Tough Love SSgt. Stinson Style

After Toby passed away I heard stories about his time in the service. Fellow soldiers shedding the pain they felt by telling funny stories about the time they spent with my brother. Some of them talking about how they may not have survived deployments without his leadership. That his dedication to his soldiers was bar none. That they never worried while under his command.

I immediately thought back to earlier times in Toby’s service. Phone calls that would take place while he was on duty. We would be chatting about this, that or the other and suddenly profanity would come exploding from the other end of the line.

“What the fuck is wrong with you private? Are you fucking stupid? Are you blind? Please tell me that you didn’t just track mud all over my white fucking floors. My clean, white, shiny fucking floors. They ain’t clean anymore are they private? ARE THEY?”

I would hear some murmurs that were more than likely sad excuses for an explanation because they seemed to just enhance Toby’s dissatisfaction. “What? WHAT? No you cannot take a shower then come back and clean my fucking hallway! Are you out of your ever fucking mind? You will clean my hallway now.”

Then he would lift the receiver back up to his ear and calmly ask me where we were. I would laugh and tell him to play nice with the other soldiers. He would laugh and say that WAS him playing nice. I loved his laugh. A deep, hearty laugh. I always envisioned, even when I thought we had the rest of our lives together to laugh, his head slightly tilting back and his mouth open wide as that laugh entered the world. It was always like I was standing right next to him.

That night in the mess hall they told stories about the tough Toby. The tough commanding officer that demanded the best from every single one of his soldiers. The sergeant that pushed, yelled and smashed out his cigarettes while working to make them better soldiers. Everyday.  The sergeant that stood in front of them and behind them everyday of their service together. Touching stories. Funny stories. Honest, make your family proud stories. Stories that outside of the direct contextual information, provided insight in Toby’s life, insight that we never had before. Toby didn’t talk much about his service. I guess it’s a military thing. Neither one of my grandfather’s ever talked about their service in WWII. I didn’t even know my Grandfather Hlavaty served in the service until the summer before his death. Toby gave us enough details to help us worry as little as possible. Ever the protector of those he loved.

This brings to mind a silly little story that goes back before Toby joined the Army. He had removed the turbulence from his life and was cruising the straight and narrow while looking at a bright future. I was enrolled at the local junior college and had blown my knee out playing volleyball. I was 2-3 days out of surgery and pretty much bed bound. My mother had been keeping an eye on me, but she needed to go to work and Toby was living at home, so he volunteered to check on his pathetic sister. I vaguely remember Toby coming in while I slept and whispering in my ear that he was going for a bike ride, and that he wouldn’t be gone long. I was on some pretty heavy pain meds, so as I nodded OK, I fell back asleep. I would wake an hour or so later to a silent house. I was hungry and thirsty so I grabbed my crutches and hobbled towards the kitchen. When I arrived in front of the refrigerator the tears began to fall. The tragedy? Food and drink galore, but no way to remove them from the fridge. I had to use the crutches, which required both hands. So although I could touch food and see drink, I could not move them. I just lost it. Sobbing uncontrollable wobbling on my crutches. Damn pain pills. Just then the phone rang and I managed to answer it. It was my mother calling to check in from work and I was a crying mess. Thirty seconds later Toby walked in and there I stood crying like a baby and loudly proclaiming that I had no idea why I was crying. His face changed from the exhilarated smile of a great workout to a WTF is going on here face. He walked quickly to my side and I handed him the phone. He assured my mother that he would take care of me and hung up the phone. He put his arm around me and gently guided me back to my bedroom wiping tears from my face. “You’re OK sister, I’m home and I’m going to take care of you.” He was so genuinely concerned and upset that I had woken up before he returned. He put me back in bed, made sure I was comfortable and said, “Want to watch a movie sister? I’ll make us a couple sandwiches and sit in bed with you and we’ll watch a movie. Ok?” He did. He sat there eating a sandwich and stroking my head until I feel back to sleep.

He was so tender and caring. I often see him in my mind with an arm around one of his soldiers, convincing them too that everything would be alright. I doubt he stroked anyone’s hair, he probably never actually put an arm around anyone, but his sentiment would have been the same. It’s that core care-taker characteristic that endeared him to his soldiers. No matter the language or volume, they all knew he cared. They all echoed the truth behind the words that he spoke, SSgt. Stinson cared. He cared for every single soldier he served with, like he cared for me that day in Arizona. In his own way, for 10 years, he made sandwiches and watched movies with his men and women until they felt safe.

The Day.

