“Master Sergeant, It’s Time To Put Your Ruck Down.” — Part 9 of 14
My life from tortured child to Green Beret, fall to darkness due to pain and PTSD, and healing through vulnerability.
7th, The Day.
Within hours of jetting off for our final destination, our 7th leg of the trip became a flop. Trailer tires surrendered to the July desert heat with a loud pop.
We waited 6 hours for a tow. Basking in 107 degree heat, we withered with woe. We were grateful that a Border Patrol Agent and then later, a California Highway Patrolman checked on us when we felt so low.From sand storms we hid, and waited for the gritty and overheated universe to make its final bid.
Both the Penske truck and the trailer were whisked away. Thankfully, our van and sedan never led us astray.
We forged ahead with previously towed sedan leading the way. All our belongings slogged slowly behind — to our dismay. On the last and 7th day of travel, our unbroken cross-country stride turned into a limp.
It was a warning that soon, I would become socialized medicine’s gimp.
But in a way, we stayed true to form.
We left material things behind to find a peaceful norm.
Video 3, Day 7 (Desert Without Penske Truck)
Video Link: https://www.facebook.com/cecile.casiple.1/videos/10153021664537776/
On our last leg as you can see. Without Penske truck and trailer, we drove through desert fully blessed without a single pine tree. You can hear the beauty of freedom in Lance’s voice that the desert couldn’t parch.Brandon was playing a patriotic rhythm, as the Black Sedan led in a lissom.
For almost 6 years in the East we were tested.
Maybe in the desert — we should have rested.
West Coast Typhoon
The Cramped Reality.
As if the universe wasn’t finished, our home in the East Coast would not sell.
Professional pictures and real estate experts couldn’t overcome the man-made funk that hitched a ride to permeate where neighbors bunked.
To relieve the pressure of paying mortgage in the East Coast, rent in the West Coast, and storage for items of old — we crammed 2 adults and 2 teenage boys into a one-bedroom abode.
The lack of soul manifested as bare walls.
The lack of art and flowers blocked memories we did not want to recall.
Two young men who needed independence and privacy were forced into space-deprived normalcy.
At this point, personal freedom from drug-infested fiefdom — seemed a fleeting fallacy.
Donated Gifts and Memories.
To save money, we gave away most of our furniture. We said goodbye to the items that we had gotten attached to.
We unceremoniously parted with collected trinkets and things that made travels memorable. Donating is meant to be a happy event; however, for us giving away things plucked out good memories and replaced them with no luck, and lots of sadness.
The saddest part was that we let go of the……items that made a house a home.
My wife lost her retirement home…
To this…one bedroom.
2 adults and 2 teenagers. Closeness, but emptiness.
The act of moving became a permanent, transitionary home. Crushing defeat to criminals who drove peace away from everyone’s home.
I felt so sad that my boys — no longer had a dedicated music room.
How should we honor the memories when we stood for freedom and community peace? My boys were so young when the troubles started with neighborly dis-ease.
What’s the best way to move forward?
Ego said:
“Do not dare dilute the flavor of bitterness.”
It would take a few more years to cherish life.
Life not always easy, but complete…is its own best reward — worthy to repeat.
Hate Turned Inward.
Without enemies to hate…I expertly turned the disgust inwards.
Self-loathing externalized.
Blaming the system institutionalized.
Seething firmly ritualized.
The emotional confusion — the loss of our home, winning in court but losing our psychological peace, no longer having thugs to battle, and…being surrounded by peace — unglued me.
I felt lost without trouble around me.
Continue to Part 10
Back to Part 8
Copyright Leonard Casiple 2022. All rights reserved.
