Anticipation, With All The Hell That Comes With

The feel of anticipation is very peculiar. It’s caught in that no man’s land between happiness and panic. This is particularly the case when it comes to something like the relatively short, but truly very long voyage home for a two week leave.

When anticipation reaches it’s highest point, it cause a tornado of emotions to rip through your mind. Of course pleasant thoughts come to mind when you think about seeing your family and friends again. Excitement when you think of all the fun things that you’re going to cram into a fifteen day period, indeed far too many things.

Then you start to worry a little bit, about all those people that you probably would only normally see a few times a year, except that now they are you biggest fan and absolutely insist that you drive forty five minutes to visit them while home. You become concerned, slightly, that maybe you are biting off more than you can chew. Sure, the cross country flight to visit a cool relative sounds like it would be a blast, but jesus that’s going to eat up a lot of time. Not to mention the fact that if a flight got delayed or canceled, you’d be screwed. Who wants to spend 2/15ths of their vacation either in an airport or driving down the interstate?

But cheer up, because throughout all of that previous thought, you’ve made it to the first stop of a few on the way home. You’ve left that war torn country and all the bullshit that goes with it. Now you can relax for a few, listen to a couple stupid briefs and just walk where they tell you to go and you’ll be home in no time.

What’s that? Overnight? Well, you didn’t pack any sleeping gear, thank god it’s a warm day or…..oh, it gets cold as hell at night they say. That will suck, but screw it, you’re going home! The warm thoughts flood your mind again, the pictures of family members. That old drinking buddy of yours, he’s waiting with a case of good beer. One lousy over night. At least it’s a calm country you’re in, though flat and sandy, which frankly is boring and obnoxious.

You sit down, there’s a movie playing in front of you but you’re sure as hell not paying attention to it. In fact, you’re sprawled on a two person couch with your eyes closed, undetermined yet if you are going to sleep or not. Around that little internal argument you focus what part of your mind you control on arriving at home. Walking through that airport, what a joy seeing everyone will be.

You wonder how long, once you get to states, it’ll be. Two short flights, no more than that. Well, unless one get’s delayed. Which would really suck, cause you don’t want to have your leave start before you even make it home. No, it’s not supposed to, you remember the briefs, if a flight gets delayed or something happens to where you don’t make it home the day you’re supposed to, you extend the start of leave. Except you still worry yourself sick about it, what if you don’t call the right people. You’ve got the right number, but lord knows how easily they may have made a mistake, given the wrong one.

It’s much too easy to complicate these things in your head.

Then the sand storm hits, and you slowly realize that this “short” stop at that calm, flat country sucks just as bad as the war torn one you’ve just left.

Sand storms are one of those few things that movies actually depict relatively correctly. You look over the horizon and just see a wall of dark brown dust and sand. And it’s heading right for you. Once it hits, you would swear the sun went down at three in the afternoon. You can’t see all five fingers when you hold your hand up, you can’t hear anything except the wind whipping innumerable pieces of sand and dirt against everything, and the tent flaps begging to be let down. Breathing becomes a laborious task of filtering all you intake. You won’t get the grit out of your mouth, nose, ears for two days after, and you’re constantly slapping your uniform in an increasingly failing effort to keep somewhat clean.

Plus you may drop an important electronic, say an iPod, and never see it again.

I hate Kuwait, I guess is what I’m trying to say.

It’s a forever miserable place in the world, Kuwait. I will equate unhappiness and exhaustion with that country every time I hear the name. You’re miserable as you head home, because every little delay that pops up frustrates you to no end. You can always lean on the joy you feel about finally heading home, but that just inevitably, and quickly, leads to more anger about the latest fuckup that’s kept you restlessly pacing the PAX terminal.

And of course, on the way back you’re miserable because you’re one last leg away from going back to the shithole you’ve got three months of suck left in. You’ve just left wonderful, and you’re now in Kuwait. Freaking Kuwait…

A two week break from war is a welcome respite. It’s a constant enjoyment, each day you spend home, even with the other shoe hovering in the air, waiting to drop. But it’s also emotionally stressful, something you don’t think about or even realize until you start heading back to war. You loved seeing all your friends and family, and all the drinking and good food. It all reminds you, however, of the things that you are supposed to be yearning for during war, the things you were supposed to miss the last eight months of the deployment but had very adeptly tucked away in the subconscious in a self defensive effort to make things more enjoyable. The wistful, nostalgic thoughts of home break through the dam as you’re flying over the ocean, and you think to yourself “god dammit, eight months of mindless order following and mission accomplishing, down the drain.”

It won’t be so easy to hide these feelings anymore.

You finally just want to go home, plain and simple.

So now, more then ever,
Keep on keeping on.