It's been days. And I feel like an invisible weight has been lifted.
It's been weeks. And I feel so rested its unreal.
It's been months. And I couldn't be happier.
It's been days since Chris has crossed my mind. Days since I've wondered how he's been, what he's doing. It's been weeks since I've woken in the night from dreaming of him. Weeks since the fitful sleep has been replaced by the restful. It's been months since I walked away and gave up. Months since I made the single best decision I've ever made in my life.
Victory can be so very, very sweet...
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Parental Guidance
I've never wanted children. As a child, I wanted to play with Tonka Trucks in the sandbox, more than I wanted to play with dolls, and I was taking Martial Arts Training when a lot of my girlfriends were taking Babysitting Courses. From an early age I knew I wasn't going to be a mother, much to my own mother's chagrin.
Yet, here I find myself, in the Shit Hole at nearly twenty-seven years-old, with a nearly twenty year-old son.
My Problem Private. He's mouthy. He's insubordinate. He's disrespectful. He has no regard for rank or regulation. He has caused me nothing but headaches since he fell under my charge. And yet I find myself trying to guide him onto the straight and narrow, shielding him from harm, while still wanting to beat his ass. I finally know how my mother felt when I was in high school and became her Problem Child. I never gave her enough credit.
I am a firm believer that it is Nurture, not Nature, that shapes an individual. You are what you are taught to be -- or what you make yourself into. Having been spawned from a bad apple doesn't necessarily determine a rotten offspring. It is with this mindset that I know some people should have never tried their hand at parenting.
And thus I blame Problem Private's mother... for where else could he have learned such disdain for authority, than from the woman who introduced him to the world through experiences tainted with jail stints and crystal meth? Where else could he have learned to distrust, than from the woman who washed her hands of him when he was small, with lies as to where she was, and why she wasn't taking him home? Certainly not from the preacher who opened his home to his daughter's son and raised him to a man, but instead from the woman who was too much a child herself to raise her own son.
I could pity him. I could despise him. I could count him off as worthless, like so many others have done. Instead, I push him to be better, nag him into doing more, and corner him into doing what's right. Am I pushing him too hard? Not hard enough? And how do I not feel the sting when he looks at me with eyes full of unresolved hate, frustration, and teen-aged angst?
I never wanted children. And yet, here I find myself in the Shit Hole at nearly twenty-seven years old, being the closest thing to a mother my Problem Private has ever known -- and he thinks I'm just as stupid as I thought my parents were once upon a time. I guess life has come full-circle after all...
Yet, here I find myself, in the Shit Hole at nearly twenty-seven years-old, with a nearly twenty year-old son.
My Problem Private. He's mouthy. He's insubordinate. He's disrespectful. He has no regard for rank or regulation. He has caused me nothing but headaches since he fell under my charge. And yet I find myself trying to guide him onto the straight and narrow, shielding him from harm, while still wanting to beat his ass. I finally know how my mother felt when I was in high school and became her Problem Child. I never gave her enough credit.
I am a firm believer that it is Nurture, not Nature, that shapes an individual. You are what you are taught to be -- or what you make yourself into. Having been spawned from a bad apple doesn't necessarily determine a rotten offspring. It is with this mindset that I know some people should have never tried their hand at parenting.
And thus I blame Problem Private's mother... for where else could he have learned such disdain for authority, than from the woman who introduced him to the world through experiences tainted with jail stints and crystal meth? Where else could he have learned to distrust, than from the woman who washed her hands of him when he was small, with lies as to where she was, and why she wasn't taking him home? Certainly not from the preacher who opened his home to his daughter's son and raised him to a man, but instead from the woman who was too much a child herself to raise her own son.
I could pity him. I could despise him. I could count him off as worthless, like so many others have done. Instead, I push him to be better, nag him into doing more, and corner him into doing what's right. Am I pushing him too hard? Not hard enough? And how do I not feel the sting when he looks at me with eyes full of unresolved hate, frustration, and teen-aged angst?
I never wanted children. And yet, here I find myself in the Shit Hole at nearly twenty-seven years old, being the closest thing to a mother my Problem Private has ever known -- and he thinks I'm just as stupid as I thought my parents were once upon a time. I guess life has come full-circle after all...