It’s interesting, really, how I became a writer. And even more interesting how writing would play such a major role in grieving Toby’s death. I’m educated as a designer. I have a BFA in Graphic Design and an MFA in Advertising Design. In all those years of schooling I think I took one writing class. So when I went to interview at Erwin Penland in October of 2009, I never imagined being a writer. I was applying for a Senior Design position in the their studio. I had my book, cover letter, resume neatly organized. New pants and shoes, I was ready to nail this interview. Long story short, the Creative Director interviewing me sat across the table and within minutes announced that I should be a writer. Huh? There was denial on my part, persistence on his, and 45 minutes later I walked out a Junior Copywriter. Walk in hoping to be a Sr. Designer, walk out a Jr. Copywriter. Who the hell does that happen too? A blessing I wouldn’t realize for about a year.

After Toby died my mind flooded with words. It was as if all my thoughts were constructed to be written. So I started writing. I kept a journal in my bag. I have a voice recording app on my phone. Words just raced out of my mind and onto paper, and it made me feel better. So I kept writing.

THE DAY.
My twin brother sat in his car, quiet. Silence everywhere except inside his head. I was 3000 miles away living loudly. Drinks with friends, laughter and tears of joy. I don’t know if he cried, but if so, they were tears of a sadness that I could never comprehend. As he raised the gun to his head, I said cheers surrounded by smiling friends and hot pizza. I wouldn’t know that he pulled the trigger for another 18 hours.

Two men dressed in their Class A’s got out of their car and slowly walked to my parents front door. My mothers was unaware of their presence, my father was out running errands. They knocked for what must have been a lifetime for them. My mom thought it was the usual Saturday morning visit from the Jehovah’s Witness, but if only. When she finally opened the door she said very little. “You’re here about my son.” They quietly replied “Yes ma’am.” I imagine the tone of her voice changing. I see the color leave her face, I see the mens eyes fall to the floor. “But he’s in Alaska, he’s home from Afghanistan.” Once again a piercing “Yes Ma’am” slipped from their lips and stabbed her in the heart.

By the time my older brother arrived at the house, my father was ghostly white. My mothers face was soaked in tears and two men sat stiff in their dress uniforms. He had been at his daughters soccer game down the street from my parents house. My mother called and told to come now. He immediately knew something terrible was wrong. He rushed to my parents house. With each step from his car to the door he was trying to figure out what was going on. First, he saw Louie the dog, he was fine. Then he entered the house and saw my father, visual torn apart and broken. He saw my mother, and unlike me, he knew it was Toby. It would then become his job to hold up our family.

The conversation quickly turned to me. I was 2000 miles away rushing through the house preparing to go to the last Blue Ridge Roller Girls bout of 2010. I was 5 minutes from walking out the door when the phone range.

It’s not normal for my mother to call during the day on a Saturday. As a hairdresser, Saturdays are generally her busier days. A daytime phone call on Wednesday would not be as suspicious. She often calls when she’s spotted a great sale, or stumbled across something she thinks I might need. But not on a Saturday at 2 PM. Her voice let me know immediately that something was wrong. My first thought was that something had happened to my father. “What’s wrong with Daddy?” I asked. Her voice was slow and painful to listen to, “it’s not your father.” It was easy to tell that she had been crying. “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?” I asked. Much like my mother, I thought Toby was safe. He was home. He was not at war. So he never entered my mind.

“It’s Toby.” What must it have been like to call me? To be a loving mother wrecked by the tragic loss of her son, now forced to call his twin sister and deliver the crushing news. “What’s wrong with him?” My voice has now changed. There was concern in my voice before. But now my heart is pounding. Racing. I’m already leaning back against the front door for support. “He’s dead,” she whispered. I collapsed and screamed in one uncontrolled move. I couldn’t even hear myself screaming. Ten feet away from my mother sat my older brother Tracy who head every scream on the other end of the line. Before I knew what was happening I had fallen to the floor and jammed my head into a corner and began to weep loudly and uncontrollably. “He killed himself last night” my mother tearfully cried.

“NO. NO HE DIDN’T. MY BROTHER WOULDN’T DO THAT. HE WOULDN’T. THIS IS NOT TRUE. YOU STOP. YOU STOP SAYING THAT.” I know I continued to scream, but I have no idea what I said. My six-foot tall frame took up a meager square of space in the doorway, head first into a corner surrounded by hanging jackets and bags. The world around my was suddenly not mine any longer. I shook uncontrollably, tears raced down my cheeks and I just screamed. Kelly would later meekly tell me that I had repeatedly called my mother a liar. That over and over while my mother cried I called her a liar.

