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Saturday, February 13, 2016

The men who've died around me

These are the men I live with, fight with, play with, work with, the men who've died around me.

There's one, over there. He's cool, he's calm, he's got it all together. A man of great responsibility, liked by everyone, hated by none. Well qualified in all that he does, and successful too.  He's also been secretly sharing with me his great desires to kill himself. That was the first thing he said when he met me. Many different methods are discussed, over many months. I carry this burden for him, desperate to see him made whole, clinging to the prayer that help will arrive before it's too late. No one here knows what to do or how to help him. My hands are tied by an organization that cares nothing for a "statistic" like him. How this story ends- I can only fear the worst, and pray for the best.

     A good, good friend of mine. He's a family man, a wealthy man, a man on the rise, driven, successful by many standards. Over coffee, he prepares me for what to expect: "The first people I ever killed, I just... it was us or them, they were being used as a trap. My men or them, I... I had no time to think. Two children, Latino children... I see their faces, I see the things no one should ever know. I cannot sleep at night, I'm irrational, irritable, I am a broken, broken man. I drank for one year straight, just to dull the pain. Glory in this work? There is none. Get out while you can."

     Ah, the one who bothers me the most- imagine a man who's soul is on the outside, not on the inside like everyone else, someone who's so terrified of being found hollow and shallow and empty. He yells, he puts you down, demanding, shrieking even, for respect. A man who's never been shown how to be a man, but given a man's job and title. A man who doesn't know commitment, someone so scared to leave the cocoon he's developed over the years. A man who only hangs out with men far greater than he, in the hopes that they will hide all the inadequacies so blatantly visible. A little boy, aged twenty-two, given weapons of war and told to kill, and to lead and teach others to kill others.

     Another one, let me introduce you: he's killed men, and is dying on the inside. His marriage is a complete disaster, yet another victim of a system that declares all things expendable except the very things that destroy those that serve its purpose. He pulled me aside last week, and said, "You're different. You're not like the other guys. I killed a man once, shot him right through the forehead. This is what it felt like, this is what I remember, and this is exactly why you need to never, ever go through that. Stay different, stay set apart, don't do or go through the things I have."
   
     These are the men I live with, fight with, play with, work with, the men who've died around me. They drink and go to the strip clubs on Friday night, are usually broke three days after payday, and are living their lives in such vocal desperation, like a blind man who knows there's a way to be healed, but the way is hidden from him. There's no hope for most, at least of their own accord: they know no other way of life, and they consider living life in the gutter as the new normal. Something speaks to them occasionally, telling them there's more, but they soon forget as that thought is drowned out by countless others. They're not allowed to dream. They can't think past next weekend. All the aspirations they had when they came here are dead. They're slowly dying, a little bit each day. Men are made to be alive. Free. Dangerous, deadly, courageous, strong. These men are dead, captive, castrated, harmless, fearful, weak. My heart breaks for these men that I live with, fight with, play with, work with, the men who've died around me.