I don't really know how to write this

The decision to try and kill myself grew inside me for a pretty long while.

When I got back from Iraq, they'd broken up the platoon I'd been a part of, and had transferred all of the infantry guys into line companies. I got transferred into Able Company, into the same platoon as Sgt. Simmons, the guy I'd spent most of the year driving a HUMMM-V for.

Still, I started having trouble about six months after we'd gotten home, just after the start of 2006. I spent most evenings alone in my room, drinking and watching movies. It never got in the way of my day to day work of being a soldier, not in any obvious way. I just spent most nights and weekends drinking shot after shot.

1st platoon was a good bunch of guys. They'd been right in the middle of most of the heavy stuff our battalion had been a part of, in Ar Ramadi, the city we'd been posted outside of for most of the year we'd spent in Iraq. I liked most of them, and they seemed to like me.

But I got the idea I wasn't measuring up, and I couldn't shake it loose. I tried, I did all the stuff you're supposed to. At least I thought I did.

I went to talk to the Chaplain, one morning. I asked him about the possibility of changing my specialty to something other than the Infantry. I broke down, there in his office, talking about how I felt like I was going to get someone killed because I wasn't a good enough soldier. That idea'd been with me since the beginning of basic training, but now it was something I knew was going to happen.

I couldn't have it. I could not be the cause of someones death, of one of my platoon mates dying.

I talked to Sgt. Simmons, and to Lt. Anderson. Once each. But nothing much changed. Sgt. Simmons was my guy, we'd been blown up together twice. And Lt. Anderson, he was a good platoon leader, smart guy, West Point grad, really seemed to care about all of us. They tried to help. I guess they must've. But it didn't seem to change anything.

And I couldn't complain again. With how badly I thought I was doing, how much of a millstone I was on the other guys, I couldn't add in being a broke dick, too. That's what you called the guys who always had some kind of problem, always had some shit that had to be dealt with.

And one Sunday night, I decided I wasn't going to be able to take another week of failing. I decided I'd rather die.

It's all about context

So, I was wasting my life away yesterday, again, and I came across a TV show which had a bit set at a bullfight in Mexico.

Now, just on it's own, the outfit of your average bullfighter is quite fey. Slippers, frilly capri pants and short jacket in bright colors, and what can be best described as a very odd hat. Not to mention the cape, which is to be waved in a highly theatrical manner.

But then you see the guy in his proper surroundings, going toe to hoof with two tons of angry pot roast. Then you realize the guy could be wearing body paint, a g-string, and a feather in his ass, and he'd still be the manliest guy in the room.

I'm just saying, is all.

And I giggled myself to sleep

I woke up around 4am this morning, and couldn't seem to get back to sleep. So I got up and messed around online and sampled the wide array of infomercials being broadcast at that time of day. Being that it was unusually early for me to be awake, and the soothing sound of a hard rain out in the night, I found myself in a rather introspective mood.

So it was nice that another friend of mine was also up, and we chatted over IM for a while. As the conversation began to wind down, I figured I'd pick her mind for her thoughts on some of the questions I'd been pondering earlier.

So I told her I wanted to ask a question, and I didn't need an answer right then, but I did want her to think about it.

Instantly, she sent back the message, 'I don't want to get married'.