In the fall of 2006, in Fallujah, Iraq, where I was keeping watch over my platoon with four of my comrades, a bomb landed not even 100 yards from us--and the world I once knew instantly faded into a sea of blackness as the bomb detonated.

When I woke up some time later, I woke up to a world colored with pain. Blinding pain. I found myself lying flat on my back in a hospital bed, IV's hanging above me. When I looked to see if any part of me had been blown off in the blast, dizziness/nausea engulfed me, sending me back into that merciful sea of blackness.

I didn't wake up again until some time later, several days, in fact. A nurse was bending over me, taking my blood pressure, while a male doctor kept shining a bright beam of light directly into my eyes, forcing me to look away. He kept calling my name over and over. I felt confused: I didn't know where on God's green earth I was--oh, I knew I was in a hospital, but where--that was the question. I was in excruciating pain: dizziness and nausea slammed into me like waves. It wasn't long before I begged for some relief from my suffering.

The next thing I felt was the sensation of a needle being pricked into the bend of my elbow, a cold feeling coarsing through my veins--then nothing at all as the room shimmered before me, then faded altogether.

I still didn't know what exactly happened to me. Maybe it was for the best; Lord knows, I certainly wasn't prepared for the devastating news that the doctor was about to tell me.

It turned out that when the bomb exploded in front of us, four of my buddies died instantly, and I was gravely injured. My legs had both been blown clear off in the blast.

No wonder I hurt so fucking bad.

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Not long after this period, time seemed to slow down to a crawl. One day turned out like the others: days blurred into a hazy montage of lengthy hospitalizations, ongoing therapy that about did me in, surgeries, monitors, IV's, and other medical equipment,. I didn't care if I fucking lived or fucking died. I became extremely depressed.

My life as I knew it was over. The life as I knew it prior to going into the military as a carefree young woman who loved life fully was no longer mine. I was now to spend the rest of my days in a hospital (or rehab facility)--or lying in bed or sitting in a wheelchair with two stumps for legs.

I was now rendered a cripple, a g.d. cripple, who would proably end up homeless somewhere, selling pencils or lightbulbs in order to make a living for herself.

Suicide seemed to be the only viable answer at this point in my life.

********************End of Part One.*********************