God Damn It

No one breaks your heart quite like a close friend can. The heartbreak you just never see coming.

Fuck me for caring right? Fuck me for having faith in people. Fuck me for putting my heart out there. Fuck me for trying.

Why Do You Want To Serve?

You asked me why I wanted to serve. And while it may have seemed that I answered you, the truth of the matter is that I did not. Not entirely. Honestly, I was on the nervous side, and when I'm straddling that fence I tend to just keep my mouth shut. I don't feel like I answered that question in its entirety and I'd like to take the chance to do so.

Everyone wants to serve for their own reasons. Sometimes it's the same reason as the person standing next to them, and sometimes it's not. I think more often than not a lot of the answers sound very similar. I think many people join for the right reasons and I imagine that a few join for the wrong ones as well.

It's hard to put into words what I feel in my soul. A calling, if you will. It's harder yet to explain why I've ignored it for so many years. Reckless even. The years I've spent trying to find a place where I feel I can truly grow. From the moment my synapses could fuse together in the form of a memory I was asking my father what it was like to serve. I was taught service to my country is something that should be given freely, without judgment and never without support.

 I have spent my entire life being proud of my country. I have spent my entire life sending my pride and my love to our troops. I have never held back and I have never faltered in my support. I have always been able to picture myself so clearly standing amongst them. Not just on the sidelines, swelling with pride for them, rather swelling with pride to be a part of something. Something bigger than myself. Alas, I always told myself it wasn't for me. Until I asked myself why, why is this not for me?

Why is this not for me? I have a million reasons. But none of them are as good as the few reasons why this is for me. Not a single one can compare to the Missing Man Table. The first time I saw that ceremony, my heart broke. But my resolve was solidified. Right then and there. I found my resolve had been there, all along. Buried beneath my selfish reasons, exposed by that table, set for one with a simple white tablecloth and an upturned wine glass, unable to toast.

You asked me why I wanted to serve. I don't have an answer. I don't have just one answer. I have many. I have 22. I can't promise you I will be the best. I have shortcomings. I can't promise you I won't falter. I am human. I can't promise you I won't break. I am flesh and blood. I can't promise you I won't fall down. I am practical. But I can promise you I will try my best. I can promise you that I will regain my footing. I can promise you I will put the pieces back together. I can promise I will get back up. I can promise you that you will be hard pressed to find anyone with even half the fire I have. 

An Open Letter To Myself October 2016

A week into Medhold I was not improving. I'd have small panic attacks to the point where an MTI would get involved and they'd send me up the chain of command to speak with the next person on how best to "help me" which always went the same exact way every single time and looked a lot like this:

MTI: "Trainee Barnes, what seems to be the issue?"
Me (through thick tears): "Ma'am, trainee Barnes, reports as ordered; ma'am, I feel alone and hopeless and I just want to go home. I'm not a fickle 18 year old, I know what I need."

MTI: "Trainee Barnes, do you have children?"

Me: "Ma'am, trainee Barnes, reports as ordered; ma'am, no I do not. I just don't understand why I have to be here for 5 weeks while they decide to send me home."
MTI: "Trainee Barnes, this is your life now, you signed up for this, you signed a contract. Tough luck."
Me: "Ma'am, trainee Barnes, reports as ordered; ma'am, I just want to go home. I need help."
MTI: "Well, this is where you are now. Have you spoken to (insert the name of an MTI one pay grade above the current one speaking) No? Okay, let's get you into their office."

And cue the entire script all over again. Literally this went on for a week. You are not allowed to actually speak your mind because you have to be respectful 100% of the time or there would be HELL to pay. And if you disagreed with them they would just kick you out of their office. Not a single military personnel I spoke to offered one single iota of help in any sort of manner of the word. I just got pushed around and passed up the chain of command until I had seen 4 or 5 people within 2 hours and they were done trying and would just send me back to the dorms where I would lay in bed and cry myself to sleep and skip meals, sometimes an entire day would go by without a single morsel of food. 

