak, or even beyond redemption.

So, you crawl beneath a blanket that promises safety, forgetfulness, and acceptance. And you cling to these promises as if your life depended on it. And it does. Where an outsider sees empty promises, you see freedom from the invisible pain that pursues you every waking moment. You connect through escape. But very rarely can you genuinely escape with another. So, though you escape simultaneously, you’re still isolated, alone, and misunderstood. Still, at least now, your head is in the clouds.

Until one day, you come down and realize those clouds aren’t puffy, comforting sunny day clouds. They’re heavy storm clouds. But by the time you realize it, it seems to be too late. They’ve already released their downpour, and you’re stuck in the aftermath with yet another painful reality to process and too much time to do it. And it starts all over again – your way of escape has itself become a trap you can’t get out of.

By the end of his life, my uncle was trapped in this vicious and devastating loop. Some would say through no fault but his own. But that’s making it too cut and dry, too black and white when it’s anything but. The pain that leads a person down this path is complex and heavy.

I think he was looking for somewhere to feel safe—safe from scrutiny, rejection, and the pain of remembering. And, maybe most importantly, safe from having to face who he was before…and all he’d lost with that identity.

I struggle to find a silver lining in this, but I don’t believe everything in life can or should be tied up in a neat little bow.

I won’t sanitize this story, his story, because doing so would mean I think this period in my uncle’s life defines him—and I simply don’t believe that.

He was lively, playful, kind, loyal, courageous, and tenacious. He was a jokester. He was a tough guy with such a tender heart. He wasn’t afraid to stand up when everyone else was sitting down. He was so vibrant, animated, and genuine. All of which resided alongside a devastatingly broken spirit.

Sometimes, the brokenness takes over. It overwhelmed him. He struggled and fought, and I genuinely believe he did the best he could with where he was at the time.

I wish he were here to meet my husband. I wish he were here to wrap me in a bear hug. I wish I could hear his laugh and loud voice carrying through each family holiday. I wish he were here so I wasn’t writing this post stemming from a loss that, seven years later, still feels heavy.

I prayed for him. And I’m unsure whether I’ll ever understand why my prayers weren’t answered as I hoped.

But I believe he got the peace he so desperately craved. He’s free from the pain that became impossible to carry, no longer a prisoner of judgment, regret, and tragedy. I think he finally feels safe.

He’s Home now and can finally put ’em down and rest.

At ease, soldier. I’ll keep putting ’em up here. Save a space for me at your table.