Dirty Mirrors

Dirty Mirrors

I dreamt about the war again last night. It wasn’t traumatic this time. It was just weird. It was dustier than I remembered. I was in the right place and right uniform for once. This wasn’t a nightmare, and, in a way, it felt like a welcomed relief. At one point in the dream, I felt relieved that I had an excuse not to text or email some folks back immediately. “Sorry, I can’t reply right now because I have spotty service in this combat zone.” That was what struck me the most from the dream. I wasn’t as concerned with the violence around me as much as I was unburdened by the digital tether of modernity.

War is simple in its most brutal form. Sometimes, when the pace of life gets too frantic, I reminisce on that sabbatical in Saddam’s empire. That, too, is a fantasy. My memories betray me when I think fondly of that season. Sure, there were good times. There was also obviously the opposite of that. Yet, in the boredom of middle age, I reflect on things and feelings that I likely didn’t even experience back then. It’s easy to romanticize the past, but romance is dead, and my memories are liars sometimes.

I wasn’t some kind of warrior. I was just a dude doing a job. It’s like my past and I have some sort of trauma bond, and I keep going back to put my finger in an old wound just to feel something—anything at all. My reflections on my many former lives are just carbon copies of carbon copies degrading with each recollection. Yet, I still go to those old wells and mine them for meaning. Week after week, I implore myself not to dance on old graves, and here I am again with tap shoes and a steady beat.

The funny thing about the dreams I often have is that they’re always mired in insecurity. Many of my “war” dreams showcase me in some hodgepodge and ill-fitting uniform in a combat zone. I find my platoon and then beg their forgiveness for gaining weight as I spill out of my uniform. It’s a recurring dream, actually. “Sorry, sir, I got fat, but I’m here to help...”

In many other dreams, I find myself lost and late wandering around some campus or forward operating base trying to find where I belong amid the scoffs of those who got there first—those who are supposed to be there. Of course, then there are the all too typical dreams where I feel helpless to make things work. My gun won’t fire, my fists fall like feathers in a fight, I can’t run fast enough to get away from the turmoil, etc. Dreams are a funny thing. They always make me look in that dirty mirror and reflect on life.

So, what’s the point of all of this talk about dreams and remembering the past? Who knows! If you’re here for answers, well, I’m sorry to say I have very few to offer. Reflection is healthy if it’s used as a tool to move us forward. It becomes unhealthy when we just dwell in the past. We create a version of ourselves that never existed and then try to live up to some unrealistic ideal. The past wasn’t all that great. It probably wasn’t all that bad either, and even if it was, you made it through it, and that’s something to be proud of.