After about a week on this nonsense  I had had enough. I was at my wits end. I was sick, I was tired and I was hungry. Not a good combo. I was on the brink of doing something truly awful. I finally said what I had been thinking for a few days. I had realized that no one in the military was ever going to help me. I knew what I needed. I needed help but that's not really what boot camp is for. I knew there was no one in the military that would ever help me. I finally plucked up the courage, looked right at my MTI and said "I'd like to speak with a civilian councilor please."  I truly thought this would be an offensive request. The thought had dawned on me a few days prior that possibly they have some civilians on payroll. I was a bit doubtful because if this was a resource available why hadn't anyone suggested it to me? To my utmost surprise the MTI cheerily responded "Absolutely. That is absolutely something I can do for you." I was so relieved. Progress. I felt the absolute slightest twinge of hope. A civilian. I was going to get to speak to a civilian.

I went to my next meal with that feeling of hope and for the first time since arriving at Lackland Air Force Base, I was able to eat more than a few bites of my meal.

The next day I got to meet with my councilor. Her name was Lori. It was just like I had thought, the military had a few civilians on payroll. And she was a god send. I remember sitting in a chair across from her, an MTI had walked me in and told me to sit and sure to use my reporting statement and be respectful. As soon as the MTI left Lori assured me that we could speak freely. That I was no required to give a reporting statement. Along with the normal spiel of being ethically bound to not disclose any information unless I was going to hurt myself or someone else. Which, honestly was a real possibility at this point.

It's all mostly a blur now, only a few points stand out anymore. The first session I had with Lori she asked me how I usually make myself feel better. I remember rolling my eyes at her. Like, thanks bitch, if I could fucking do that would I be in this fucking situation? Heh. We talked a lot about how I enjoyed writing. How it was a release for me. We talked a lot about who I was on the inside. How I was hiding myself away in this place. She saw right through me and how much I was holding back. She saw how hard I was trying to desperately shield my inner self from the demons that were all around me. From the hell I had stepped into. She had this crazy idea that maybe if I let her out, the inner me, that I would begin to feel better. I burst into tears at the thought of it. Impossible. I would surely break. I would surely lose the last remaining bit of myself. I had one little piece left and I wasn't about to let her out. What if she broke, too? What if she broke. I couldn't.

A few days go by and I would see her again. This time she asked about my family life and those I had waiting for me back home. She asked about my parents. I told her how I only had one parent. I told her the whole story. It's been 14 years... I can make it through that story without even a waiver in my voice. But that day. That day another piece of me broke away, and I sobbed. I told her the story like it was yesterday. When my story was done all she said was "wow, you weren't kidding when you said you'd been though a lot at a young age." Heh. Tell me about it, lady.

She asked me who I called when I got to call home. I said I called my boyfriend every time. She asked me why I didn't call my dad more often. I told her that I wrote him every day but that calling him wasn't something I was strong enough for. Burdening my father with my pain was not something I could bare. Hearing his voice crack would have completely broken me. I knew if I called him in tears, that he too, would cry. And I knew I would die. The heartbreak of hearing my father's tears over the line would have destroyed me and I would have disappeared.

It was then that Lori said to me, "so, you take care of your father? You put his emotional well being ahead of your own." I agreed, though I had never thought of it that way. She then proceeded to explain to me what she perceived my role in life was. I am a caretaker. I take care of those around me. And she was betting that part of the reason I was feeling so awful all of the time was because I had bottled up that part of myself . I knew she was right. It made perfect sense. She said I needed to let her out. That I'd feel better if I would only do what has always come naturally to me. Crazy. But I was so scared. I didn't want to lose that last piece of myself. Could I risk it? Was it worth the risk? She ended the session by asking me to do one simple task. She told me to write a letter to myself. She told me to tell the girl inside that I would not lose her. That I would protect her. That I would make it through and I would keep her intact. I thought it sounded dumb. I was already so broken that I had no hope left of that. I truly believe I would lose myself inside of those walls. But I said I would do it. It was something to do, after all.  This is that letter. An open letter to myself. I read it every day.  I read it still. It became my life jacket on a sinking ship. The more I read it, the more strength I gained. It kept me afloat. 

I lay in an uncomfortable bed under rough, hot covers. Leaning against a pillow made of plastic. I can feel every spring protruding from the crude mattress as it ever so softly stabs me in the ribs. I look around me and I am surrounded by women. A myriad of colors. Among many, a unique chorus of characterized chaos. So many dialects, and so many words. So many voices. The jingle of metal on chain. The sliding of doors, the squeak of shoes and the creaks of old beds slept on one too many times.

