"Welcome back, Alice," the men and women said in unison, nodding at my presence. I eyed them, scanning the familiar faces of veterans who served mostly in the middle east and some in Asia. All of us sat in a circle on a cold steel folding chair at a rundown church building, but we didn't mind. We stayed at worse places before.
The group was mixed of all ages, race, gender, whatever, but we were there for the same reason: to not feel alone. My transition from army to civilian life was anything, but smooth. I lost the lower part of my right leg after my unit got ambushed by a couple of ISIS members while we were patrolling near Syria's borders.
It was supposed to be a routine patrol, but the ambush was carefully planned a couple of weeks prior. Only three out of ten of us survived, not including my captain. One of them moved down to Houston, Texas while I stayed at my hometown: Chicago. The other one, Sandra, was originally from Chicago, but decided to move to a smaller town two hours from here.
To say I was a mess after that incident is an understatement. During my stay at the hospital, I couldn't stop looking at my bandaged stump. The surgeon made sure all major arteries and tissues were still intact before sewing me up, but I wished they could've killed me instead. The thought of being an amputee for the rest of my life made me sick to my stomach even if they'll replace it with a prosthesis. The thought of not being able to walk, run and even feel my actual leg made me depressed.
I lost a part of myself and I'll never be able to get it back.
Both of my parents died during a car crash when I was sixteen and since then my dear aunt Suzy has been my guardian, but during my tour in Afghanistan, I letter came in stating that she died of a heart attack. Since then, no one knew I was at a foreign country. I didn't have any siblings and I wasn't close to anyone else in my family. I didn't stay in touch with my high school friends and visa versa, but nonetheless I didn't feel alone whenever I was with my brothers and sisters in arms.
When I was discharged from my duty and came back to the United States, I felt more alone. Everything was overwhelming due to the changes I had to go through: the life I was going to live, walking with my prosthesis, finding a job and a place to live, etc. Through many angry sessions with my physical therapist, I underwent intense rehabilitation with my prosthesis for a year and then occasional check ups on my progress for the next few years.
I was homeless for a couple of weeks and I was going to one homeless shelter to the next. I thought I made enough money to rent a place on my own, but I underestimated the apartment prices in Chicago. Trying to find a job was hard since during that time, I wasn't used to walking with my prosthesis just yet so I mostly used my crutches. Not a lot of employer considered taking me in due to my condition. It was frustrating until I met Cindy, who was also an army veteran and Sandra's sister. She was a social worker who visited the homeless shelter and was shocked to see me.
She recognised me in some of Sandra's photos and went out of her way to support me in any way until I was on my feet again. Of course, I was grateful and took the offer. The apartment she lived in wasn't fancy, but it was big enough for more than two people. When she contacted Sandra, the soldier I served with visited the apartment and caught up with me.
Since I was already equipped in combative, interrogation, and weaponry skills, I decided to apply for the police academy, which I passed with flying colors. After months of being a cop, I could finally afford an apartment on my own. Around that time, I still have some PTSD, which I was appropriately treated for, but it was Cindy who urged me to go to a veteran support group.
"It'd be therapeutic," she had said. Sure, I had some doubts back then, but once I attended one of their meetings, I felt liberated. So there I was, three meetings later, pouring my thoughts and heart out to strangers I barely knew.
"It's been four years and I still have this...feeling, you know? Feeling like an ambush is going happen anytime soon," I said as I looked down towards my hands. "I know I'm a cop and everything, but there are days when I'm not even in uniform where I get this...itch, needing to look over my shoulder. Feeling that I'm still wearing my gear and rifle. That feeling."
Nods and murmurs of agreement were heard around me.
"I served for six years and I would've served more if things would've been different. All I ever wanted was to serve this country. That's why I signed up right after I graduated high school and never looked back. I didn't see a future here, but I saw it in the military. But now that I'm here..."
I pulled my right pants sleeve up, revealing the shiny steel prosthesis.
"I hated this fucking thing," I muttered as I leaned back against my chair. "I used to have severe phantom limb pain for two years and I still have them from time to time, but not as severe. I just hated looking at it, it was like looking at a painful reminder. But now, I've gotten used to walking, hell even running and sprinting with it."
I took a deep breath and sighed slowly, shaking my head.
"Here I am, a twenty-eight year old veteran amputee woman and cop. I live in a rundown apartment and there are days where I can barely afford rent. My social life involves talking to you guys," a small wave of chuckles was heard," my colleagues and people talking me on the streets just because I wear a badge. I have a hard time meeting new people. It's just...a hard time all around. And I just feel like I don't belong in this type of society, you know?"
More nods were seen.
"You've been training for these years for wars, conflicts in different countries where you don't even know the language, meeting and protecting people who don't necessarily respect you. You've been programmed and hardwired for these type of shit, but what do you do once you go back? You're expected to live your life as a normal, functioning U.S. citizen regardless of the shit you've seen and experienced. They don't understand."
"They don't understand why you don't want to see and hear fireworks during fourth of July because you think another ISIS attack just occurred. So you hide under your bed with a baseball bat and phone in hand. Or how you go grocery shopping, but all of the sudden you have this panic attack out of nowhere while trying to decide to either get fish or chicken for dinner. Or how you wake up in the middle of the night screaming and panting because you see every dying faces of your comrades, enemies, and civilians. They just...don't understand."
