I was on a photo site and I responded to a request: show me your hats.

I pulled on my beret, and snapped a photo. This is mine.

And it is still mine. When I think about those days, bad as they were, hurt and confused and over-medicated as I was, I realize that it was the only place I fit, the only thing I've ever been good at.

When they pulled down my targets, and all the little holes were dead center, and my score was listed as sharpshooter or expert, I finally felt like there was one thing on God's green earth I could do well.

God help me, I feel like joining back up.

I would never pass a physical. I'm too injured, and admitting that makes me hate myself.

I feel like I was thrown out of (forgive me for the stupidity, but it's the only thing that fits) my destiny.

I feel like something in the time line went wrong, and I'm in some alternate universe where I have no purpose.

No one at my job wants me there. Since we're shorthanded and you may be closing alone, you'll have to multitask now, okay?

You're not going to keep me here all night since you're taking care of the money, are you? I know you want to be careful, but...

I know you try to provide customer service, but...

And I don't even feel like a mother. I'm never here. I feel like I'm her damned sister or something, since my mother is always the one taking care of her. She tried to tell me what I could and couldn't do with my own daughter. I'm so messed up in the head over that, so depressed over missing almost her whole first year, that I feel like I should just give her up and run away.

I feel like I should cut my life loose and go look for meaning.

I love my daughter. I care for my family, even though I'm not sure I can love my parents anymore, since I don't know whether they love me or not.

But I don't fit here. I don't fit anywhere.

I'm supposed to be crawling through the dirt with a rifle in my arm and ammunition overhead.

I'm supposed to be marching, carrying ninety pounds on my back and feeling my pelvis crack as I focus to put one foot in front of the other.

I'm supposed to be putting the bullets through the little hole, one after the other.

And when a guy takes a look at a girl like me, one with short hair and bitten nails and no make-up, no dresses, no skirts, no giggles, he runs the other way.

And I don't want one anyway, even if they could understand.

I want to be alone. I want to be somewhere else. I want to be someone else.

I want my life back.