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Honesty and the Great Panty Caper
Prior to my now broken engagement, I had a lifestyle that people were often judgmental of. I avoided relationships like the plague, worked hard, partied harder, and answered to very few. It suited me, and I'm sure that once I get the hell out of the Shit Hole, I will return to a lifestyle very similar to that. But despite my assertive independence, open-minded nature, and arguably reckless behavior, there was still a line of ethics that I did not cross. There was a certain moral standing that I upheld, even in my most debaucherous of times. Within this personal Code of Ethics, I held an ideal that I will uphold until my last breath -- honesty with myself about who I am, what I want, and what I believe, because in doing so, I have become exceedingly comfortable in my own skin. There was a time when that wasn't always so.
You see, I learned some time ago that honesty is timeless. No matter how old you are, what job you have, or what style you conform yourself to, honesty always fits, is always the right color, and is rarely at too high a cost.
I was raised well, and have my amazing parents to thank for that. I was disciplined when I needed it, supported always, and loved unconditionally. And while my path in life may not have always been on the straight and narrow, my detours never ventured so far into the unexplored morass of moral uncertainty that I couldn't find my way back. I learned to be confident in myself, to trust my instincts, and to take nothing at face value -- and admittedly, I learned most whole-heartedly from my errors. No one is born all-knowing.
So what, pray-tell, happened to so many others in my generation that would cause them now to be suffering from an incurable bout of moral and ethical stupidity?
Case and point:
I don't know his name, so for sake of simplicity and an undeserved anonymity, he will be referred to as: Marine. Marine was seeing a very dear friend of mine, and though he was deployed to somewhere else in this breathtakingly miserable Shit Hole, they kept in close contact via Skype, email, Facebook, and various other electronic communications. This long-distance relationship was maintained for several months, seemingly without issue beyond the pain of distance, and my dear friend had grown quite attached to her military man. Then one day, she decided to import her contacts from her cell phone onto Twitter to find more Twitter friends. Low and behold, as luck would have it, she finds Marine on Twitter, and a wonderfully heartwarming picture of Marine... embracing and kissing his loving wife. My dear friend was the dreaded other woman, and had absolutely no idea.
Now... this is where you, my dear audience, are going to raise an eyebrow. Actually, you'll probably raise both of them before its over. But, please refer to the first paragraph of this post, take a deep breath, and read on:
I will never judge someone for breaking his/her marriage vows. While it is a practice that I cannot see myself engaging in, I can step outside of myself enough to recognize that my needs and the circumstances in which I find myself are very different than that of others. There are millions of people that break their marriage vows every day, and who am I to tell them they're wrong? I don't know them. I don't know what they're living through, living with, or living for. Quite frankly, its none of my business. Nor will I judge those that engage in affairs of the heart (though usually more often affairs of the flesh) with a married partner, as the same logic applies to them -- and again, its none of my business. So long as both parties are consenting adults, it is not my place to judge, criticize, or find fault. Morality Police, I am not.
But, there is a key phrase there that I want to focus on... Consenting Adults. Meaning both parties knowingly engage in the activity. To break it down a little more, both parties not only willingly engage in the relationship, but are aware that one (or both) of the participants are married to another person. Knowingly engage. If they don't know all the facts, is it really consent?
No, I'm not gonna go all oober-feminist and make some claim or comparison to assault. That's way reaching. But, I am gonna say that if you're gonna have an affair outside of your marriage, and not inform the woman that she is, in fact, an extra-marital affair, than you are the most spineless example of a human being that I can fathom.
To return to a sentiment I shared in the beginning of this post, I have not always walked along the path of moral impeccability. Actually, I've walked off that path more often than on, and while I'm not particularly proud of it, I'm not ashamed of it either. I drive too fast, occasionally drink too much, have had sex out of wedlock, dated multiple people at once, and (gasp!) been the dreaded "other woman," both knowingly and not. However, I don't lie or cry to get out of speeding tickets, I don't tell myself its "food poisoning" or "the flu" when I have a hangover, never convinced a suitor he was my "one and only" when he wasn't, nor lied to the significant other ont the two occasions my illicit trysts were found out. These endeavors have lead to a rather colorful personal life, as I'm sure you can imagine, but also a very straight forward one. And while its sometimes messy, I prefer it far well over a life of meticulousness.
In the times in my life when I have been avoiding true relationships and enjoying casual dating, I have never once convinced a man that he was the only guy I was seeing to get what I wanted, nor did I tell him I wanted a relationship when I didn't. Yes, this practice occasionally lead to some hurt feelings and bruised egos, but little more. If you're going to engage in a personal relationship with someone, you owe them honesty. Even when its not what they want to hear.
