In one occasion, while I was sitting at home eating a nice meal in the company of my family, one of my brother’s in arms was dying at the hands of a terrorist. I never knew this soldier, but I knew what he was going through, what he was fighting for, and why he was doing it. I knew all that because that was the same mission, the same responsibilities, and the same set of orders that I was supposed to be executing, but I was never sent to war, so I never got the chance to be there for him when he needed me the most.
On a different day, while my kids were enjoying the company of their mother, a little boy was crying himself to sleep because his mom was not there to tuck him in at night. I never knew this boy, but I knew what he was going through because I had seen that same pain in my children’s eyes when their father was stationed overseas and they used to go to bed every single night crying because they didn’t know when or if their father was going to come home again. A pain that sometimes I still see in my son’s eyes when he has to say bye to his father.
On a rainy day, while I was sitting behind my desk, drinking a warm cup of coffee and complaining about the weather in South Florida, a soldier was fighting in a far-away country under worst circumstances for my right to complain about stupid stuff like the weather—a right that I knew was given to me by soldiers like me who were fighting for our country. The only difference between those soldiers and me was that they were actually fighting for our country. I wasn’t. I was back home safe and sound and in the company of the people I loved.
And, last year, while I was celebrating New Year’s Eve at home with my husband, drinking a nice glass of wine, and watching the ball drop on TV, there was a soldier trying to call home to get the chance to wish her parents a happy new year, just to find herself not being able to get through the busy lines and missing the chance to use the last minutes of her life, before a mortar killed her, to speak with the people she loved the most. Again, I never knew this soldier, but as a mother myself, I can only imagine the pain in her parents’ hearts when they saw the man in uniform and the chaplain standing by their door before the sun was even out-men they knew were coming to tell them that their kid was probably never coming home again. And again, there was nothing I could have done to save her because… I was not there next to her when she needed me the most.
So, for those who think about my “luck” of not having to go to war during my entire military career, or for those who see me as a hero, I invite them to look into my eyes, so they can see the invisible wounds that that supposed luck brought into my life. The truth is that my wounds may not be visible, but they are real… they are there and every single day they remind me how much I failed as a soldier. How I shouldn’t be calling myself a warrior, and most of all, how, the service that I gave to my country will never compare to the service that those men and women performed in harm’s way, so that I could have the opportunity to stand here in front of you to have, not only my voice heard, but also their stories told.
Marielys Camacho-Reyes, MS is a U.S. Army Veteran, a military spouse, a freelance writer, and the author of the book Cleaning Out My Closet: My Road from Self-Discovery to Emotional Healing. You can visit her website at www.mcreyes.com for more of her pieces.
