Bullets in Burn Pits: Sharing the First Chapter of My Memoir

I've been debating sharing this for a while, partially because the book it's coming from is still very much a work in progress and partially because I'm not exactly anyone famous.

And who wants to read memoirs from random dudes on the internet?

That being said, I decided to share the first chapter here for a couple of reasons.

The first is that maybe my experiences will be seen by someone out there who needs to know they aren't alone when going through some of the things I've been through. My life has been full of ups and downs, and I've had to climb up the hill I'm on with very little outside help for a long, long time while dealing with loss, grief, abuse, and being misunderstood the whole way. My story isn't unique, and there are those who have had to overcome obstacles I wouldn't want to face on my best day, but if I can help one person out there to get through a difficult time, then sharing it is worth it.

The second reason is because it's cathartic to write and put that writing out into the world. Over the past few years, I've found that writing is the one thing that really helps me calm down and focus even when things seem to be at their worst, and with the state of the world and my life right now I'm gonna need to write a lot.

Finally, I want to use this as a way to keep myself at least a little accountable when it comes to finishing this work. If people are interested in seeing chapters on here as they're written, I'll share them, but mainly I see it as if I put the first chapter out there it kind of forces me to push on and finish it. I've got the first few chapters done already, and I really want to try and finish it completely by my 40th birthday this year, so I'm using making a public post about it, even one that will probably never be seen or fully read, as motivation to get in gear.

Most people don't realize what all goes into writing a book because most people will never write even one, but it isn't just writing for a couple of hours and finishing it. It takes time, energy, dedication, and a drive that goes beyond anything I've ever done in my life. I know because I've already written 3 books, and I write scripts for my videos on YouTube as a way to make a living and pay the bills. It gets a little easier the more you do it, but it's always energy intensive and takes a good chunk of time.

But that's enough of that.

Without further ado, here is the first chapter of my work in progress memoir: Bullets in Burn Pits.

Desperate Times

On September 11, 2001, I walked into my ninth-grade algebra class just before 9:00 AM and found the class television playing footage of a building on fire. The sight was unexpected to say the least, but what was even more unexpected was the response from my teacher when I asked when the fire had started.

“Just a few minutes ago, they think a plane flew into the tower.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but the building that was burning was the north tower of the world trade center twin towers in New York City. Just as class was starting, we watched in horror as another plane slammed into the south tower. It was at that moment, 9:03 AM that we knew this was more than just an accident.

My mom picked my brothers and I up from school early that day, and as we waited in line for gas she tried not to panic. The world seemed to be coming to an end, and no one knew what would happen next.

Watching president George W. Bush address the nation that evening hammered home the fact that the world had changed forever on that day. Four planes had been turned into missiles, with three of them hitting their targets and one being downed in a field in Pennsylvania by a group of heroic passengers. America would be going to war, though the enemy wasn’t known right away.

Over the next several years, the United States would enter conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq, and I would weigh the thought of joining the military several times. I was too young at first, being a high school freshman and only having turned 15 a few months prior to 9/11, but part of me saw it as something I ought to do in the future.

Throughout high school, I would bat the idea of joining one branch or another around, but it was never really that serious of a plan until late in my senior year.

Just after starting school in 2004, I started a new job at Wal-Mart. It was there that I would wind up meeting the love of my life, Alisha, in the toy section as we were working to get the store ready for its grand opening.

A couple months of flirting would lead to a first date at the Columbus Zoo, a first kiss and the realization that I’d met someone truly special. The only thing standing between us and a future seemed to be our parents.

It was the first serious relationship for both of us, and neither set of parents was keen on allowing their ‘babies’ to act grown up. As far as they were concerned, there was no way we could possibly be in love because we were just too young. It all came to a head when we decided to run away one weekend for a short road trip without telling them.

I picked her up from work, watching as her dad sat in his truck further down the parking lot waiting for her to come out, and by the time they’d realized what we’d done we were miles away with our phones shut off.

We’d wind up calling them the following morning to let them know we were OK, but we also told them we were going to be gone at least one more night. By the time we returned, we’d decided we would be getting married as soon as we graduated.

None of our parents were thrilled with the decision, but that was the moment they started to realize things weren’t going to be simple. We weren’t going to follow the rules they’d set out without some pushback, and we were going to do things our way.

The next problem we needed to overcome was how to pay whatever bills would be coming once we got married and moved out on our own. I hadn’t exactly been the most responsible young adult, getting fired from Wal-Mart and struggling to find much in the way of work after that, but the thing that seemed to make the most sense, an idea I’d had since September 11, 2001, was for me to join the military.