My mother asked to talk to Kelly, my partner of 8+ years. I had become so unglued that I couldn’t hear her. I handed the phone to Kelly and went outside on the porch to smoke. I couldn’t smoke. I was crying and shaking so much that I literally couldn’t inhale. I paced back and forth across the porch shaking my head and chanting, “it’s not true.” But it was.

Ninjabread takes on a new direction…

It’s been awhile since I posted here. The funny stories have been few and far between. And when they come into my life, I’m generally too tired to document and share them. But I have been writing. Writing about Toby and his death. Writing about the turbulent life I have lived since Nov. 6th, 2010 when I found out he was dead. Writing about anger, sadness and even joy. I’ve been keeping these pieces secret from most of the people in my life. Collecting them on my computer thinking that one day I will share them with the world. Today, I would like to start sharing them one by one, as I feel comfortable. Some are harder to read, raw, while others are reflective and hopefully thought provoking. These will be posted in no particular order, but only as I feel willing to share them. Here we go.

 

Twins

We were cute kids, Toby and I. Little toe-head babies blazing through life together. I hear so many stories that just convince me that we were meant to be an pair. We did more than share a womb. It’s difficult to explain, and outsiders don’t get it. Twins get it. Twins who face a long future without their ‘other half’ really get it. We weren’t born alone, as the saying goes, and I’m not ready to accept that Toby died alone. I am torn daily between the reality that Toby is gone and a distinct feeling that he isn’t. One minute I’m alone and the next I am not. Or visa versa. As grateful as I am for the moments when I know he is with me, the loneliness when he isn’t with me, is at times unbearable. Dark, sick feelings metabolizing in a hole deep inside me that opened the moment I heard of his death. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We are a pair. Twins.

I get angry when my friends try to advise me about my future. I could be throwing myself a little pitty-party here, but fuck you. You can’t possibly fathom the pain in my heart. The sheer exhaustion that cripples me daily. Did you watch your parents bury their son? Did he serve bravely in the United States military and get ripped away from your family as a cost of war? Did you watch your father collapse for the first time in your 33 year existence? Did he sob as you supported him, and ask you “how are you going to survive this, you’re twins?” Did you place your own hand on your brothers chest draped in medals and army green for the first time at his fucking funeral? DID YOU? Should I go on? No. And neither should those who presume to understand my relationship with and loss of, Toby.

I’m not adverse to kind thoughts and gentle nudging. We all need that. I wouldn’t even mind a swift kick in the ass if I was really fucking up. If I become alcoholic, drug addicted, homeless, or suicidal… PLEASE HELP ME. Whatever it takes. But I’m not. I ended a 9 year relationship about 7 months after Toby passed away. And the advice that has been trickling in, the judgements and assumptions, infuriate me. Some people know one side of the story. Some know parts of two stories. Some know what I’ve said. Some have never bothered to ask me, just assume that I’m reeling out of control after Toby’s death. Here’s the deal folks, my brother is dead. Shockingly my life will never be the same. That doesn’t mean that I’m crazy, fucked up, throwing my life away or anything of the sort. Yes, I have new goals. Yes, I am looking for true idyllic happiness. Yes, I ended my relationship and hurt my partner. Yes, I believe that was the best decision for myself and I will stand by that decision. No, I am not an asshole. No, my brother is not to blame for the end of my relationship. No, you don’t know the whole story. And odds are, you never will. Because you don’t ask. You assume, judge and sentence me. Guess what? Fuck you.

Here’s some advice for those around me who don’t get it. Toby was half of me, no matter what you say. You are not a twin. You’re twin did not commit suicide after bravely serving his country. You don’t have to live the rest of your life with immense and unexplainable sense of loss that I do. Do not tell me that Toby would not want me to sacrifice parts of my life to accomplish new goals. Because what you see as a sacrifice, I see as a calling. A sign. A path I have sought for decades and that my brother has passed on to me. And just because you don’t get it, doesn’t mean I’m crazy. Don’t assume that you know what I am going through. Stop telling me to figure my life out and get back to you. I’m clearer now about my life, my desires, my needs and my direction than I have been in years. Take a single step back from the unpopular decision I’ve made and look at me. See me. Look at my entire life, not a pigeonholed moment. The smile is real. The tears are too. My hope is genuine. And you are missing it.

Six Months.

