Eisenstock Alan - Warrior: a memoir

DECEMBER 14, 2005 / FALLUJAH, IRAQ

I SIT ON THE FLOOR OF MY ROOM, MY BACK CREASED into the wall. My mouth feels dry, my lips cracked. I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

I pick the envelope off the floor and stare at it. I start to open it, and my hand shakes. Finally I direct my quivering fingerslong and scarred, my nails nubs, the skin as brown and hard as the desert outsidetoward the envelopes sealed flap. I open the envelope carefully, almost daintily, somehow without tearing the paper. I ease the letter out. I read the first two words and choke back a sob.

Dearest Theresa.

With my thumb I smother a tear that snakes down my cheek and keep reading.

Dad is sitting here at his desk with an overwhelming pride for you, as well as deep concern, almost worry. Im proud that you are who you areGods child, my childwho is doing her very best every day of her life. While you affect so many people with your stature and attitude, your life is on a merry-go-round. If you want to stay mentally healthy, then get off and seek help now.

I feel myself go cold. My entire body shivers. I bring my legs tight into my chest. The letter flutters in my trembling hands.

The key ingredient is your willingness to get help. If it is put off, it will be a silent cancer that will kill you.

Im crying full force now, tears raining down my face, splashing onto the bottom lip of the letter. My chest heaves.

Youre a very special miracle, who has done more in twenty-four and a half years than most people will do in their dreams.... The irony of your situation is that you are in a war, your enemy is not from without but from within.... You are a very courageous person, Theresa, for facing your problems straight on. You cannot hope to take care of others properly if you cannot take care of yourself....

I exhale slowly, trying to halt my hands from shaking, my heart from galloping, my head from spinning. I fasten my eyes on the last sentence of the letter.

I know that you will do what is right, Theresa. I love you, Dad.

My hands trembling, I fold the letter and slide it back into the envelope.

I will, Dad, I say. I will.

I see the mental health officer, a Navy psychologist. I sit in his stark waiting area across from a heavyset, older nurse who overwhelms a small metal desk as she loudly files papers. I jump every time I hear a noisethe whap of the nurse closing a file folder, a phone ringing, laughter from outside the hut. I dont want any of my Marines to see me in here. I feel nervous and unsteady. And I feel ashamed. Once or twice I notice the nurse looking at me. I cant read her eyes. Im not sure if shes judging me or somehow sharing my pain, understanding my fear. I check my watch. Ive been waiting fifteen minutes.

I cant do this. I cant wait for this guy any longer. I stand, turning to leave, and his office door opens. A man in his late thirties, short, nearly bald, a few greasy strands of hair lying tortured across his scalp like a newly tarred three-lane highway, stands in the doorway. He tries a smile, going for sympathy or warmth, I cant tell, but either way the smile doesnt work, and then he ushers me into his office like a game show host. I walk past himI tower over himand catch a last glance from the nurse.

In his office, the Navy shrink does the same game-show gesture toward a chair across from his desk. I sit down heavily. I feel as if Im in high school, summoned before the principal.

The guy waits, folds his hands beneath his chin, and after another of those confusing smiles, says in a surprisingly deep voice, So, Lieutenant Hornick, how can I help?

I shift in the chair, buying time. I look past him, and I say, low, Im struggling, sir. I swallow a gob of something sour that has suddenly risen into my throat. I paw the floor with my boot and speak again in a soft, distant voice, so distant it feels as if another person, not me, has spoken from another room. I have... I may have... possibly... an eating disorder.

Oh?

Bulimia, I add, quickly.

Okay. He lowers his hands flat on his desk. What are your symptoms?

I want to flee. Or shove this guy against the wall.

I throw up, I say, throttling a burning ripple of impatience. I cant control what I eat. My mouth feels dry, and the room slowly starts to whirl. I wrap my arms around my stomach. I throw up, I say again, urgently, as if I might heave right here. Im not sure what to do. I need... help.

Uh-huh, the shrink says. He flicks his fingers like hes playing an imaginary keyboard on his desk. What are you dealing with? What are your stressors?

I tighten my arms around my middle. I suddenly feel a fireball of rage scorching my insides. I force myself to speak in a near whisper; otherwise I know I will scream. Im an officer, I say.

Yes.

Im in charge of... so many people... in my command. I run convoys several times a week. Im an insurgent escort for the regimental commander.

The lines in his forehead undulate like waves.

I escort female insurgents, I say, hoping that with this clarification he will comprehend what Im saying. Im under a lot of pressure. A lot of stress. Stressors? You want a list? Were in a war zone.

Yes, I see. That is a lot of stress for a woman Marine.

I burn a stare into him. I prefer to be called just a Marine, sir.

He flushes. Of course, yes. I think, then, that we have to figure out how to manage your... behavior... with your stressors....

I dont hear much else. My arms flop to my sides. I sit on my hands and try to latch onto the words I see floating out of his mouth trapped in air bubbles, random words, connected in no way to the word preceding or following... journal... triggers...another session...and then, on wobbly legs, I somehow find myself outside the Navy shrinks closed door, gripping the edge of the nurses desk for balance.

Do you want a glass of water?

I nod.

I hear the scraping of a chair. The swish and rustle of movement. Water trickling into a glass from a pitcher. The nurse presses a cool glass into my hand. I gulp down the water. Thoughts swirl. Get the fuck out of here. Cry. Lead my Marines. Throw up.

You shouldnt say anything. The nurse stands a foot away from me. She gently rests her hand on my shoulder. You cant.

Im not sure I

These walls are thin. I know what youre dealing with. She pauses, perhaps gathering up her own courage or deciding how much she should reveal to me, a stranger, technically her superior. Ive had bulimia for twenty years.

I look at the closed door, then back at the nurse.

If you admit this to your company or your battalion, youll be done, the nurse says. Youll lose your career. Youll never get it back. I cant afford that. Im divorced, got two small kids.

I again look at the shrinks door.

Hes all right. He knows about me. He just doesnt get it. She speaks rapidly through a funnel of pursed lips. You have to be careful who you tell. Be very careful who you talk to.

She takes the empty glass from my hand, places it on her desk, sits, and dives back into her paperwork. I feel that for one moment she lowered a partition between us, and now she has brought it back up with a thud. I absently rub a file on her desk. So, how do you?