Logan
FOB near the Spratly Islands
At the nine-week mark we start incorporating strength training.
Which feels like something I should be excited about, but I’m not.
My range of motion is better. I can lift my arm over my head now, but it still feels stiff, unnatural, like my body’s fighting me every step of the way.
Keller says that’s normal. That the muscles are relearning how to work together, how to trust each other again.
Lateral raises. Shoulder presses. Push-ups against the wall.
The first time I tried, my arm shook so bad I thought it’d give out.
I’ve gotten stronger since then. More stable.
More control. But the weakness is still there, lurking just under the surface, waiting for me to push too far.
I hate the imbalance, the way my right side picks up the slack without me even thinking about it.
I can’t compensate forever. If I can’t control the stick properly, I’ll be a liability in the air.
I refuse to be a liability. So I push. Harder than I should some days.
Keller warns me to take it slow, but slow doesn’t get me back in the cockpit.
Slow doesn’t fix the ache in my chest every time I hear a jet overhead.
Some nights, I feel it deep and sharp, a pain that reminds me I’m not healed yet. It keeps me awake, grinding my teeth, jaw clenched tight as I stare at the ceiling, refusing to give in to the doubt that creeps in.
But then there are other nights—nights where the pain is duller, less invasive.
Nights where I catch myself thinking about flying, actually flying, not just getting through rehab.
I think about the maneuvers, the adrenaline, the split-second decisions, and it doesn’t feel as far away as it did a few weeks ago.
I’m getting closer. I feel it in the way my arm responds quicker, the muscles not screaming as loud when I push them. I feel it in the weight I can lift, the angles I can reach. It’s slow, infuriatingly slow, but it’s progress.
The grief counseling is…different. Not easier, exactly, but I don’t dread it as much.
I talk more. Not about everything, but enough to get by.
Enough to let the counselor think I’m cooperating.
I still see Ryan’s face. Still hear Lincoln’s voice.
But the memories don’t twist the knife as deep.
Townsend was right. The nightmares haven’t stopped, but I don’t wake up screaming, soaked in sweat, as frequently as I did.
Work keeps me grounded. I’ve taken on more responsibilities with the ops team now, assisting with mission planning and running training flights in addition to what they already had me doing. It’s mostly busy work, but at least it’s work. At least I’m still useful and kept read in.
Townsend seems relieved to have me around, even if he doesn’t say it. I catch him watching me sometimes, eyes calculating, like he’s measuring how far I’ve come, how much more I have to go.
I wonder the same thing.
I still haven’t reached out to Lila. I almost did last week.
Stared at her number on my phone until the screen went dark.
Didn’t call. Didn’t text. Just sat there.
I tell myself it’s better this way. She deserves more than half a man, broken and pieced back together with nothing but stubbornness and guilt.
She deserves more than this version of me that’s barely holding it together.
But the excuses are starting to sound hollow, even to me.
I miss her. I miss her laugh. I miss her smile. I miss the way she looked at me, like she could see through all my bullshit and still wanted me anyway. I tell myself she’s better off without me. But some days, I’m not sure I believe that anymore.