28AUG04

Entry Date: August 28, 2004
You think I wake up every morning doing combat simulations in full battle rattle with my warface painted on in camoflage and that the pain facades into my duty uniform as I excel in my tasks and drills as an American soldier. You think I am surrounded by peers who are disciplined, seasoned, well-trained, and motivated killers who stand beside me in all that I act in doing. You think I am respected, well-educated by people that want to see me succeed. You think that becuase I've never been to battle that I haven't seen a solider fall out, cry, bleed, or die. Well, you're wrong...I have drenched myself in sweat and sand while waiting for nerve agents to pass through the air while half-suffocating in a gas mask and feeling my skin burn as if someone were melting it off my face and body. I have rolled in feces to be taught a lesson on the proper wear of my uniform. I have pushed myself through every pain that my body could hand to me and performed at one hundred percent or more from day to day learning more than my brian could absorb to better myself, to gain respect, to get that one day of the week that I was allowed, not guarenteed, a little more rest than usual.I have accomplished things I would have never thought to try and things that I have always wanted to do; I have also completed. I have built an internal support system that allows me to function effectively on my own as well as with a team. I am confident, disciplined, educated, and tactical, even though I may look, feel, and seem broken. Don't try to fix me, I am a warrior. I am the heart, soul, and spirit of a soldier and my body is a machine but someone forgot the oil and it is now creating too much friction in areas that now need repair. But a soldier never shows her pain, her fear, the strength she is lacking to obtain. Strongwilled and bullheaded is her nature.

This entry is followed by a poem.

~Living in the Legacy of an Honorable Inspiration~
Written July 17, 2004

Senseless,
thinking about past conversation,
telling him it was spiritual,
telling him it was Godly.

Breathtaking,
living in their legacy,
dressing up in my duty uniform,
dressing myself to serve.

Honorable,
doing what I thought couldn't be done,
told him I admire them,
told him they were my inspiration.

Fulfilling,
walking in the footsteps of history,
living the life of a soldier,
living the legacy many left behind.

Years before I joined the service, a friend of my father and I were talking about Arlington National Cemetary. I told him that I thought that the soldiers who were put to rest in that field were like Gods. They gave their lives so that we could live. Years later while in the service, I got the chance to visit Arlington National Cemetary. It was the only place in Washington D.C. that I absolutely could not leave without visiting. It was breath taking. It was godsmacking. I remember looking at my dogtags several times while walking through the countless graves thinking about the conversation that I had with former Marine, Michael Roth, about Arlington. A couple of years ago, I saw Mike and he told me that he still has the picture that I drew the night that we talked. It was a picture of Arlington.

27JUN04 (2)

Entry Date: June 27, 2004
She writes with pain, tears in her words and a salty wimper in her sigh. She walks without feeling, hiding her fears, sheltering her sadness. She only cries alone, for no one to hear, so no one can see. She is true and real. Strong and fair. Prepared to accept her failure, prepared to accept her demise.

~Self-Inflicted~
Written December 31, 1999

I lie here with iron clasps on my hands and around my feet
chained to my inhibitions, my insecurities, and uncertain deceit.
My body painfully strikes against the shackles, these solid chains,
Tearing bits of my weakening muscles and adding to my physical strain.
I realize all is hopeless, not even I can set myself free,
These tiny impurities snowballed and in effect came back to torment me.
I stop trying to free myself and calm my self-inflicted pain,
The shackles removed themselves in the midst of all my shame.

Before the entry on this page, I wrote the Soldier's Creed. In basic training, which was before I started the Legacy books, we recited the Soldier's Creed every morning without fail. "I am an American Soldier. I am a warrior and a member of a team. I serve the people of the United States and live the army values. I will always place the mission first. I will never accept defeat. I will never leave a fallen comrade. I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior tasks and drills. I always maintain my arms and myself. I am an expert and I am a professional. I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies of the United States of America in close combat. I am a guardian of freedom and of the American way of life. I am an American Soldier." Years after I was discharged, my brother in law joined the service. He went through the initial high of being in the service. He recited the soldier's creed after asking if I remembered it. I did. Though I don't like where our country is headed, this group of words still holds meaning to me and I am sure that it holds meaning to the men and women who continue to serve. Go Army.

27JUN04

Let us start with the very first entry in the very first legacy book followed by a poem from my personal anthology...

Entry Date: June 27, 2004
There is always someone that sticks out in your mind even after a huge lapse of time. The way they smiled, laughed, looked, smelled, and walked. The intelligence that they held, their convictions, and their stubbornness. The way they could always push your buttons or calm you down. The times that they cried your tears and sang you to sleep when you were sick. Sometime ago that was me. The always caring, sharing, empathizing, stubborn, and strong willed girl. I believe that I have always been the scared, masked player on stage acting my role well enough to buy me an award. I'm always the singer on stage with the blues in my gown with all the audience's attention, but the only words they hear are the ones that reflect through the microphone. Always the artist painting beautiful fields of marigolds and daisies yet behind the print the anger, fear, and shame still lie. Always the poet whose words bring truth but never her truth shall rise. Yet never the lover, never the savior, never the mother, or the shrew.

~Painted~
March 7, 2000

You painted up your face, girl,
your rags made into gown
You hid the one thing that really mattered, truth,
and pranced in your glorious crown.

You're only fooling yourself, girl,
you now are as clear as glass,
You've faded your loving tears,
and treated them like their time had passed.

You're beauty is gone, child,
you are foolish and naive,
no one there to claim you,
right through your painted tears they see.

Everyone knows you're fake, girl,
even more so than all the others
You tried to join the shallow elite,
but to them your paint is smothered.

You're trying to win a losing battle, girl,
you can't possibly succeed this time
You've no idea that you've exposed yourself
for you, they wouldn't even give a dime.

Your rose lips and ocean eyes can't help you, girl,
your crown broken into two
You are alone,
it is only you.

You've turned into something you hate, foolish girl,
the snobs at which you used to laugh
You scoffed at them before
but now you're at their mercy on the floor of deceit.

A bit of advice, girl,
you've made your own fate
Lose your gown, silly girl,
and be careful how you use your paint.

The first entry of my legacy book is accompanied by a very detailed pencil drawing.

This drawing later went on to be a tattoo that is on my left shoulder. A friend, Stone, who used to work at Big Stick on Fort Myers Beach helped me mold my pencil drawing into a magnificent tattoo that holds a lot of meaning for me.