Jonathon

"How much do you need for a book?" Karl asked me. We were sitting on the loveseat and my feet were draped across his lap as I read him a blog post I had written about him.

"Why?" I asked, then realized, "You want me to stop writing about you?"

"You shouldn't."

"I will if you want me to," I said, crying prettily, one tear sliding down my cheek.

"No," he said, adjusting his cap, "you shouldn't."

Even if I had enough for a book, then the book would be out there and his stories would be everywhere and he would be more exposed than he is now. Even if I had enough for a book, I would keep writing.

I told him that I had been chatting on facebook with his best friend from high school. I read him the messages:

The fondest memories I have of Karl and I were the carefree days of hanging out, riding bikes, listening to music and reading comics, along with whatever stupid whims came to mind.

Reading your blog is extremely eye-opening to me, and it rips my heart out because that man isn't the little guy I grew up with and remember so fondly.

There was no transition period. It was just Jonathon, then after a long period of time, it was a grown man who had seen war and been radically changed by it. Going from one to the other like that is heartbreaking. 

"Yeah," Karl nodded, "his mom cried when I saw her at his wedding. She asked me what Iraq was like, so I told her. Then she started crying."

I guess that's why I write, why Karl thinks I should write, not to make as many people as possible cry, but to let them know what happens. Jonathon is Karl's middle name. It's the name he went by from birth until the Army. Even though I met Jonathon in high school, I have not known Karl since then. Karl didn't exist. Karl is a "grown man who had seen war and been radically changed by it."

Jonathon was quick. He was a classic gifted underachiever, one who made Bs and Cs in high school with a bare minimum of work. He was funny and good-natured. Everyone liked him. People like Karl and Karl is funny, but he isn't good-natured. He is grumpy. He is sad. He couldn't pass remedial math with any amount of effort. He is not who he was.

He took pottery last semester but couldn't finish the required amount of work in time. The instructor, who is amazing, is letting Karl have this semester to finish his bowls and morphic vessels. Actually, when he gave Karl the incomplete, he told Karl he could have until midterm to finish his pieces. When midterm hit and Karl, despite all his time spent in the studio, had almost nothing new, the instructor extended his deadline. The day before his pottery instructor extended his deadline, Karl told me he didn't even know why he was taking pottery.

"I know. You're taking pottery because shards of pottery are how people know civilizations existed," I recited what he had told me six months ago about how excited he was to be taking the class. "You're creating things that will exist after we've died. You're making things that will be passed down and held onto and one day dug up to prove you existed."

I think he lets me write about him, because he wants a record of what's happening to him and what has happened to him. I write to prove he was here, even as he disappears. It's as much for me as for him or for anyone else. I want proof he was here. I want a record of how much I loved him when he was putting knives in the blender.

It seems so silly, because women always ask "How do you do it?" or better, they sigh that they "just couldn't do that," but they could. They just don't want to imagine it any more than I want to imagine being a woman in Iraq whose husband is suffering just as mine but who doesn't have the resources I do. There are spouses everywhere who are watching their loved ones disappear through Parkinson's or Alzheimer's or brain cancer or TBI. They signed the same papers I did.

It's just what happens sometimes... except that in our case sometimes meant during a war started by war profiteers. In our case, nature didn't just take it's course. In our case someone used a national tragedy to ramp up patriotism and start a war for profit. In our case someone decided that my husband and thousands like him weren't as important as money... and that is why the government really pays my mortgage every month. It is blood money for Jonathon.

I know that there are some people who believe we needed to go to war in Iraq. These people probably wouldn't appreciate the jokes Karl and I make about Team America: World Police! I don't know whether or not we helped in the end, although Karl believes we helped the oppressed groups. I don't believe that the war in Iraq was ever about protecting the US... unless you mean protecting our oil interests. I don't believe that anyone who wanted the war has ever had to pay the price for it and I don't believe that people know what the cost of war is.

I grew up in an extremely liberal household in Texas. I was anti-war from birth. I knew what PTSD was, not because I knew anyone who had it, but because my mom told me about Vietnam. So when Karl and I got back in touch before his second tour, I thought I was prepared. After his second tour, when we moved in together, I expected occasional angry outburst and nightmares. I knew war took a toll.

Karl has very few angry outbursts and his nightmares rarely wake me up. He checks for snipers and exits. He is agitated in crowds. He interprets litter as bombs. He wakes up in the middle of the night to fight with intruders who don't exist. I expected something similar, although I didn't appreciate the scope. These things are so normal though. If you are conditioned that someone is always after you, then you will act as if someone is always after you.

What I was completely unaware of and unprepared for was the brain injury. I think a lot about how Karl called me to tell me he drove over a bomb. Even now when I tell other people that he drove over a bomb, people are shocked that he is alive. I guess alive or dead were the only possible outcomes when he drove over a bomb. There was no "all of the above," but that's exactly what it is. He is alive and he is dead. He came home but he never did.

I don't write for Karl or I. I write for Jonathon, because he certainly deserved it. He deserves someone recognizing that he is lost. He deserves to have his story told.