I think that I went two years without doing artwork.
It wasn't just a brain injury, it was PTSD.
The two of them worked together to keep me in a state feeling like I was a stranger in my own body and drifting along a timeline that I wasn't quite sure how I arrived at.
Art had always been a big part of my identity, as had music (I was a classical guitarist).
One of the first things I discovered was that I no longer could read music or remember any of the pieces I used to be able to play.
That was after about 6 years of lessons and daily practicing.
The next thing was that the "inspiration" to do artwork was no longer there.
I could sit there and stare at the paper, have a pencil or pen in hand, and nothing would happen: no vision.
But I also was not trying all that hard to create artwork and there was a reason for that as well.
I had made a friend during my first deployment.
We had a rotating schedule of duties, with platoons cycling between weeks of combat patrols and weeks of standing post.
Standing post meant sometimes 12 or more hours straight in often extreme temperatures, with frequent attacks from small arms fire, snipers, and mortars/rocket propelled grenades.
In between post shifts, you might get 6 hours off, during which time it was advisable to eat quickly and go straight to sleep, since it was likely you might get called back to post in the event of an all-hands-to-battlestations call.
I made a habit of sitting in a makeshift "dining room" (a folding table and a box of MRE's) to eat my ration before hitting the cot.
My friend John had the same habit and despite being in a different platoon we shared the same cycle of post rotations, so we ended up sharing a lot of meals together.
It turned out that we were both artists, and we started a tradition of drawing cartoons together with sharpies on scraps of cardboard boxes.
It was a great way to decompress, and it became one of the few highlights of a pretty miserable deployment.
Our platoon sergeants caught on that we both were artists, and decided that they should pit us against each other in a draw-off with each of us making T-shirt designs for the two platoons.
The winner's designs would get used for the platoon T-shirts, and would receive a deluxe boxed art kit with a full array of pens, pencils, paints etc. that someone's mom had sent to the company.
We both made some pretty badass designs, and I was chosen as the winner.
On February 25, 2006 Lance Corporal John Thornton was killed when a mortar landed next to him as he worked filling sand bags during his platoon's off-post rotation.
I never claimed my art kit "prize."
I had no desire to do artwork for years afterwards.
When it came time for me to get a college degree, after I had separated from the military, I had no idea what I might be able to handle with a brain injury affecting my memory.
I decided to just start knocking out general undergraduate requirements.
One of the requirements was in fine arts, and I chose Drawing 1.
The first day of that class got closer and closer, feeling more like an appointment with the gas chamber than an art course.
Finally, the week before the class started, I decided to force myself to sit down with a piece of paper and a pencil, and was not going to let myself get up until I had drawn something.
Not having any idea of what I was drawing, I just let the pencil draw what it wanted, and this sketch was what was there when I finally let myself up.
I don't know what type of flower it is. I think it might be a rose because of the thorns drawing blood through the clenched hand.
Looking back at the image, which I think has since been discarded, it represents for me the way I felt at that time: a crushing weight on my shoulders of a wartime experience I still was far from coming to terms with, and clenching the instrument of my salvation which at the same time was the instrument of my torture.
Yes, opening up and starting to do artwork again was torment, because it meant tapping into emotions and memories that I would have much rather kept locked deep inside and tried to forget about.
I'd say "most" people don't care about this shit.
I've seen the number of likes and shares stories like this get in social media when side by side with gag humor, puppies, half naked women, etc.
It's hard to share these stories but I will keep sharing them, because you know what?
I deserve to share them, the memory of my lost brothers in arms demands that I share them, and there are a lot of people who owe it to themselves as members of the same society that we fought to protect and are now trying to re-integrate into, to know the war is not over for most of us.
We aren't looking for pity, we aren't looking for "thanks."
We are warriors: we smile back at death.
And many of us every day choose to welcome death rather than keep living with the hell of the memories inside of us.
Our rates of divorce, substance abuse, and suicide are astronomical.
What do we want? To be seen, recognized: that is all.
We will not "go gentle into that good night."
As an artist and a writer it is my burden to share my stories because I am the voice of those who can no longer speak, or those who do not have the means to do so.
Let me try to rephrase.
As soldiers/marines who have seen combat and survived the hardest of situations, it is sometimes almost impossible to be "vulnerable" or show "weakness."
Yet, we are cut from the same cloth as any other man.
We need love. We need empathy. We need that feeling of "belonging."
We need to feel as if the efforts of our past are worth discussing and remembering.
We need to cry.
We need to heal.
We need people to understand that the ways in which we behave are because of things that we have experienced, and despite our imperfections be want to be welcomed into social circles, not ostracized.
We don't want to be feared or distrusted.
The same honor and courage that drove us to volunteer our service still abides in us, and we want the chance to be fathers, husbands, respected members of society, and leaders.
Our strength in the service was the man to our left and right: we no longer have that.
We need to rely on you to "have our six."
And in return you will have friends who would fight through hell for you.
https://thefallen.militarytimes.com/marine-lance-cpl-john-j-thornton/1574778