Now, I have been the "other woman..." The men that I knew were in relationships with other women when I dated them I still count as friends to this day. I could call either of them tomorrow, tell them I was in trouble, and either of them would drop whatever they were doing, and help me any way they could, despite our intimate relationship having been over several years past. Now, the one man who's wife showed up on my doorstep one fall day? Or the man who's woman sent me Facebook messages telling me my "boyfriend" was her "fiancee?" They and I haven't spoken in the better part of four and three years respectively, and quite frankly my feelings wouldn't be hurt if they contracted gona-sypha-herpa-litis, and had to have their penises amputated, and later committed suicide. Don't gasp... Hell hath no fury.
Why the difference? Honesty and trust. The two men whose significant others I knew about were honest with me about the relationships, and what they therefore expected, and trusted me to make a decision that I could live with. They made it my choice. I mattered enough to them to be given that. No, it doesn't grant them amnesty from blame, but it speaks to having a solid character, despite engaging in a behavior that could point to otherwise. The other schmucks lied, cheated, manipulated, and coerced, because they didn't have the intestinal fortitude to admit that there were shortcomings in their life, and were egocentric enough to believe they could pull off the Great Panty Caper. There was no trust, there was no honesty, and there were no ethics. I was a damn throw-away. A human being, regardless of circumstance and station in life should never be a goddamn throw-away.
So, this brings us back to Marine, and his now failed attempt at the Great Panty Caper, who used my very dear friend as a throw-away. Sadly, he's not the only instance of this I've heard about this week. An old friend from my hometown told me a few days ago that not only was the guy she was seeing dating someone else, but he seduced the other woman in my friend's car while she was at work. Another friend of mine got rather threatening phone calls when the man she'd been dating for almost a year turned out to be married with kids. One of my guy friends was dating a woman who turned out to be married... he found out when he was staring down the barrel of a Remington .308.
Honestly, people, what the hell? Personally, if some activity I'm engaging in is gonna potentially get my ass filled with lead, I'd like to know about it beforehand. I'm not saying I wouldn't do it anyway, but I'd at the very least take some extra precautions. How arrogant are you people that you feel you have the right to make those decisions on behalf of others? Yeah, kudos to you if you can have a affair without your spouse finding out. You've pulled off a successful Great Panty Caper. But hell, if they are gonna find out, and your Great Panty Caper is gonna turn into the Valentine's Day Massacre, wouldn't you rather have an ally? How stupid are you? Have none of your life lessons taught you anything of self-preservation, survival instinct, or situational avoidance? No one is born all-knowing. So for the love of God, pay attention. Learn from your mistakes, which admittedly, for some of you, may mean growing a pair and admitting that you actually make them, but at least make a damn effort. Some day, you might be the throw-away. Or your sister. Or your mom. Think about that, the next time you're fine-tuning the Great Escape after the Great Panty Caper. Would you want them to be a throw-away? No, you wouldn't. So have some sort of a moral compass and be honest -- with them, and with yourself.
You see, I learned some time ago that honesty is timeless. No matter how old you are, what job you have, or what style you conform yourself to, honesty always fits, is always the right color, and is rarely at too high a cost.
I was raised well, and have my amazing parents to thank for that. I was disciplined when I needed it, supported always, and loved unconditionally. And while my path in life may not have always been on the straight and narrow, my detours never ventured so far into the unexplored morass of moral uncertainty that I couldn't find my way back. I learned to be confident in myself, to trust my instincts, and to take nothing at face value -- and admittedly, I learned most whole-heartedly from my errors. No one is born all-knowing.
So what, pray-tell, happened to so many others in my generation that would cause them now to be suffering from an incurable bout of moral and ethical stupidity?
Case and point:
I don't know his name, so for sake of simplicity and an undeserved anonymity, he will be referred to as: Marine. Marine was seeing a very dear friend of mine, and though he was deployed to somewhere else in this breathtakingly miserable Shit Hole, they kept in close contact via Skype, email, Facebook, and various other electronic communications. This long-distance relationship was maintained for several months, seemingly without issue beyond the pain of distance, and my dear friend had grown quite attached to her military man. Then one day, she decided to import her contacts from her cell phone onto Twitter to find more Twitter friends. Low and behold, as luck would have it, she finds Marine on Twitter, and a wonderfully heartwarming picture of Marine... embracing and kissing his loving wife. My dear friend was the dreaded other woman, and had absolutely no idea.