It’s been six months since my twin brother succumbed to the terrors of PTSD and took his own life. Time has become a whirlwind of unpredictable emotions, struggles, victories, pain and tears. But note, please, that there have been victories. In the wake of the single most devastating loss of my life, we have achieved victories. Toby was unable to fend off the pressures of PTSD because he chose to place his soldiers before himself. He thought he could handle the nightmares associated with his three tours in the Middle East, and dedicated his energy to helping the men and women who served along side him. He seemed incapable of placing himself before the needs of his military ‘family.’

In mourning his loss we contacted Karen Archipley of Archi’s Acres in hopes of directing donations to their amazing cause. A simple request for their mailing address was transformed into a memorial scholarship dedicated to helping soldiers and veterans. Karen and Colin of Archi’s Acres are a blessing to every man and woman seeking a new path in their post-military lives. In the weeks that followed my brothers death, this scholarship quickly collected over $5000 from family, friends and generous Americans. The victory is not the dollar amount. The victory is providing hope and success to veterans and soldiers. In January 2011 Archi’s Acres granted the first SSgt. Toby Stinson Scholarship. We’ve helped one, who helped us all, time to reach out to the rest.

Visit Archi’s Acres website and learn more about their efforts to aid in veterans successful re-integration to society, while bettering the community around them. Share what you learn with your friends and families. And if you’ve got a few extra bucks, please consider donating to the SSgt. Toby Stinson VSAT Scholarship. Meet Karen on Facebook to follow the latest news. Below you will find several links to articles applauding Karen and Colin’s efforts. God Bless America.

http://www.operation-transition.com/employment-info/back-to-the-land

http://www.rosebudmag.com/hydroponic-gardening/archi-acres-commercial-hydroponics-operation

http://seedstock.com/2011/04/15/archis-acres-veterans-sustainable-agriculture/

Lunchtime Blitz Attack

I have an unwarranted fear of bees and wasps. I have been stung a few times, but I’m not allergic. But for whatever reason, this irrational fear remains. I have tried talking to bees on the porch. I have tried to listen to people who say, “if you don’t bother it, it won’t bother you.” Nothing. Still scared shitless.

Today I went home for lunch. I like to leave the windows cracked so it doesn’t get too hot in the car while I’m inside. Today I absent-mindedly left half a can of Mt. Dew in the console. Windows cracked + Mt. Dew = bad moments ahead for Mandy. After lunch I closed up the house and got in my car without a second thought. I grabbed the soda and took as swig. I started rolling down the driveway when a GIANT wasp came out of nowhere. It seemed to just hover next to my head waiting for me to notice. Then I noticed.

“SHIT.” I put the car in park and dove out slamming the door behind me. I danced around the car swinging and swatting at my head. I have no idea what the neighbors must be thinking. I composed myself. The wasp was resting calmly on the dashboard enjoying the radio, “…put it down, put it down on me. Come on baby put it down on me…” Little bastard. I quickly formulated my plan of attack. I crept towards my car, bent in half to avoid being seen. I opened the door slowly with my eyes glued on the wasp. I began to roll the windows all the way down. I was distracted by my thoughts, “I’ll just wait. It will leave. If not I’ll empty an entire canister of wasp spray on that fuc..” “EEEEKK!” The wasp turned and attacked again. It harnessed ferocious speed not likely displayed by any other wasp on earth. One again I retreated to my standard flailing and gyrating. I took my hoodie off and began violently whipping at the air. Pawing at my head and looking around for the wasp. But it was gone.

I doubt I killed it. It seemed to be a super species of wasps determined to wipe out the human race. But I survived and rewarded myself with cupcakes. As I walked into the office I realized that I looked like I had just survived a wrestling match with a grizzly bear. My hair was going 50 different directions, my eyes a little beady and still panicked looking, an uneasy smile on my face and a fistful of cupcakes.

Looks Can Be Deceiving.

Some things in life are never what they seem. And some things are exactly what they seem. But lately I’ve realized that many, many things take on new meanings as we traverse life. What once was a ‘trophy for my hand’ has more recently become a symbol of much more than a Volleyball State Championship.

When my team and I ordered these rings, we were celebrating our second consecutive SC State Volleyball Championship. As the coach, I ordered the glitziest ring available, explaining that this was not just a ring. It was a symbol of success, dedication and hard work paying off.

I wore this ring daily for years, even after I left the school and no longer coached. Why? Not because it’s shiny gaudy exterior garnered stares from strangers or questions that resulted in bragging about my accomplishments. No. I wore this ring as a symbol of unexpected success. I wore it to represent the sheer joy I experienced as the coach of a group of tremendous young ladies determined to reach a goal that they had set for themselves. I wore it to remember to always keep pushing and to keep the idea of unexpected successes at the top of my mind.