The biggest decision at that point was to pick a branch. I can’t honestly say I gave it too much thought, but I did briefly look into the big four branches (army, navy, air force and marines), before selecting the United States Army.

After talking to a recruiter and signing some paperwork, I was officially in the delayed entry program, scheduled to head out that summer for basic training. I’d picked field artillery based on the recommendation of my recruiter, and all I needed to do was graduate.

But I couldn’t make things that easy.

One of the big things that helped push me to sign was the promise of a nice signing bonus. I initially thought I’d get the $20,000 up front, before leaving for basic training, and I’d be able to use it to pay for a wedding and to make sure my soon to be wife was set before I went away. It turns out, the government doesn’t like giving away money without some work though, and when I learned the bonus wouldn’t be available until after I completed training and reached my first duty station, I was a bit disappointed.

That fact by itself wouldn’t really have bothered me too much if it weren’t for how much more our parents seemed to clamp down in the following weeks, and I started to get desperate for a way out of the situation we were in.

To add to the stress of parents trying to tear us apart, I also had to deal with family issues that had been plaguing me for years.

In 1999, my mom had suffered major kidney failure, leading to dialysis treatments three times a week. This happened shortly after she gave birth to my sister, and the next few years would be hell as I was forced to grow up and help her when my adopted father went into denial of the situation.

I spent countless hours helping mom cook, clean, and take care of my siblings while also acting as her shoulder to cry on when life seemed to be too overwhelming. Between all of that, I was attempting to be a normal kid through middle and high school and trying to cope with being a punching bag when the man I called my dad was in a bad mood.

It was that latter issue that really pushed me hard as I tried to maintain things leading up to graduation, and it was one night that things got really bad when I decided something needed to change.

My adopted dad had gotten mad at me for something that I can’t even remember now. Seeing the look of fear on my mom’s face, realizing his punches didn’t hurt anymore and knowing I could knock him down if I chose, I took off out the door and down the street. My destination was Alisha’s house, as she only lived a few houses down.

As I calmed down on her porch I made the decision in my mind to find a way to get out of there before graduation. I didn’t know how, but I was going to make it happen.

Within a few weeks, we were both ready for another escape as our parents dug in, and we decided to take a weekend trip to her stepbrother’s house down in southern Ohio. This was another unannounced trip, and I found myself on the phone with my mom as I drove, being told that if I didn’t come home that evening I wasn’t going to be allowed back.

Throwing caution to the wind, I called her bluff and by the middle of the following week I’d dropped out of high school and moved to Portsmouth. Within a couple of weeks, I had a job at a call center and things were looking up.

The only real problem, and one I didn’t give too much thought to, was that dropping out of high school meant no high school diploma. No high school diploma meant I couldn’t leave for basic training and I was, in essence, throwing away my future. As far as I was concerned, though, none of that mattered because I was with the woman I loved and there was nothing standing in our way.

Nothing except her family.

As I later learned, her dad and stepmom conspired with her stepbrother to drive a wedge into our relationship and break us apart. Within a couple weeks, and shortly after I had earned my first paycheck, they were telling us we needed to get out and get a place of our own. That was impossible, given how little I’d made to that point, but they wouldn’t listen to reason.

It wasn’t long before I was being told I wasn’t welcome there, though she was allowed to stay. A call home to mom was the only option following a night where I was told I wasn’t allowed to sleep and I had tears in my tired eyes as I made the 2-hour drive home the following day.

And just like that, the relationship I’d given so much for seemed to be over. I moved back home, re-enrolled in school and graduated on time. The army recruiter called me when he heard I was back in school, but I wasn’t really interested in joining at that point.

I graduated by the skin of my teeth with the help of a lot of amazing teachers, and found work at a gas station by early June. I figured I’d just stay at home, maybe look into a college or something, and eventually figure out what I wanted out of life.

But life doesn’t often follow the plans we make.

My mom (left) in the last picture of her and us kids before she died in 2005. This was taken at my high school graduation party.

The weekend of July 2nd, 3rd and 4th, 2005 sticks out in my mind for several reasons. For one, it was the annual July race at the Daytona Superspeedway. I was really into NASCAR at the time, and that race in particular was one I loved watching every year.

The weekend started on Friday evening, with the family piled into the car watching Red, White and Boom from a spot on the south side of Columbus. My sister, who was 5 at the time, was dealing with a bout of chickenpox, making us all miserable as she cried because she couldn’t get out of the car and play with the other kids.