Among them, myself. A  broken, chaotic bird with clipped wings. However, the metaphor is lost on me for I know not how the caged bird sings. Things ache inside of me, in places I didn't know I had. There is a longing within me, a hunger that I know cannot be satiated. Somebody told me once, "it's okay to feel that way. Do you know that? What your feelings is real; and it's completely okay to feel it. " Before that time, no one had ever said that to me. No one. Only that there are people with  bigger problems than me.

So that's what I want to tell you. It's okay to feel this way. Maybe no one else thinks so. Except you, me and the person who told us that. But it is okay. I will do my best to protect you. To shield you and keep you. You are the only thing worth fighting for in this entire hell hole. You will be battered and bruised and weather worn from the tumultuous journey that I have inadvertently thrust upon us. But I will do my best to keep you from shattering. 

A Gift of Selfless Love, Dawned in Blue

As I walk into Jan's office I have to take a calming breath to settle the butterflies in my stomach. It is early April and I am about to tell Jan and Richie that I have joined the Air Force and will be leaving for basic military training in September. At this point, I am 90% sure they will both be approving towards my decision to serve my country, but there is still an air of hesitation. I was one of two head cashiers at our location and I knew my absence would put a strain on the schedule. I sat down in the spare chair as Jan closed her office door; I was 50/50 nerves and wild patriotism.

I blurt it out all in one sentence and the two of them just smile at me. They both congratulate me and then move on to assure me that we will work out the scheduling and that I have their full support. They express relief to hear that I am not planning on leaving the company altogether, only for a short hiatus for my training. I couldn't be happier.

Let's fast forward to September 20, 2016. I get on the bus that will shuttle me to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas where I was meant to complete my 7.5 weeks of basic military training. Now, people told me that Texas would be hot but I always laughed it off saying "you know I work in a greenhouse right? How can it be hotter than that?" Well. It can! I am here to tell you that those "Nantucket Blue" t-shirts breathe so much better than ABU's!

Unfortunately, my story takes a turn for the worse here. About a week into my boot camp journey, on September 28, 2016 I suffer a panic attack so severe that it lands me in the hospital in the middle of the night and roughly 36 hours later I am moved from my dorm to another section of Lackland AFB called "Medhold". Medhold is where Trainees go when they are injured and need to heal before they can continue on with their basic military training. It is also where trainees go when they are going to be separated from the Air Force be it for one reason or the other. It is a type of holding area, if you will. It is unlike regular boot camp in many, many ways. Unlike regular boot camp, or Line Flight, you are not allowed to train as most people are there to heal injuries. There is very little to do all day, except try and stay out of trouble. I had heard that some of the people currently in Medhold had been there for 5 months or more which horrified me.

It was determined that I would be medically separated from the Air Force due to my anxiety and panic attacks. The process of being discharged from the Air Force is a slow, painful and arduous one. I am not embarrassed to admit that it was the lowest point in my life. I truly struggled to find purpose in each day I was there. I struggled with thoughts of self harm. I struggled with feelings of abandonment. I felt alone. I felt left behind. I felt forgotten. I felt invisible. I truly felt abandoned.

The only thing anyone looked forward to in Medhold was mail call which took place every week night at 1900 (7:00PM). Now, because I was moved to a different part of the base a week in, my mail took a bit longer to reach me as it had to be resorted. It wasn't until I had been in Medhold for 4 days before I got my very first letter. I can still feel the surge of emotion I felt in that very moment when the MTI finally called my name and I got to walk to the front of the line to get my letter from home. It was impossible to hold back my tears in that moment. Not only did I get a letter; I had gotten two! One from my father and one from my boyfriend. My spirits soared.

After receiving my first few letters I was determined to write as many letters as I could every day in hopes of getting letters in return. It was the only communication with the outside world that we were allowed. Every day the few friends that I had made and I spent most of our times writing letters. Sometimes we would have contests on who could write the most letters. On an average day I would write 5-8 letters. And after my first week in Medhold I was getting a steady two letters a night. One from my father and one from my boyfriend. The two of them wrote me faithfully every single day.

