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December 3rd, 2012

 

Two weeks. That was all it was, even though I was gone almost a month. Debriefing and recovery. And recovery. And recovery. Yeah, I don't see that happening anytime soon. Just give me a fifth of scotch, and some quiet time so the fucking ringing in my ears will stop. And what the fuck was that song? The one they played, over and over and over at 130 decibels. I find out who wrote the damned thing, I'll snap his fucking neck.

December 14th, 2012

 

I have to continue to see the shrink. PTSD, is what they're worried about. God knows they can't have someone like me running around half a bubble off plumb. I suppose it's a good way for those in the business to snap. The constant noise, the sleep deprivation, oh, and let's not forget the fun and games. I've a few new scars to show for that. Rorie hasn't noticed, and I have gone to great lengths to keep her from it. Eventually she'll realize that the scar under my right shoulder blade wasn't there before, and neither was the one on the sole of my foot. It's funny, the way electricity will flow through a body. What the fuck good does writing in this book do, eh, Doc?

It's not going to stop the cold sweats in the middle of the night, or the reflexive, knee jerk reaction to hit the floor as I draw my weapon, when a car backfires outside.

 

January 10th, 2013

 

Bought a house Georgetown that's going to sit empty.  It's for the best.  Guys like me, we don't do well with family.  Too many long trips.   Too many secrets.  How can a woman trust a man whose entire life is a lie?

 

Oh, by the way doc?  Fuck you.   I don't need therapy.  I need to get back to work and off this desk.

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