Now... this is where you, my dear audience, are going to raise an eyebrow. Actually, you'll probably raise both of them before its over. But, please refer to the first paragraph of this post, take a deep breath, and read on:
I will never judge someone for breaking his/her marriage vows. While it is a practice that I cannot see myself engaging in, I can step outside of myself enough to recognize that my needs and the circumstances in which I find myself are very different than that of others. There are millions of people that break their marriage vows every day, and who am I to tell them they're wrong? I don't know them. I don't know what they're living through, living with, or living for. Quite frankly, its none of my business. Nor will I judge those that engage in affairs of the heart (though usually more often affairs of the flesh) with a married partner, as the same logic applies to them -- and again, its none of my business. So long as both parties are consenting adults, it is not my place to judge, criticize, or find fault. Morality Police, I am not.
But, there is a key phrase there that I want to focus on... Consenting Adults. Meaning both parties knowingly engage in the activity. To break it down a little more, both parties not only willingly engage in the relationship, but are aware that one (or both) of the participants are married to another person. Knowingly engage. If they don't know all the facts, is it really consent?
No, I'm not gonna go all oober-feminist and make some claim or comparison to assault. That's way reaching. But, I am gonna say that if you're gonna have an affair outside of your marriage, and not inform the woman that she is, in fact, an extra-marital affair, than you are the most spineless example of a human being that I can fathom.
To return to a sentiment I shared in the beginning of this post, I have not always walked along the path of moral impeccability. Actually, I've walked off that path more often than on, and while I'm not particularly proud of it, I'm not ashamed of it either. I drive too fast, occasionally drink too much, have had sex out of wedlock, dated multiple people at once, and (gasp!) been the dreaded "other woman," both knowingly and not. However, I don't lie or cry to get out of speeding tickets, I don't tell myself its "food poisoning" or "the flu" when I have a hangover, never convinced a suitor he was my "one and only" when he wasn't, nor lied to the significant other ont the two occasions my illicit trysts were found out. These endeavors have lead to a rather colorful personal life, as I'm sure you can imagine, but also a very straight forward one. And while its sometimes messy, I prefer it far well over a life of meticulousness.
In the times in my life when I have been avoiding true relationships and enjoying casual dating, I have never once convinced a man that he was the only guy I was seeing to get what I wanted, nor did I tell him I wanted a relationship when I didn't. Yes, this practice occasionally lead to some hurt feelings and bruised egos, but little more. If you're going to engage in a personal relationship with someone, you owe them honesty. Even when its not what they want to hear.
Now, I have been the "other woman..." The men that I knew were in relationships with other women when I dated them I still count as friends to this day. I could call either of them tomorrow, tell them I was in trouble, and either of them would drop whatever they were doing, and help me any way they could, despite our intimate relationship having been over several years past. Now, the one man who's wife showed up on my doorstep one fall day? Or the man who's woman sent me Facebook messages telling me my "boyfriend" was her "fiancee?" They and I haven't spoken in the better part of four and three years respectively, and quite frankly my feelings wouldn't be hurt if they contracted gona-sypha-herpa-litis, and had to have their penises amputated, and later committed suicide. Don't gasp... Hell hath no fury.
Why the difference? Honesty and trust. The two men whose significant others I knew about were honest with me about the relationships, and what they therefore expected, and trusted me to make a decision that I could live with. They made it my choice. I mattered enough to them to be given that. No, it doesn't grant them amnesty from blame, but it speaks to having a solid character, despite engaging in a behavior that could point to otherwise. The other schmucks lied, cheated, manipulated, and coerced, because they didn't have the intestinal fortitude to admit that there were shortcomings in their life, and were egocentric enough to believe they could pull off the Great Panty Caper. There was no trust, there was no honesty, and there were no ethics. I was a damn throw-away. A human being, regardless of circumstance and station in life should never be a goddamn throw-away.
So, this brings us back to Marine, and his now failed attempt at the Great Panty Caper, who used my very dear friend as a throw-away. Sadly, he's not the only instance of this I've heard about this week. An old friend from my hometown told me a few days ago that not only was the guy she was seeing dating someone else, but he seduced the other woman in my friend's car while she was at work. Another friend of mine got rather threatening phone calls when the man she'd been dating for almost a year turned out to be married with kids. One of my guy friends was dating a woman who turned out to be married... he found out when he was staring down the barrel of a Remington .308.
