The Damaged - The Ignition (an excerpt)
If youâd handed me a looking glass when I was a child, maybe I wouldâve seen the future comingâseen how the fractures in my life would widen until they swallowed me whole. But childhood doesnât offer that kind of clarity. I grew up inside a familiar dysfunction, a predictable chaos. It sounds strange, I know, but there was comfort in the consistency. I always knew who would hurt me and how. There were no surprisesâjust a practiced cycle of harm followed by an eerie calm, as if nothing had ever happened.
No one wondered what the blows, the insults, the dismissals did to my spirit. No one paused to think about how their brokenness was poisoning mine. That was life inside the gates of normalized chaos.
And now here I amâsitting in a gray, sterile room on the fifth floor of Balboa Naval Hospital, surrounded by people the Navy has labelled âseverely damaged.â This wasnât the future I dreamed of. I wanted to serve my country, to be the first woman in my family to wear the uniform with pride. I wanted honor. Purpose. A chance to prove myself.
Instead, Iâm hereâbroken, ashamed, stripped of the identity I worked so hard to build. And seven months pregnant on top of it.
I hate that I let my life fold into this. I hate that I allowed myself to be pulled into this circle of haunted strangers. But I didnât have many choices left. It was either die at the hands of my Hospital Corpsman husband or go AWOL and destroy everything Iâd sacrificed to achieve. Neither option offered any real escape. So I landed here, in the one place I never imagined Iâd be.
The damaged among the damaged.
The room is filled with vacant staresâeyes dulled by trauma, by secrets, by ghosts that refuse to let go. I know what it is to be damaged, but sitting here, surrounded by these silent, broken sailors and soldiers, I realize there are levels to this I havenât yet understood. Their stillness unnerves me. I feel guilty, as if my suffering somehow doesnât measure upâthough I know nothing about their stories. Soon, I will. We all will. Weâre required to sit in this battleship-gray room until each of us exposes our deepest wounds.
Iâm a stubborn woman. Iâve survived too much to willingly hand over the pieces of my soul. I donât want to share. I wonât share. The last time I trusted someone with my truth, I ended up here.
The place where the broken are stored.
The place where I now waitâangry, exhausted, and desperate for a way out that may not exist.
I close my eyes, inhaling the cold, antiseptic air.
This is my battlefield now. And Iâm not sure Iâm ready for the war.
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The Damaged by Clarissa Burton, Queen of the Pen is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
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