I pulled my pants sleeve down and leaned forward.
"I have so much to say, but I don't think there's an ample amount of time to express myself fully. All I have to say is that I'm extremely frustrated."
"I hear you," a bearded man in his forties suddenly said. "I've been a civilian for fifteen years now and I still sleep with a knife under my pillow."
The counsellor, Diana, gave him a sympathetic look.
"I've worked with veterans like you, Alice," Diana said patiently. "Veterans like all of you and it's not uncommon to feel what you're all feeling. I am, however, glad that all of you came back here today even if you're not obligated to. I know it's been only the third meeting for some of you, but I'm glad you're all here."
All of us muttered in agreement and for the first time in weeks, a small smile appeared on my lips.
One by one, the people started to talk. We chuckled, agreed, disagreed, cried and everything in between. After three hours, the group session finally ended and we bid our goodbyes and see-you-laters. I stayed behind and decided to help Diana with the chairs and tables. It was the least thing I can do.
"Alice, got a minute?" Diana called out after the members of the group started leaving. I looked at her questionably and nodded. After helping her fold the chairs away, the African American woman looked at me and smiled. She was a couple of inches shorter than my 5'8, yet she somehow manages to make herself taller and more confident. Perhaps it was the way she dressed formally and flawlessly in every meeting, but it was most likely how she carried herself.
"I'm so glad you're here after the first meeting," she started as she wiped a drop of sweat from her forehead. "I know how busy your schedule is, but I'm glad you're finally opening up to me and other people like you."
"Agreed," I said.
"Have you heard of our other program?" she asked as she grabbed a piece of paper from her back pocket and handed it to me. "It's more of a sister program since most of the vets coming in our meeting also go to this one."
Curiously, I looked at the crumpled paper: Brown's Painting and Sculpting classes.
"I know what you're thinking," Diana intervened as I was about to open my mouth," but go to at least one class and get the feel of it. Brad, the forty-two year old bearded guy? He goes there among with other vets to paint, sculpt or both. They said it's also therapeutic and it helps with their anxiety. I know you mostly work night shifts during the weekdays, so try this in the weekends?"
I raised an eyebrow to her, frowning as I looked at the paper. Why not give it a try, I thought to myself. The classes had drop-in rates of $5 per session, which was an hour and a half long, and they supply the art supplies. Plus, the building is only a couple of minutes walk from my apartment.
"I'll think about it," I said, putting the brochure in my back pocket.
The cold winter weather creeped its way inside my coat as I exited the church building. February in the midwest was anything, but romantic in my experience. Everything was covered in white snow and the sun rarely makes it appearance, but, nevertheless, I couldn't see myself living anywhere else. Chicago will always be my home.
It was a peaceful Sunday afternoon for the most part where families hung around Millennium Park, the malls, just everywhere. I, on the other hand, settled on reading a book at a nearby Starbucks. It wasn't noisy as usual so I could easily get a good solid hour reading "The Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde. Recommended by Diana, she suggested our group to read one classic novel per month. I wasn't too keen with the idea at first, but surprisingly I've grown to love it.
I went home an hour later on the dot and got home fifteen minutes later, no more and no less. It was routine. An uneventful one, but it was my own comfortable schedule.
The apartment building that I stayed in wasn't particular fancy, but at least the neighbourhood was a little better. Most of the tenants I knew were also cops and the rent was reasonable. My apartment itself was fairly simple with little to no decorations and it's well-kept. Before my medications and therapy, the apartment looked a mess like a tornado went through it twice, but as of right now, it looks better. Maybe from an outsider's eye it doesn't look much, but it was enough for me.
After feeding my goldfish, Samsung, I sat on my couch and turned on the T.V. wondering how life would've been different if I've done something different in the past. I know coming back here didn't involve a grand homecoming parade and I didn't have a lot of money in the first place, but I expected a little bit more compared to where I was now like having a girlfriend, more friends or even building a family. The last girlfriend I had was back in high school and we tried our best to stay in touch when I was deployed, but college happened to her.
As a naive teenager, I expected for her and I to be together forever. Hell, I even daydreamed of marrying her one day, but obviously our plans changed. I looked at the T.V. screen, but I wasn't really watching what was on. It's hard to be lonely at night especially for anyone who was/in the military. You could just hear your thoughts catch up to you and the only way to shut them out was either with alcohol or a radio or even a T.V. show to play idly in your room. I chose the latter, but sadly enough I know a lot of veterans who turned to alcohol for comfort.
The sun has set, but the city was still alive. Me? I'm not quite sure. Without my meds, therapy and support group, I'd probably be at the edge of a building right now deciding whether to jump or not. Or in my bed for weeks. I should be thankful, but at the same time I feel like something is missing, like there was a punctured hole deep down my soul.
Some told me that my grey eyes held secrets, but others told me that they looked empty like there wasn't a life force behind them. Sighing, I glide my fingers through my boycut blonde hair. After I took a shower, I ate a quick dinner and drank my meds with it. Then, I put some lotion on my stump and placed my prosthesis next to my couch while I hopped around with a single crutch. It was 10 P.M. on the dot. I laid myself down on my couch and stared at the wall as the faint voices from the T.V. echoed the apartment.
This was my normal ritual before I go to sleep.
I hated the night.
"1...2...3...," I whispered quietly to myself.
