Howdy (I’m striking GCVers from the intro…..for now),
It’s been a few days since I graced you with my presence. I’m a busy —yawns and stretches — retiree just trying to find his way in the thriving metropolis of Kansas City.
I published a little something on Ukraine yesterday. Not bad. It’s not my finest work, either. In essence, who knows what this will mean because it is too soon to tell, but here are some ways it might mean this or that. Ah, that type of trenchant analysis comes from working for 20 years inside the—cue foreboding music—intelligence community.
I’m also finishing off another little ditty on mental health issues inside the IC. (I hate the term intelligence community. More on that at another time).
I also celebrated my daughter’s third birthday (aw) this weekend. It was, of course, a Daniel the Tiger-themed birthday party. She received a smorgasbord of presents, especially some new Sandra Boynton books — we celebrate her entire catalog at the Selber household. I recommend Woohoo! You’re Doing Great. It is a crowd-pleaser.
It was a joyous affair, filled with above-average Daniel the Tiger cake, balloons, and enough sugar to hop up a three-year-old for hours.
Ah, the suburbs, aren’t they grand?
Yes, actually. They are.
It’s been almost a month since I retired from the military — you’re welcome, by the way, for my service. And while I appreciate all the newfound freedoms—I’m writing this piece in my sweats—I’m really appreciating my time with my daughter.
I missed nearly the entirety of my wife’s pregnancy chasing the mythical victory in Afghanistan. Hell, I missed almost everything because of the GLOBAL WAR ON TERRORISM. Or GWOT, for those in the know! What a gigantic, colossal Charlie Foxtrot that was.
Anyway, I witnessed the birth of my daughter and spent five days with her before returning to that fun-filled city known as Kabul. After I came home, we moved to Georgia, I assumed command, and then Afghanistan disintegrated.
The fall of Afghanistan and the years since nearly destroyed me. Feel free to read some of my earlier Bulwark pieces. They’re not upbeat comedic masterpieces full of witty, insightful analysis like GCV.
Nope. It’s a buffet filled with misery, futility, and humiliation. Fun!
After command ended, I checked into an intensive inpatient treatment program, spent another month in an outpatient treatment program, and then another month huffing pure oxygen. It was . . . something.
Between the birth of my daughter and October 2023, I was a side character in my daughter’s life. That’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but it’s the truth, nonetheless.
There are numerous reasons for this. Some I will share, others I won’t.
I was busy trying to save my Afghan allies. I wasn’t some deadbeat Dad slacking off and drowning his sorrows at the local pub (that would’ve been more fun!). I was coordinating off-the-books operations across the globe to help rescue our Afghan allies.
It was all-consuming. It was also incredibly addictive.
As someone who has an addictive personality, I can lose myself in anything. But nothing comes close to purpose. This has its benefits, as anyone who has been in a war can tell you — you want people locked in. And there’s nothing more consuming than combat.
The lovely Charity tried to lasso me into my daughter’s life, but I bucked like a real Texan. Grumble, grumble, grumble. No One Left Behind. My word is my bond. Insert bromide.
There’s truth in those cliches. I was trying to salvage what I could from the Afghan nightmare.
However, if I’m going to be totally honest, I was also petrified.
What the hell did I know about babies? Nothing. Nada. They look cute. Sure, but how do these things even work? I hadn’t spent the last twenty years exactly working on my nurturing skills.
She cried. I panicked. She pooped — “She poops a lot,” he says proudly—and I wondered how the hell was I going to get this diaper off with one hand, wipe off the feces with the other, all while keeping her entertained.
The crying and wailing also trigger a lot of demons. I’ve seen a lot of crying and wailing in my life, but it’s usually associated with death. It’s not something I like to think of while wiping down my daughter.
After my three-month mental health extravaganza — that’s what the cool kids are calling it now — I finally felt more secure. I learned to lean into my discomfort by sitting with my feelings (cue massage music).
Finally, after two and a half years, I have developed a relationship with my daughter. It’s fantastic.
We have our inside jokes. I like to throw her high in the air. We have Daddy-Daughter Time (DDT - boom) every day. We have a blast together.
I’m happy she will never really know the other side of me. She won’t know who that guy was—the guy who loved combat, the rush of operations, and being relentless against a savage enemy.
I won’t keep the truth from her. But some things are best left unshared.
I’m not, nor will I ever be, over Afghanistan. It’s a part of me now. There are days when the war still haunts me. Last week, an old ghost came back to torment my soul. It knocked me out for a few hours. I spent some time on the floor weeping.
But I eventually pulled myself together and plodded forward.
It’s all you can do in the end.
But now, I have my little girl’s hand to pull me forward, too. And she’s got a lot of strength behind those tiny hands.
Until next time. . .
Will - you rock as my (not so young anymore) kids would say. Appreciate the call out re Sarah Boynton; grand-children can’t get enough of her, and I wasn’t familiar with that title. Keep writing; you look to be on the right side of better.
Until next time!