American Sniper: The Autobiography of the Most Lethal Sniper in U. S. Military History

D
OWN IN THE
 D
EPTHS
W
ith all this good stuff going on, you’d think I was living a fairy tale
or a perfect life. And maybe I should be.
But real life doesn’t travel in a perfect straight line; it doesn’t
necessarily have that “all lived happily ever after” bit. You have to
work on where you’re going.
And just because I had a great family and an interesting job
didn’t mean things were perfect. I still felt bad about leaving the
SEALs. I still resented my wife for presenting me with what felt like
an ultimatum.
So even though life should have been sweet, for some months
after getting out of the service, it felt like it was plunging down a
mineshaft.
I started drinking a lot, pounding back beers. I’d say I went into
a depression, feeling sorry for myself. Pretty soon drinking was all I
did. After a while, it was hard liquor, and it was all through the day.
I don’t want to make this sound more dramatic than it really is.
Other people have faced more difficult problems. But I was
certainly headed in the wrong direction. I was going downhill and
gathering speed.
Then one night I turned a corner too fast in my truck. Now,
maybe there were extenuating circumstances, maybe the road was
slippery or something else was out of whack. Or maybe that
guardian angel that had saved me back in Ramadi decided to

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intervene.
Whatever. All I know is I totaled my truck and came out without
a scratch.
On my body. My ego was something else again.
The accident woke me up. I’m sorry to say that I needed
something like that to get my head back straight.
I still drink beer, though not nearly to excess.
I think I realize everything I have, and everything I could lose.
And I also understand not just where my responsibilities are but
how to fulfill them.