The shots from the tanks were so loud that my ears were pulsed with waves of deafening loudness in between their ringing. Th amount of sand and dirt it kicked up invaded my mouth as I yelled up to my commanding officer who was seated on top of the tank. He was calling out targets for the rest of us infantry to suppress with rifle fire while the tanks proceeded to level the small village. Even though I had goggles on I kept my eyes squinted because the percussion alone antagonized the reflex to protect my eyes. I saw only glimpses of the targets he indicated and I wondered why he failed to acknowledge that our view from down here behind this wall was obstructed to his own vantage point. "The tanks won't have the ammo!" What? "They don't have the rounds to level it all! We need to sweep and clear!" Oh hell, we are going to have to go through every building and structure which increases the odds one of us, or more, will get hit. I try to clean my goggles and settle for leaving the sand and dirt that rims the frame. I can see well enough to look down the sights of my rifle. I feel confident to hit what I shoot at in this proximity that I don't need a scope with any significant magnification. Being a shoulder isn't what I imagined it would be. Give the tanks more rounds and do it without risking our lives? Being military property is not a glorious feeling. I saw him run into the building. I don't know who he is but if he hasn't fled by now he is almost certainly a combatant. I can feel the sand between my glove and the grip of my rifle. I follow him into the building clearing corners as my heart pounds wildly. That's when I feel a pain in my back. Friendly fire? Who the hell shot me? I wake up.
Oh, it's just my back telling me that 1:00am, less than an hour of sleep, must be a good time to get up and stretch. Really vivid dream. I could feel how tightly I had tied my boots because the sand could be "sloppy" footing. I suppose, in some ways, this is apt to be a dream journal since prison is otherwise fantastically boring. I guess I should also point out I have never been in the military. Feeling the sand between my glove and gun and knowing I would be disassembling my rifle to clean it as soon as we finished clearing the village seems like an odd detail for me to consider in a dream. There were other details too, like the pool outside, which seemed perfect for the climate but probably a nuisance to maintain with all the dust and sand. There was also luggage for travel and electronics in the house where I had expected a much poorer standard of living. Or at least less technologically accustomed lifestyle. It all went by so fast and I was really focused on any movement from corners or crouches. The sand was not pristine like it was in the hourglass dream. It was light brown, tan, and almost copper colored. Very dull, and caked onto everything. It even accumulated in the grooves on the top of my rifle. When a tank would fire it would erupt billowing clouds that would blanket us and all of our equipment, but we felt safest because the tanks would draw their attention away from shooting at us, directly. And people don't want to peek out at a tank and incur the wrong sort of acknowledgment. I saw the physical therapist, Nate, between 2:00pm and 3:00pm. He is going to send me exercises for my elbow and my foot. When I get the paperwork from him I will offer more of an explanation. From the pictures, my explanation would be that I have to realign the fibers of the tendons because they supposedly look more like scrambled eggs. Slow, 4 second release to certain muscle contractions at least twice a week. I just have to create a way to perform the exercises because we aren't allowed medical equipment or access to any sort of medical rec. We can have knitting needles and CPAP machines but not a small handle or heating pad. The hypocrisy of policy demonstrates the priority is to minimize comfort and nothing to do with safety. A simple handle to turn over and let back slowly to "remodel" my tendon. When I talked to the physical therapist he commented that my complaints fit criteria for drug seeking behavior. People who are addicted to opioids often suffer from chronic pain when they stop. For me, I emphasize having exhausted internal medications and my pains are accompanied by some audible verification, so it isn't just some "subjective" claim. Plus, the MRIs show enough to the trained eye.
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aboutThese are the journal entries of Zachariah Anderson. All entries are originally handwritten by Zach and then transcribed on his behalf. Please note that occasional misspellings and grammar errors may be fixed during transcription for the sake of making the entries easier to read and sensitive information may be redacted. Archives
July 2024
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