Pic of me, Spilling my guts, To Africa

My flight which was supposed to leave at 9 for Cape Town was canceled. So I must wait till tomorrow afternoon to secure my trip to the cradle. I'm meeting some old army buddies in Lesotho, they might have some work for me, anyway it will be good for me to see some familiar faces.

I've been in London for the last couple of days, but have been too jet lagged and overall exhausted to do anything fun. I stayed at a B&B right on the Thames so that was nice, the road was Langethorn or something. I gotta say all the people that told me English food was crap were dead on... ROFL

Somebody recommended "eel and mash" or some nonsense, and all I could think was eww. Don't get me wrong, I've eaten bugs, dog, cat, and pigeon among other things, but if I had a choice, eel and mash would not be on the top of my docket. I did have fish and chips tho, which was the American equivalent of fish sticks and potato wedges... good beer food but not terribly appetizing. I miss the perogioes from St. Petersburg.

So down to the meat... What the fuck happened to me while in Russia.

I know all of you have problems, and depression is relative, but I felt so isolated from your run-of-the-mill depression case. I think Micky summed up my mental state in one phrase... "pissed-up, drug crazed suicidal maniac."

This will be the first time I have ever talked about this.

I don't know if any of you have killed before. I have. Its not like a video game, nor the distance of a news article. Its real. Real like nothing ever was before, a haunting mist of life's other half. I can justify everything I have done, whether it be protection, or service to my country, I have never maliciously taken a life. But the thud of reality and the merciless dread that accompanies what I did are no different than murder.

I hate to sound like the cliche movie bad ass who tells the young side kick about the horror of killing someone, but its rings so close to home. I have nightmares, remnants of past deeds. A man in the distance, dropping to the ground lifeless seconds after squeezing the trigger. The eyes of a man dispatched in close quarters. Images that seem to splatter themselves in my minds eye every chance they get. I cant shake them, they are always there, stealing my joy, taking from me what they can never experience in death.

Couple my "ghosts" with an overwhelming sense of paranoia, and you get a train wreck. I literally walk around every corner expecting to pay my penance. Scanning rooms for hiding places, and quick escapes. Locking my hotel room door, then moving the dresser to securely block it. Hypersensitivity to sounds and lights keep me from sleeping. I'm sure the boogeyman is at bay, but I cant help myself, its compulsion at its greatest.

When I met Pasha it felt liberating, a vacation from my problems. But the party boy made me slip into an even deeper hole. Pills and whiskey, tears and sex, sober long enough to use vodka as mouth wash, and eat codeine for breakfast. The rock and roll lifestyle without the glamor. A nightmare forced my aggression to the surface one night. Waking in a cold sweat, sore from tense muscles, I wanted to end the innocence. I wanted to kill Pasha. I don't know what blinded me, but I was possessed. I remember the feelings, the adrenaline, the rush, but could only move enough to spit out blood that accumulated from grinding my teeth. If it hadn't been for the pain killers, I'd probably be looking at eternity in a Russian hole.

I discussed it with him the next day, expecting understanding and forgiveness, but got something completely different. Instead I received empathy, an odd, morbid reflection. We decided that the only way to relieve ourselves of worldly pressure was to say goodbye, and take the leap into oblivion. I sobered up enough to realize how much of a pussy I must be to let the demons get the better of me, to let a kid talk me into suicide is absolutely absurd, so I decided to leave. I didn't say goodbye, I just disappeared into the world...

My ghosts are still there, but some weight has left my shoulders since leaving Russia. I breath the damp cold air of London, and relief washes over me like warm sunshine. Call it God or resilience, but a rope was lowered into my pit, and I pulled myself out. Hopefully, whatever it is I am looking for is in Africa.

*cue lion king song*

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