During the first few weeks I wrote my boyfriend and asked him to share my address on Facebook and to ask my friends to send me letters because I really needed the encouragement. He put up a simple status on my Facebook stating how I was suffering from panic attacks and would welcome any love anyone could send. This was in the first week of October. At the same time I had written Jan at Mahoney's. I sent her two letters. One, I wrote to her explaining my situation. I wrote her and told her what a hard time I was having. How terrible I felt every day and how alone I was. I wrote her and told her about my anxiety and my panic attacks. I wrote a second one for her to post saying hello to everyone and how much I missed them all. Little did I know Jan posted my address right next to the time clock with a note that said "Send mail to Nikki!!!" Little did I know.... Little did I know what an Earth shattering difference she was about to make in my life. Such a seemingly minuscule gesture.

Now, a single letter took about one week to mail out of Texas and make it back to Massachusetts. And then it took another week for a response to make it from Massachusetts to Texas and to reach me.

Two more weeks go by. By now, it is mid October. At this point I had probably written well over 50-60 letters. I could have bought stock in the one brand of pens they sell at the BX (base exchange) with the amount of pens I went through. I was so incredibly grateful for the two letters a night I would get. One from my father and one from my boyfriend. But each night I yearned for my name to be called more than twice. I knew my boyfriend had shared my address and I was curious why none of my friends had written me. Not a single one. And by this point I was starting to feel extremely depressed that not one of my friends had taken the time to write me a letter. I struggled not to be selfish. There were many girls in my dorm that weren't getting any letters and I knew just how lucky I was to get my two.

It was a particularly hot night in the third week of October when God answered my prayers. That night at mail call my name got called more than once. It got called more than twice! It got called a whole bunch! I walked up to the front of the line as the MTI just kept calling my name and finally handed me a stack of letters of all shapes and sizes. I was getting teary eyed as my dorm mates were remarking at all of the letters I got and asking who they were from?! Had my friends finally written me? There was my father and my boyfriend's letter and then under that was a letter from a coworker. I smiled and moved to the next. Another coworker. I shuffled through every letter. Every single letter I received that night... were all from my coworkers here at Mahoney's. The girls around me giggled and said "Barnes, how many letters did you get?" I smiled, and through tears of joy, I said "I got 13 letters tonight! And they're all from my coworkers back home!" They each gave me a quizzical look asking in disbelief that I had that many coworkers who wrote me.

I was so humbled. I was floored. I cried and laughed as I read each letter. There was so much love, so much encouragement. There were letters and colorful cards, even hand painted cards. Prayers and poems and funny stories about how cold it had gotten but it didn't stop Richie from wearing shorts. I laughed through each letter.

But it didn't just stop there.

On October 17th I would finally be medically cleared to be sent home. I know four weeks doesn't seem like a lot to most people, but it feels like an eternity when you're away from everyone you love. Let me tell you.

On Wednesday October 19th I would be moved into a separate dorm where they put trainees who have been medically cleared to go home, called the Separation Dorm. It was especially hard on me. I had to leave the friends I had made back in the other dorm. Now I had to play the waiting game. I had to wait for them to call me down to discharge processing. Every morning around 0800 they would make the announcement for which girls would be leaving. I had hoped to leave on Thursday or Friday because they didn't do separations on the weekend.

Friday came and went and my name didn't get called to leave. I would have to stay for another weekend. I was beginning to lose my last bit of hope. I was at my wits end and I was absolutely desperate to go home. I had very little strength to keep fighting. I knew I was so close to the end but not knowing when it exactly was just completely ate at me. Saturday I spent a good chunk of the day praying. And then on Sunday, I spent every second my free time, (which was a lot) praying. I was begging God. I was on my knees begging Him to send me home on Monday. I had been so strong. I had made the most of this journey. I had struggled with the meaning of this voyage. I had struggled with my faith. I had struggled with my sense of duty to my country. All day. All day I prayed and prayed for my name to be on the list. For my name to be called at 0800 on Monday.

My name was not called that Monday. I stood in front of the intercom and covered my face, sobbing. I was so broken. I was truly unsure how much more I could take. I was distraught and felt so forsaken. I tried very hard not to be mad at everything. I sat back at my bunk and reread letters.