To this day I can still hear mom’s voice as she scolded her, saying “Just sit down, be quiet and enjoy the fireworks. I really want to see them and it could be my last year to do so.”

That line echoes among whatever else might’ve been said because less than 72 hours later she would be gone.

I don’t really remember a whole lot of detail from the weekend. I know I worked Sunday morning, going in for an early shift after staying up late the night before to watch the race. I vaguely remember lighting some smoke bombs and sparklers with my siblings Sunday afternoon while mom spent time with family who’d gathered for one of her famous 4th of July parties. And I remember being called into work to help with the rush that followed the local fireworks in Grove City.

But things are a bit blurry otherwise.

I wound up working all night Sunday night, hanging out with a co-worker and one of our regular customers who had nothing better to do than relax overnight at a gas station. We had a good time overall, cleaning between bouts of throwing ice at each other in the parking lot and helping the odd customer.

By the time the morning rolled around, I was exhausted, though still ready to work through the day for my normally scheduled shift. But I wouldn’t be working that day.

I was in the restroom shortly after the 6:00 AM shift started. We were already seeing a bit of the morning rush, and the phone had been ringing with people calling to check if we were open as it was a holiday. As I was finishing up, I heard the familiar ring again from out in the store, and while I can’t explain the feeling to this day, something in my mind told me it was for me.

Sure enough, as I came back to the counter, my manager said someone was on the phone and it sounded urgent. I picked it up and heard the sound of my brother’s voice telling me I needed to get home. Something was wrong with mom. She wouldn’t wake up and dad had called the ambulance.

Without a word I dropped the phone, ran in the back to grab my sweatshirt and took off. I nearly ran into the ambulance as I rushed through the narrow streets of our neighborhood, and I waited by the phone at the house for the call I was dreading.

The drive to the hospital was one of the most crushing drives I’ve ever made. My brothers were in the back seat crying, with my sister scolding them for doing so because, “it’s OK, mommy’s gone to be with Jesus.”

We didn’t get there in time to say goodbye in any meaningful way.

She had been gone before the paramedics even arrived. I kept my emotions in check, staying strong for my siblings and putting them ahead of myself as I had done so often, at least until one of my aunts arrived later that evening and asked me if there was anything she could get me.

“Just take me back to yesterday” was all I could say before the tears poured out.

I don’t know how I made it through the following months. There was at least one time I came close to taking my own life, but I held on.

Things with my adopted dad didn’t really get better after that. The emotional toll on both of us was tremendous, and it’s a miracle we didn’t kill each other at times. By the time autumn came around, I was looking for a ray of hope and felt like there was nothing but clouds.

I often found myself wondering what might’ve been if I’d stayed in school, stayed home instead of moving to Portsmouth for that short time and not broken up with Alisha. We were supposed to have been married, and I was originally scheduled to leave for basic training at the end of July. Would I even have been able to make it through something like that?

As thoughts of what could have been flooded through my mind, I made the decision to reach back out to Alisha and see if she would be open to talking. I sent her an email (super romantic, I know) and after a short back and forth we found ourselves going to a movie. By the end of the night we were making out in her car, and within a couple of weeks we were back together and looking for an apartment.

By the beginning of December, we’d moved in together and were trying to navigate adulthood for the first time. We were both working to make ends meet, and making plans for the future we hoped to have. Those plans were never anything set in stone though, and they changed in a dramatic way when we found out in January that we were expecting a baby.

That news came as a rather pleasant shock, considering we weren’t really planning on having kids yet, though we also weren’t trying to avoid it either. Realizing we would be needing more income and a bigger place, I quickly found a new job and within a couple months we were in a new, two-bedroom apartment.

As good as things should have been, I found a way to ruin them.

A large part of the problem was my own mental health. I blamed myself for my mom’s death, feeling like I could have helped if I’d only been there instead of at work. That translated into a fear of being at work while my, now pregnant, girlfriend was home alone. I worried constantly that something would happen, to the point that I called off way more than any responsible employee should have.

Within a few short months, I found myself unemployed and close to falling behind on rent. Not knowing where to turn, and not being in any shape to make good decisions, I decided to reach out to my estranged father.

He and my mom had divorced in 1996 or so, and when my adopted dad came into the picture, us kids were forced to change our names and cut ties with our biological father. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, as he appeared to not even want to be around us, though part of me wonders what would have been had I refused.

It was that part of me that opened the phone book in June of 2006 and searched for his name, knowing it would be a long shot to even find him there. As luck would have it, he’d moved back to Ohio from California a couple years prior, and I found a phone number and address listed right there in black and white.