Honestly, people, what the hell? Personally, if some activity I'm engaging in is gonna potentially get my ass filled with lead, I'd like to know about it beforehand. I'm not saying I wouldn't do it anyway, but I'd at the very least take some extra precautions. How arrogant are you people that you feel you have the right to make those decisions on behalf of others? Yeah, kudos to you if you can have a affair without your spouse finding out. You've pulled off a successful Great Panty Caper. But hell, if they are gonna find out, and your Great Panty Caper is gonna turn into the Valentine's Day Massacre, wouldn't you rather have an ally? How stupid are you? Have none of your life lessons taught you anything of self-preservation, survival instinct, or situational avoidance? No one is born all-knowing. So for the love of God, pay attention. Learn from your mistakes, which admittedly, for some of you, may mean growing a pair and admitting that you actually make them, but at least make a damn effort. Some day, you might be the throw-away. Or your sister. Or your mom. Think about that, the next time you're fine-tuning the Great Escape after the Great Panty Caper. Would you want them to be a throw-away? No, you wouldn't. So have some sort of a moral compass and be honest -- with them, and with yourself.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Sea Longing
A thousand miles beyond this sun-steeped wall
Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand,
The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land
With the old murmur, long and musical;
The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,
And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow --
Tho' I am inland far, I hear and know,
For I was born the sea's eternal thrall.
I would that I were there and over me
The cold insistence of the tide would roll,
Quenching this burning thing men call the soul, --
Then with ebbing I should drift and be
Less than the smallest shell along the shoal,
Less than the seagulls calling to the sea.
-- Sara Teasdale
In a package I received from home yesterday (which wreaked havoc in the mailroom, due to some exploded liquids, lol), I was gifted a wonderful book of poems (which was thankfully sealed in a Ziploc bag), and my inner bookworm rejoiced. The book contained a collection of poems about the ocean... and leave it to one of my dearest loves from home to know that I would be missing the ocean here in this land-locked, sandy shit hole like most people miss an old friend. The poem above was on the first few pages, and it struck a chord with me, and with it a memory splashed across my psyche...
It hurt. And the assault to the soles of my feet was almost as painful as the sunburn that graced my shoulders and back. But, I continued my pace, across the sand and shoal, running the beach while the surf swirled around my bare feet. As always happens when I make it home, I found myself called to the ocean, and with my family being their usual boisterous selves, I needed the quiet expanse of the nearly deserted beach. After six months of a fairly sterile, very controlled environment, my colorful, chaotic family was an assault to my senses that I wasn't prepared for. So, I found solace where I always did, doing what the Army had made me come to appreciate more than I thought I could. I ran.
I had started at the southern-most point of Wells Beach, where a rock jetty meets the sandy beach. As a child, I had played in the tide pools there that formed between the rocks, delighted in the little pockets of ocean, teeming with life. I smiled at the memory as I took off my shoes and socks, leaving them high enough up the beach to be safe from the incoming tide. A large chunk of my childhood revolved around the happenings on that beach. It was fitting that my most soothing days of my adulthood were found there as well.
The sun was barely up, and it glistened on the water to my right as I ran north, passing the first lifeguard tower, and a few other early risers, out walking their dogs. My breath was slow and even, and my lungs delighted in the fresh ocean air -- a scent that I didn't even know I had missed until my first breath of it that morning had almost brought tears to my eyes. The air was cool along the water, though the late spring morning showed a haze on the horizon that promised sticky heat later in the day. The surf splashed cold on my bare feet, causing me to attempt to dodge the waves, but after a few hundred yards, it turned into a soothing balm for my bare soles - they were used to the protection of combat boots, and the coarse sand aggravated my skin. I would have blisters before the run was over. Oddly, the thought made me smile. I had come to be proud of my battle scars.
At that thought, I looked down to my left hand -- still bruised, swollen, and scabbed from breaking it in a training mission a couple weeks before. It ached dully as I ran, and I quietly cursed myself for not putting the damn air cast on it that morning. The orthopedist at the VA said I only needed it if I was doing physical activity, and where most of the pain was gone, I didn't really think about it until I actually needed it, at which point it was too late and I was without it somewhere. Ah, well... that's what Ibuprofen was for. I would survive.
