When the Demons Come
A Journey into Despair
When the demons come—and they always do, don’t they?—they come in many shapes and sizes.
Sometimes, the demons come for me in my nightmares, especially this time of year. Those voices screaming out in horror reverberate through my consciousness. They pierce my reality in various forms.
Three years ago, I was in the fight of my life. It wasn’t on the battlefield. No, it was in a hotel in downtown DC, trying to smuggle my friends into Hamid Karza International Airport. I don’t even remember most of it, to be very honest. It was just a blur.
Even though I had just started my command tour, the war beckoned me. And, like a long servant to war, I returned to the fight.
Over the course of ten days, I tried every way imaginable to smuggle, bribe, cajole, threaten, manipulate, and squeeze every Afghan contact into the bastion of safety. It was madness. Madness in every direction. Those two weeks were the darkest of my life.
How do you play God? How do you ask a man to do that for his country? That’s what I did for nearly ten days.
And let me tell you something — I never want that type of power ever again.
Every second of every moment of those two weeks, I was glued to my phone—so many goddamn phones. My interpreter, Zabiuhullah, who had just returned from the NEO, was working the phone lines with me.
How did we survive?
Large amounts of whiskey. Sorry, boys. Liquor helps knock you out. And numbs the avalanche of death and despair that surrounds everything.
So when I say I don’t remember much of anything, I really don’t. I chain-smoked cigs, drank coffee constantly, drank at night, and ate when I could. In between it all, people begged for my assistance. Voices from various worlds collided during those two weeks.
It wasn’t just the Afghans I met at the Embassy (‘20-21). No, it was Afghans from three various deployments. Contractors from Provincial Reconstruction Teams found me. The sons and daughters of tribal elders I met in my youth reached out. They all begged for my help. Then, the Afghans who trained me in America—my language instructors—started reaching out.
It felt like thousands of people screaming, “Will, brother, it’s me. Please, dear G*d, save me, brother!”
When I talk about these stories, I don’t even remember what’s real and what was a dream or a nightmare. It all blended into a haze of reality because I was immersed in a sea of betrayal.
Nothing in my life. Not all of the killing. Not the dead friends. None of it prepared me for those two weeks.
The Department of Defense spent millions of dollars training me to work in Afghanistan. In return, I poured my life into Afghanistan. I became a Level III Subject Matter Expert in South Asia through three years of work. I had so many contacts inside Afghanistan.
All of those contacts came back.
At once.
I’ve heard so many screams. But the ones I heard in DC were the ones from which nightmares are made.
Those sounds of despair are what woke me up last night.
When that happens, there are moments when I wake up, and I’m not sure what’s real or not anymore.
So I breathe. I breathe deeply. I meditate. And I pray to G*d for strength.
Eventually, after I stumble into consciousness, all of it comes crashing down on me. I remember Afghanistan. I remember the dreams that I had for my Afghan brothers and sisters in arms.
And then, I encounter modern American society in all of its splendor.
That’s when the PTSD comes in. When you wake up from a nightmare, all of your senses are jacked up. That’s why I go to the gym and try to release some of my demons.
My bougie little Crossfit Gym (2020Fit, I heart you) is my church. I bring all my gear, find my spot, and get lost in the war. I work out to exhaustion. I allow myself to remember. It’s medicinal.
Sometimes, however, the medicine is too strong, and I have a flashback. That happened yesterday after the nightmare. I had a flashback at some moment in round two of some absurd WOD I was trying to do.
BOOM
But it wasn’t from combat (for the first time). Instead, it was from those two weeks in DC.
I remembered shooting whiskey before each phone call. And then calling to tell Afghans I wasn’t going to get them out.
Those horrific conversations pierced my reality for a moment.
BOOM
And then I came back.
It’s hard to live like this. When this type of stuff happens, it affects everyone around me. My wife, the lovely Charity, who is currently crushing it at her new gig, had to find a setter to cover down for me.
But, when I’m like this, it’s essential not to push it away and sit in the grief. If I don’t honor what happened with sadness, then it will linger longer. I learned that at the Salt Lake City Behavioral Health Center.
Breathe. Sit in in the pain and honor it.
So, I try to do that very thing. That’s how the healing works. And it does work, but it works on its timeline—not what’s convenient for you.
But one thing always does the trick:
These two are my salvation.
When the demons come, I have this little girl to ground me. And boy, does she ground me. She’s got some sass on her. When Daddy rambles on or interrupts, she’s quick to tell me, “Bye, Bye, Daddy,” and then she kisses me on the lips.
I love it. I need to be put in my place occasionally (maybe more often), and I’m happy she doesn’t have a problem doing it.
I also get to watch my wife shine. She’s the real leader. Not only is she crushing it at her new job as an elementary school principal, but she’s also set up the best array of sitters, autism specialists, etc. It’s mesmerizing. I can hardly keep up.
But the real treats in life are now my time with my little girl. She’s the only thing that matters anymore. And with her happiness, she beams some of her sunshine into the darkness of my soul.
When I’m grieving Afghanistan—and I will always grieve until the Afghan people take it back—she’s the little ray of sunshine that reminds me of what’s real and what’s just a bad nightmare.
When she kisses and hugs me, I feel so loved that I’m snapped out of a river of despair.
She’s not only my daughter. She’s G*d’s medicine for my sorrows. And I’m eternally grateful to G*d for giving me such a beautiful child who is full of magic.
I sing to my daughter now. I’m not very good, but it’s the best part of my day. I can even do it when I’m sad.
And I never hide this part of me from my daughter. Nope. Yesterday, while she was watching Daniel Tiger, I wept like a baby on my wife’s shoulders.
I’m never hiding that from her. She should know what war does to men. Presenting some bullshit macho stoic front does nothing for anybody. Instead, it builds up resentment and anger.
I tell her, “Baby, Daddy is sad right now. But I love you very much, and I’ll get better soon.”
Often, she kisses me on the lips.
And that’s when I know that I’ll be just fine.
So, now, when I daydream of Afghanistan—and I still dream of it—I dream of my daughter and me walking down the streets of Kabul. Or perhaps I can drive into the hills of Kapisa, where Daddy first learned about Afghanistan.
All I want now is for my daughter to see where Daddy fought. And I want her to fall in love with the Afghan people like I did. Because the Afghans, like they did with me, will accept her as family.
And that’s all I ever want for her — to be loved.
I was draft age during the Vietnam War, but I did not go thanks to a student deferment and the creation of the volunteer army before I graduated college. TBH, I don’t completely regret it. Your writings are helping me understand the magnitude of the sacrifices that people like you made so that my family and I could live our relatively comfortable lives. There is no way we will ever be able to repay you for your sacrifices. Including and especially the sacrifices you are still making as a civilian. There is no way to properly express my gratitude for the things you have done, and for the writing you are doing now.
Sometimes ugliness and pain become become beauty and joy. Thank you, Will Selber.