1st Lt Prifogle’s Blog

I wake up. I barely open my eyes and the light in the room burns my eyes. I rub my eyes and hope I am not getting another eye infection from wearing my contacts while sleeping. I don’t think I could explain more scar tissue on my eyes to a doctor. My eyes burn and I rub them as tears roll down my cheeks rewetting the lenses on my eyes.

Where am I? I wonder before opening my eyes again. I’m not at home with Megan and Mom – that must have been a dream. Yes, that was just a dream. I let myself go back to sleep for a split second. Maybe going back and ending the dream will stop the confusion. Then it hits me. Not like the proverbial truck, more like when you cut yourself shaving and don’t notice until the hot water burns the spot where there is no longer any skin. More irritating than anything else. I’m still in Iraq – and I suddenly wish it was a real truck hitting. I try desperately to go back to the hazy lucid dream I was just in. I knew it was a dream in my dream, which made me enjoy it even more. I suddenly remember standing on the ruins of an ancient civilization in my dream. I imagine the ruins my subconscious created in my mind. I try so hard to go back into the REM sleep but my body is done resting now. I look at the clock it’s only 1130. I came back to my room an hour ago. I must have fallen asleep, but I don’t even remember lying down. I take note that I need to start taking better care of my body.

I am pissed. I don’t want to go back to work. I don’t want to go to chow. Paralyzed is maybe a better word. I try to tell my body to move. I try to force neurons from my brain to my limbs, but nothing happens. I think of Dave, my friend and co-worker, who said in the last meeting our department had (this one disguised as a ‘leadership forum’), “There are plenty of reasons to be pissed off out here. Hell just being here is enough to piss someone off.” I think about this for a minute. Yeah I’m pissed off . . . just being here.

I don’t move. I can’t move. My body isn’t responding to anything but the increasing rage. Why am I even here? I ask myself.

This is trouble. When you get to this point it’s like asking the meaning of life to a rock. The rock doesn’t seek meaning, it just seeks existence.

I think about my Marines. I could have been murdered and they would just continue doing their jobs assuming I’m doing something somewhere that’s keeping me out of the office. They would cover the phone calls, “Sir, she’s PTing. Can I take a message?” Or “She’s out at the flight line right now.” Or “She’s not in. . .” They are great at taking messages, even if I’m sitting at my desk.

I try to pinpoint my anger. Am I pissed because something woke me up? It was such a pleasant dream. Am I pissed every time I wake up because there’s never enough sleep? Am I pissed because the temperature is rising and the sun is getting brighter everyday? Is it because Allen broke up with me? The first sign that life goes on without me. Now I have to deal with a broken heart in Iraq.

I don’t know why, but it seems every morning I get angrier. The opposite of the day – my temper gets shorter as the days get longer.
I let the temporary paralysis take over my mind and body. I feel like crying and screaming simultaneously, but my brain doesn’t send these neurons either.

Suddenly out of the 2,370 songs on my IPOD a Bob Dylan song randomly plays. Music has a magical ability to take me to the last place I was when I heard that song.

This was the song I was listening to on my way to PT at Ground Supply school. I was living in Wilmington, North Carolina at least 45 min away (more if you drive the speed limit). It was one of those perfect summer mornings where the sun was still on its way up and the dew lay thick in the air making each breath stick to your lungs like swallowed bubble gum. I had my windows down and I was driving in my bug. It was a split highway and at 0430 all four lanes were empty. I was listening to a movie soundtrack and this song came on and with my windows down, and the sunroof open I was enjoying the freedom of life – the freedom of being late and not caring, the freedom of driving along an empty highway, the freedom of being in control of my life. Not even halfway through the song I saw lights flashing in my mirrors. I looked down as I let off the gas and noticed I was now going 76 in a 55. In an instant all that freedom was replaced with a rule I had broke.

I got a speeding ticket that morning and ended up late to PT. Our Captain was singing cadences on our run and sang the ‘Cops’ theme song only inserted my name in the cadence.

I laugh as I listen to the harmonica play out of my computer. I remember the freedom of driving on the endless highway that morning. I remember the freedom of falling in love that summer. I remember the freedom of the endless possibilities life had for me.

The song ends and I remember I’m in Iraq. As the memory fades I think to myself, I was probably pissed off that morning too. It was a pt (physical training) morning, which meant I had to wake up and leave Mark in the warm bed at 4 A.M.

My dad used to tell me, “You have a choice. You can choose to be mad, or upset, or pissed off or you can choose to be happy, and not to let things bother you.” I don’t remember what I was mad at the day he told me this, but I remember it made me even more upset to hear him say that because I can’t control my emotions. I am controlled by my emotions. A prisoner of myself.

He’s right. I can be pissed off all day. Or I can make the best of this. It’ll be over soon enough and like life I will one day wish I had made the best of it. I try to pep talk myself into getting out of bed. It doesn’t work. My body doesn’t respond to my mind. Ok, Libby you HAVE to go to work. I roll over and fight back tears. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be like this. I want to go home. But where is home? I don’t want to go home. I want to go on an adventure. I want life to take over. I don’t even know what I want.

I get up and cross the street. “Good afternoon, Ma’am.” Two of my Marines sit working away. I just look at them and finally respond. “Good afternoon, what all have I missed this morning?” They fill me in on who called, what they are working on, etc. etc.

I am constantly amazed by their attitudes. They always act happy to be here. They are all making more money then they ever made. They are all 19 to 22 years old. They have made it out of their hometowns with something to write home about. I envy their naivety. I envy their attitudes. I know within the hour just being around them my attitude will change. Yes, I can be pissed. Dave’s right. There is enough to be pissed off about out here. Dad’s also right – it’s a choice.

Perspective.

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