Okay, I'm confused. I admit it, hence the journal. Daniel suggested that I try writing things down. Said it might help me see things better. I'm not so sure, but he has this nasty habit of being right about such things . . . that and getting killed. And he knows that's not allowed anymore. His being mostly dead has been disapproved in triplicate and I told him not to resubmit for thirty days for final disapproval. Kinda like him going to Atlantis! No! Nada! Nyet! Nein! Negative! Not even ever. He got me into this, he's gotta stay here and help me . . . translate stuff.
I'm sorta getting used to it by now. I mean I think that I've been confused since the get-go here at SGC. The concept of the Stargate kinda just hit me that way.
I mean, I'm a pilot, special forces and an amateur astronomer. I look at the stars all the time, but then ten years ago, all of a sudden they took on new meaning for me. When I was a little boy back at Granddad's cabin in Minnesota on those calm star filled nights, I used to dream about the stars. I mean I grew up watching Star Trek, Lost in Space, Flash Gordon. I wanted to go to the stars. Then, with the Apollo program, we actually made it up into space. I thought it was so great. I thought that I, Jack O'Neill, might one day set foot on another planet. How cool is that anyway?"
So, when I grew up, I joined the United States Air Force. I was gonna be an astronaut. Only thing was, I didn't get to . . . be one I mean. I was in the Air Force, but someone decided that I was too tall, too skinny, too stupid to be one. Oh, yeah, I could be a pilot, but no space capsule for me. First it was the F-4, then the F- 15. Okay, I could deal. I'm a pilot. I'll pile it here and I'll pile it there.
Then, the assignment changed. They found out something else I was good at. I was good at survival. Hey, I spent my summers in the woods camping, hunting and fishing. I could be dropped in the middle of nowhere and find a missing guy. Then I could get him out safely. That was cool, too. Jack, the hero.
But once again, things changed. If I could survive that meant that I could do things while I was out there. I could sneak up on the bad guys and, well, take care of . . . business, if you know what I mean. I didn't like it, but I could do it in a pinch, if I had to. I was good at that too, so I got sent to a lot of places where I had to. Enter Jack, the go-to-guy.
That's when it all started to change. I was too good. I did it right the first time. I proved that by surviving and taking care of business. I pulled out downed pilots, I rescued lost air crews, I extracted captured personnel. I did my job and I did it well. But the strain began to show on me and it began to tell on my marriage and family. Now, it was Jack-the-SOB
Sarah was good as gold. She knew that she couldn't ask and I couldn't tell what I was doing when I was away. But Charlie, well, he didn't always understand why Daddy couldn't always be home for his baseball games. How come he spent too many Christmases' waiting up for Santa AND his father? Why he was alone on his birthdays? It was rough on the little guy, and we suffered for it. Then, one day he got mad and we had a fight. I don't know why he picked up that gun . . . I'll never know why. I just hope and pray to God that it wasn't because of me, cause if it was . . . well, you know.
That was the final blow to Sarah and me. It tore what was left of me into a thousand little pieces and not my wife, my parents, my priest, or my US Air Force issue shrink couldn't put Humpty Jack back together again.
So, they discharged me with a Section 8 . . . for reasons of mental, psychiatric deficiencies. I lost the stars and the sky just like I'd lost my future. I put the telescope away and started looking down the barrel of a gun instead. It was only a matter of time and enough beer.
Then one dark and dismal day, oh the sun was shining but all my days were dark and dismal by that time, here comes two GI Joes with orders in hand. I'd been recalled. So, here we go again, I thought. They gave me the perfect opportunity, death by Air Force.
So, I threw away the bottle, packed up the pistol, cut my hair, dug out the uniform and it was Colonel Jack fucked up O'Neill reporting as ordered Sir! Yes, Sir! Why? I don't know but I won't ask, cause I really just don't care.
I show up at Cheyenne Mountain and I head down into the labyrinth of corridors and offices of NORAD. I go see General West and the ride begins. First order of the day, go break some scientist's heart by taking away her big hula hoop. Okay, at least I don't have to shoot her.
Then, I get a look at the genius she's just hired. If you had looked up the word Geek in the dictionary, Daniel Jackson's picture would have been right next to it. Oh, I don't mean the circus kind of geek, I mean the other kind. The good kind of geek, a kind of a nerd. At least that was his appearance. I mean how was I to know that beneath that thatch of stringy hair, coke-bottle glasses and his rather befuddled expression beat the heart of a lion and the brains of an Einstein. But I, like a whole bunch of other people (specifically West's tame nerds already in attendance) were fooled completely. Two weeks later we were watching the Stargate explode into a horizontal active volcano of an energy flux wormhole. I mean, how cool is that? Space capsule, hell, just walk through the wormhole and follow the yellow brick road. All the planets you could want and trees, lots and lots of trees, for crying out loud. Who knew?
So, you are all looking at me saying, and, so, thus, why am I confused now?
Well, crap, man. Just look at me will ya? What the hell am I doing here now? Do you notice any jet planes? Or people to rescue or bad guys to get rid of? No! No, you don't. Okay, there is an odd space ship around here somewhere. But, I am the one who is amazed, bewildered and befuddled. I'm a freaking General for crying out loud. I know, I know. The President did it. Why, I haven't a clue, but he did it.
Oh, good old George still calls to check up on me. I know I've got the best of the best working for me. Hell, I've got two of the smartest people in the whole world working for me. I've got Samantha-never been wrong in her whole life national treasure-Carter working for me; not to mention the previously discussed Daniel-hot damn amazing intergalactic hero-Jackson in the wings too. Oh, and of course we can't forget the Head of the Jaffa resistance movement alien Caped Crusader slash Avenger Teal'c a.k.a. Murray watching my six.
So, I'm not an astronaut. Not much of a pilot any more either. But I don't have to do as many damned distasteful things and my soul is now out of hock and mostly reconstituted, thanks to my scientist, my genius and my brother-in-arms.
But me, I'm just downright amazed. Don't know what's on my plate each day until I sit down to dinner. I've got a Gould in the cellar, aliens in the hallways and stars on my shoulders. How did this happen? I haven't a clue.
Confused Colonel er, General, Whatever!