My Funeral: Let Whatever Pain Caused By My Loss Not Whitewash My Life

By the time I was eight or nine, the vision was refined. While other children pondered their future success, I ponder my inevitable and desired demise. The internal debate of a God loomed large in my mind. If God did exist, and I had been righteous enough to enter Heaven, I hoped only I might reside outside those pearly gates long enough to watch my own funeral. I wanted to remain human long enough to revel in the pain bestowed upon my own parents. I wanted to be vindicated for the indignation of my own life. I wanted, if only for a moment, for them to feel the pain they inflicted upon me. To know my life held so little value it had been taken by my own hand or reckless actions. I wanted God to exist if only for this moment of revelry. 

The fruition of my vision was detoured only by the obvious collateral damage and the pain suffered by those who cared. Those left in confusion, oblivious to the cruelties of my flawed and tormented parents. 

I then became consumed with the notion of sacrifice. To give my worthless life a purpose. To become a fallen soldier in a foreign land. To become but a single name etched into stone among the many on an all-but-forgotten memorial. I wanted to become the tip of the spear. I wanted to be lost in the pain and suffering of the world. To the world, my every action justified by the experience of war, not the torment of a shrouded childhood. My indignation veiled in a soldier’s sacrifice. To those who cared, my loss would be understood. My loss could have meaning. War could become everything I needed it to be, except vindication, though it could become spite. 

War became the sacrifice of others, despite my greatest intentions to take their place. War does not oblige to the visions of the youthful. The sacrifice of others became a driving sense of guilt and purpose to live. War created a purpose I thought was unobtainable. The fruition of my funeral passed me by yet again, though its vision never subsided. 

War is where I went to die and found the will to live. The visions were no longer desires but an accepted inescapable reality. They were without a clear purpose in the civilian world. They sought some meaningful end. They fought for an unobtainable balance. They wanted so desperately to help others but mean nothing to anyone. I wanted a life of purpose and significance, but to be insignificant. I envisioned an all-but-empty funeral for a life of secrets. I wanted my actions to mean everything to others while I meant nothing to them.

 As a police officer, my vision is convoluted. This world glorifies those who serve and sacrifice. They praise those who swear an oath. They glorify their every action of selfless service. The blue line unites simply by one’s association. This world praises, as it should, those who sacrifice. This world keeps so few secrets. Despite my life’s intentions, I cannot simply become a name etched on an all-but-forgotten memorial. I cannot simply become a star on a wall without a name. My sacrifice would come with great praise and ceremony. Others would come from far and wide. They would come bearing different uniforms and badges. Having never even brushed my shoulder, they would be there. The blue line is enough to unite.

My vision now is that of an agnostic. I would likely never witness my own sacrifice. What is left is for others to manipulate and interpret. My every secret, these words, and every concealed accomplishment exposed.  All I desire is for the world to look upon me in full–that they juxtapose every accomplishment with every failure. My desire is I die in great secrecy. I want so desperately to die in anonymity, to have sacrificed without notice. Despite my greatest desires, I can only hope that I might die in honesty. That for whatever pain my loss might bring the world not whitewash my life. 

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Jake Smith is a law enforcement officer and former Army Ranger with four deployments to Afghanistan.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.