All day I had periods of on and off crying. I was lost. Mail call came and went.  About 30 minutes before lights out I was called down to the main office, which, this late, was not exactly a good sign. I was worried. I was called into the mail room because I had gotten a package. In my complete self pity stupor I almost didn't even recognize the first name of the person who had sent me this package. I was, truthfully, a little mad. I stood there, in my bitter pity party haze and thought to myself "why is someone sending stuff when they know I'm leaving sometime this week?"

In BMT you have to empty packages in front of MTI's to make sure you aren't being sent anything inappropriate like food or electronics. I emptied out the small box into my hands. Three 5x7 photo albums landed straight into my palms. The MTI's took one look at it and dismissed me as it wasn't anything inappropriate. I trekked back up into my dorm, sat on my bunk and opened the first of three photo albums. On the inside cover people had written little messages to me. I quickly realized who had sent this to me. Dotti. One of my fellow cashiers.

"Nikki, stay strong, we miss you!" "Nikki, so proud of you! Love you!" "Nikki, come home soon, you're greatly missed!"                   Just to name a few of the dozens of messages written in these covers.

Dotti had gone around and taken pictures of everything! She snapped a picture of every single one of our coworkers. She took pictures of the displays. There was even a picture of the Mahoney's van, which made me laugh quite loudly! Every single person signed it. I cried and I laughed through every single picture. I felt so loved. My heart swelled to the point of bursting. I couldn't even believe it.

A girl sat next to me and asked to look through the albums with me. She leaned in and said "Is this your family back home?" I shook my head and said "No..." But I paused. I smiled, as fresh tears fell on my cheeks as a thought dawned on me. I said "These people? They're my coworkers, but to answer your question... Yes! These people are all my family back home and I cannot wait to get back to them."

I understood, in that moment, why I didn't get sent home that day. I was meant to get this package. It was the completion of my journey. It gave me the strength I needed and had so desperately prayed for. I went to bed that night with those albums under my pillow. I thanked God over and over again. I thanked Him for sending me that strength. I told Him I was okay and that I had enough to make it through what I had to.

The next morning. Tuesday the 25th, my name was called to go home and I left Lackland Air Force Base.

I will never forget this gift for all of my days to come. I will never to able to fully express just how deeply I was endeared to my family at Mahoney's. Never. I will forever be thankful and I'm not sure if anyone will ever know how much this meant to me in that moment. I was sent this incredible gift during my lowest of lows. It wasn't fancy. It wasn't expensive. It was love. It was friendship. It was strength. It was my family rallying around me to hold me up for the last leg of my journey that I would have never been able to complete without them. It was exactly what I needed in the very moment I needed it most.  

I truly believe that Mahoney's is an exemplary  example of a family oriented business. They lead by example and it trickles all the way down to each and every one of us. My story wouldn't have been made possible without their story. Without their devotion, example and love of family. I will forever be grateful to them. I will forever be grateful to be part of this family. I'm not sure I can ever repay them. But I'll surely do my best to lead by their example. And I can tell you this much: the Mahoney's uniform is one I am proud to put on every day. 

3 Oct 2016

3 Oct 2016

Is all that we see or seem,

But a dream within a dream?

And as I lay me down to sleep-

The effervescent night does keep

My hardened soul bestowed so deep,

Until the break of dawn, I weep.

The break of dawn can so become,

The very moment I am undone.

The morning light doth drown my eyes-

Weakening my soul until it cries.

I'm still not sure what time it buys,

Until my soul withers and dies.

This cold monotony has no pulse,

Its code of conduct only false.

Backwards ethics and twisted views,

Scorched and fried like a lit fuse.

A pawn in a game designed to lose,

A farce layered in patriotic hues. 

My Last Night in Line Flight

There is an emptiness. A sort of, full and defeated emptiness that washes over a person when their very last strand of hope is snapped. It's dark. It's thick. It's suffocating. It's like a pit that you've fallen into and hit the bottom of. You begin to feel a cloth being dragged over you. First at your feet, then at your midsection, until slowly it is covering your face; your mouth. You can feel each individual strand of fiber as it is stuffed into your mouth and down your throat, sucking the air from your lungs, extinguishing you life. That's what it feels like when your last strand of hope is severed.