Years later I would give this ring to my twin brother Toby. We sat on the back porch of his TX home, smoking a few cigarettes and knocking back a few beers for our 30th birthday. We were talking about life, sharing our struggles and looking to each other for support and guidance. Toby was having trouble with his first civilian job in 8 years. Having recently left the rigid structure of the military, the loosy-goosy civilian world was not his cup of tea. As he talked about his worries, I just handed him the ring. There was a deafening moment of silence as he looked at me. “This is your championship ring.”

I wanted Toby to have it. I knew what it stood for in my life, something that he was looking for. The understanding that even when we feel like we aren’t doing anything, we aren’t accomplishing what we want… we will. What is just beyond your grasp eventually ends up in your hands if you just keep reaching. He took the ring and kept it safe for 3 years.

Periodically I would ask Toby if he was taking care of the ring. He would always reassure me that it was in a special place, and when he thought I needed it, he would give it back. Recently, after Toby passed away, I got the ring back. As Toby’s wife came down the stairs clutching the ring tightly in her hand, I experienced deeply conflicted feelings. I wanted the ring, but this was not how I was supposed to get the ring back. I had always imagined another moment like the one in TX, except I would get handed the ring with words of encouragement from my biggest fan, my twin brother. But this is not how life played out, and the conflicted feelings would last for some time. Two months later it would hit me like a ton of bricks. Toby told me he would return the ring when he thought I needed it…. and I could never need this ring, and everything that it represents, more than I do now.

First Official ‘SNARK’ meeting is called to order!

Yesterday KT called the first official Snark meeting. I walked out of my office and pulled up a chair at the conference table (or dining room table, whatever). I set out my phone, notepad and pen then looked her in the eye and thanked her for inviting me. She looked puzzled, but I continued to present myself with the utmost professionalism. It didn’t take me long to notice a few extra bodies in the meeting that I wasn’t expecting. KT had also invited our Office Manager, Molly, and our Executive Assistant, Madeline, to the meeting. Good thing I was wearing my best sweat pants. I was momentarily uncomfortable when the Executive Assistant hopped into my lap, but calmed down when I realized she only wanted her ears scratched. Molly, the Office Manager, made me nervous as she paced around the conference table. As the meeting continued she took to slapping me and clawing at my legs. It was hard to concentrate on the meetings agenda with her shenanigans, so I tossed her favorite stuffed moose across the hall to distract her.

The rest of the meeting went as scheduled. We laid out our plan of attack for the new website, buckle designs and got to work on Snark! I must admit that KT and I really pull most of the weight in this venture, but Madeline and Molly provide a unique value… cuteness.

Check out all of our hard work and creativity at http://www.theinspiredelements.com.

Or just start shopping at http://www.theinspiredelements.bigcartel.com/category/snark

BAD IDEA

http://www.welovewodka.com/drink.php?id=2

Good for a few giggles, but I’ll stick to vodka that comes in a glass bottle and fetches the lowest price at Cosco.

Twin Tribute Two

I’m going to write my twin brothers obituary. Never in a thousand years did I expect to say that. But fighting back tears I say it with overwhelming pride for the life my brother lived. He never had it easy. He was a true warrior his entire life. From self-imposed battles to wars waged on foreign soils, he fought. He fought hard. He never backed down, he never quit and he always won.

For the last 10 years of his life he has dedicated his every breath to defending the freedoms of every American. After he returned from his third deployment to the Middle East, I wrote ‘Twin Tribute’ to express my gratitude for the service that my brother and so many men and women provide. My twin brother, SSG Toby John Stinson, served his country with honor and brought home the horrors of war tightly wrapped inside him. Tightly packaged inside the darkest part of him, visions I cannot imagine plagued him, tortured him and in the end stole him from us. On Nov. 5th, 2010, just 14 days ago, my twin brother took his own life.

This was his only way to silence the voices of a war he left in February, but knew he was destined to return to. I lost my twin brother to the past, present and future horrors of war. As was his last request, Toby will be laid to rest alongside the thousands of American heroes that have passed before him. He will rejoin soldiers he saluted, soldiers that saluted him and take his rightful place, forever, as an American hero.

November 29, 2010 will undoubtedly be the most difficult day I have ever faced. But Toby’s internment in Arlington National Cemetery will be a magnificent tribute to his service blessed by the many tears shed by all of us who loved him so much. Rest now brother, rest in peace.

Sports in the Southern United States

Enough Said.