This was a time before Google Maps was really a thing, and we didn’t really have the internet as it exists today, so I called my grandmother to ask if she might know where the street was. It just so happened she knew exactly where it was, because it was the same street my father’s parents lived on.

After being scolded for wanting to try and reach back out to the man I shared DNA with, I hung up the phone and jumped in the car. My nerves were all over the place as I drove across town, and as I pulled up in front of the house, I felt my stomach churn.

Walking hand-in-hand with Alisha, I somehow made it up to the door and knocked. I didn’t know what I was going to say, or if he’d even recognize me or want to see me, but there was no turning back at that point.

After several minutes with no answer, we made our way back to the car and I was about ready to just give up on the reunion. Had it not been for a twist of fate, I might’ve just gone home and never come back.

As I was getting ready to climb back in the car, another car pulled up at the house next door. The house I recognized as my grandma and grandpa’s house. I’d been there plenty of times as a kid, but I hadn’t bothered to go over because I didn’t know if they even still lived there. I knew my grandma had passed away, and assumed the house had been sold.

I looked back at the car, now sitting just a few feet behind mine, and was shocked to see my grandpa climbing out. He didn’t recognize me at first, but when I walked up and introduced myself he smiled wider than I would’ve thought possible.

The rest of that afternoon wound up being a massive family reunion, with cousins and aunts and uncles all coming over to say hi. The one person I didn’t get to see face to face was the man I’d come to see in the first place. That meeting had to be delayed because he was out of state, though I did get to speak to him on the phone for several emotional minutes.

Over the next few days I would have the chance to see him and have some long discussions. Less than a month later we were living with him and his wife as well as the sister I didn’t even know I had. I thought things couldn’t get much better, but in my experience that’s usually when things come crashing down.

We lived with them for a total of about 6 months. In that time, I got a job as a security guard, working overnight at a steel plant in Columbus, and my first daughter was born in the middle of September. Alisha and I were trying to save up and planned to move into another apartment by the beginning of 2007, but that plan was thwarted when my father pulled me aside and told me we would need to move out in December.

He was moving back to California with his wife and daughter, and the first step in that plan was getting us out of the house. We had barely a week to get out, and it didn’t matter that we had no place local to go.

Packing what we had, we wound up moving to Zanesville and staying for a few months with Alisha’s mom before finally getting back into an apartment of our own. I drifted from job to job, trying to find something that would allow me to pay the bills and provide for my family while still working to process the death of my mother and figure out who I was.

To add to everything that was going on, we welcomed our second daughter into the world in December of 2007. As happy as we were, the financial strain of now having two children had us on the verge of collapse.

When I wasn’t working, Alisha was, and we managed to make it a little over a year in the apartment before things started looking really bad again. I wound up on unemployment, the power had been shut off, and we found ourselves in a really desperate situation by late 2008.

The first plan we came up with was to just run away again. Locking our apartment and leaving the keys as well as most of our stuff, we climbed in the car with our two babies and headed for Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. We were going to find jobs and move down there, thinking the beach was what we needed to be happy.

But you can’t run away from your problems, and we found ourselves limping home barely a week later, having spent what money we had and spending most nights sleeping in the car. Luckily, the door on the apartment hadn’t actually latched, and we were able to get back inside when we arrived home.

My next shot was to try and get a job with a childhood friend of mine in Mount Vernon, though that fell through when our brakes went out as we were driving back from Mount Vernon to Zanesville one afternoon after he said he would put in a good word for me. It took all I had to keep the car on the road and I really thought we were all going to die in a fiery crash.

Desperate, and feeling like we were out of options at that point, I went down to the recruiting station for the army and asked about signing up again. After a trip to the processing station in Columbus to retake the ASVAB and get a medical exam, I found myself with an October 13 ship date.

The process was quick, but in order for it to make any sense at all, Alisha and I would need to get married legally. It wasn’t worth it to go through all of that only to leave her and the kids in Ohio while I was stationed god knows where.

We’d talked about getting married over the years, but I wanted to wait until I was able to give her the actual wedding she deserved. Circumstances being what they were, and with her severe lack of interest in a big ceremony, we wound up tying the knot at the courthouse just three weeks before I was slated to leave for basic training.

Moving out of our apartment and back in with her mom, I prepared mentally to leave and in mid-October of 2008 I climbed on a plane headed for Fort Jackson, South Carolina.

(Comment if you would like to see chapter 2)