I've been to the bottom of that pit. I've seen the bottom and I have tasted that cloth. I have choked on those fibers. I have felt that last strand and suffered at its reverberations as it snapped and a calm chaos took over. The fight was over. The battle was lost. I admit, the encounter was shorter than I had expected. I thought I had more in me. Thought there would be more fight left in these bones. And I'm not mad, exactly, to be wrong. But I am scarred. Broken. And reassembled into something else.

It is no easy feat, to drag oneself out of that pit. To look up and see the daylight once again. To breathe the air that is there. To reach out and touch another human being, and to feel it. I'm not sure if it's strength, or endurance, or simple stubbornness  that brought me back into the light; brought me back to life. Hell, I'm not even sure it was me at all. And perhaps, if circumstances had been different, I fear there is a chance I would not have made it out alive...

I had been in line flight, in boot camp, for exactly one week. It was close to lights out, 2100. Earlier in the day our MTI's had said if we were good and finished our work in time then we might be able to open letters. They said that many of us had already gotten some letters. My heart swelled. It had only been a week and yet, I was so beaten down, I was in such disbelief that I'd make it out of this. But a letter! Words from home. Love from home. Home. Home. Home. I held onto that feeling all day. I was tired and I was sore and I was sick. And I was weakened. I was desperate for anything to keep me going. I was frantic for words of encouragement. I was starved to feel that I was loved and I was missed. I was at my wits end and absolutely desperate for the slightest, absolute smallest bit of hope I could wrap my tiny bit of strength around. Anything. I held tight. I prayed all day. I willed a letter to be waiting for me. I could see the image so clearly in my head. I was so sure I had one waiting... I needed it more badly than the sullen flower needs the sun's rays.

We were called into our day room of the dorms. We sat still and quiet and listened to the end of day briefing. And then, finally; finally. The MTI help up a bucket and announced that she'd be passing out mail. She took out the stack; and boy did it look big! Surely, surely I had one. I only needed one. I wasn't going to be greedy. I just needed one. It didn't even have to be long. Just a few words...

One by one they called out names. One after the other. I clenched my fists so tightly I broke my nails. I bit my lips raw. I held on so tightly that every muscle that didn't already ache, ached harder. Some girls got more than one. One girl got eight. She covered her mouth and let out a cry of wholesome relief. I watched her with tears of my own in my eyes. Thankful for her relief, but growing more and more desperate as each name was called that was not mine dwindled the pile smaller and smaller. Time seemed to stop. I held my vision in my mind; I pictured it clearly. I held out hope. I held on. Until... the last envelope held was called out.

Not my name. Not my name. Not my name. My name was not called. The air was sucked out of my lungs. My blood turned to ice. I felt the literal crack in my heart as it stopped. Everything that was there, just... fell apart. I fell to the ground, covering my face in my hands; sobbing. The MTI walked out.

Snap. My last thread. My last connection. My last hope. Destroyed. Gone. Depleted. I was shouldered back to my bunk where I crawled underneath the scratchy covers and sobbed. I cried for hours and hours, my tiny pillow unable to soak up any more tears, until I finally had zero strength left and I couldn't breathe. I thought for sure I was going into cardiac arrest. And I didn't fight it. I just gave up and gave in as I slumped to the floor. Dropped to the floor for the girl who was holding me up was not prepared to take my full weight. The world became blurry and cold. Even more so than it already was. There was tugging and pulling as someone attempted to dress me. There was talking. Someone calling a name. Was it my name? I had forgotten my name. There were stairs and cool air. Voices. Words. Anger. An ambulance. A hospital.  

Too Little Too Late

Don't mistake my sweet words for comfort. Don't mistake my kindness for friendship. Don't mistake my forgiveness for a clean slate. You've broken my heart for the last time. I may talk sweetly to you, but it is merely a polite façade. I am done forgiving you. I know what I am to you and I'm done trying to convince myself otherwise. You've taken my forgiveness for granted one too many times and now, the joke is on you, for the last leaf has fallen. I know you tried, but you just didn't try hard enough and I'm tired of being a door mat. I'm tired of being the kind of friend you only want around when you want something. You're just gonna have to find someone else to fill those shoes. Good luck.