I came up on the second lifeguard tower, where two lifeguards were setting up for the day. They waved as I passed, and I returned the greeting, continuing my solitary path down the shore. It was a good day for a run. I dodged debris left on the beach from the tides -- seaweed, driftwood, the occasional rock or piece of trash, and marveled at how much better I felt just being out of the house. How on earth did I survive 18 years with my sanity intact, with those crazy, loud, exasperatingly lovable people? I laughed at myself. It wasn't them, of course... it was me. I had changed, and I knew it was a direct result of the Army's influence. It was still too soon for me to be able to go comfortably without the structure, control, and discipline. Not that I didn't enjoy letting go for periods of time. I just couldn't quite let go ALL the time. I smiled. I'd turned into a little control freak.
As I came up on the third lifeguard tower, I lengthened my stride a bit. Another lifeguard was setting out his rescue board and buoy near the waterline, and he eyed me appreciatively as I passed. Yeah, there was something to be said for the Army, if it got tasty morsels like him to look at me like that. I smiled. I might get the hang of this return to civilian life after all.
At the fourth lifeguard tower, I turned around. The towers were a quarter-mile apart down the beach, so I had hit a mile. I knew I could run farther, but my feet were singing with each stride across the sand, so I headed back toward the jetty. It wouldn't serve me to be unable to wear shoes for the rest of my vacation. After all, I had packed some deliciously killer heels to wear out with the girls that week. So, I ran down the beach.
When I hit a mile an a half, the cool salt water stopped being a balm for my feet and started to sting. I'd broken the skin. It hurt. And oddly, the pain was very similar to the pain my sunburn left behind. I smiled. Hell, even on vacation I was getting all sorts of beat up. I slowed my pace and shortened my stride a bit as a concession to the pain, as the surf swirled in its easy rhythm, and the gulls cried overhead. I checked my watch; I was making damn good time. As the last lifeguard tower approached, my feet were on fire. I wanted to quit. In hindsight, I probably should have, but I pushed through the pain, and drove on toward the objective. I passed the tower, waved at the lifeguards, and continued down the beach, my feet slapping the sand in matching cadence to the waves. I was almost done.
As my sneakers and socks came into view, I sprinted the last hundred yards. My feet wanted to protest, but they'd gone numb. Finally, I reached the end of the beach, and stopped, ankle-deep in the water, bent over at the waist with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. I smiled.
When my breathing returned to normal, I sat down on a large rock to assess the damage to my feet. There were blisters on the balls of my feet, and the ends of my toes, all of which had popped already. I decided to go barefoot back to the car. But before I could bring myself to leave, I sat on my rock in the sunshine for a good twenty minutes, just watching the tide roll in. The sound of the waves soothed away the last of my restless frustration. As always, the ocean spoke the words my soul needed to hear -- like an old friend in a time of need. It was then that I realized that no matter how long I'm gone, it will always call me back. And what a comfort that was...
After the memory passed, I sat on my bunk here in the Shit Hole, and fervently wished for the ocean. It's calling me back again... too bad I've got several more months before I can answer the call...
Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand,
The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land
With the old murmur, long and musical;
The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,
And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow --
Tho' I am inland far, I hear and know,
For I was born the sea's eternal thrall.
I would that I were there and over me
The cold insistence of the tide would roll,
Quenching this burning thing men call the soul, --
Then with ebbing I should drift and be
Less than the smallest shell along the shoal,
Less than the seagulls calling to the sea.
-- Sara Teasdale
It hurt. And the assault to the soles of my feet was almost as painful as the sunburn that graced my shoulders and back. But, I continued my pace, across the sand and shoal, running the beach while the surf swirled around my bare feet. As always happens when I make it home, I found myself called to the ocean, and with my family being their usual boisterous selves, I needed the quiet expanse of the nearly deserted beach. After six months of a fairly sterile, very controlled environment, my colorful, chaotic family was an assault to my senses that I wasn't prepared for. So, I found solace where I always did, doing what the Army had made me come to appreciate more than I thought I could. I ran.
I had started at the southern-most point of Wells Beach, where a rock jetty meets the sandy beach. As a child, I had played in the tide pools there that formed between the rocks, delighted in the little pockets of ocean, teeming with life. I smiled at the memory as I took off my shoes and socks, leaving them high enough up the beach to be safe from the incoming tide. A large chunk of my childhood revolved around the happenings on that beach. It was fitting that my most soothing days of my adulthood were found there as well.
The sun was barely up, and it glistened on the water to my right as I ran north, passing the first lifeguard tower, and a few other early risers, out walking their dogs. My breath was slow and even, and my lungs delighted in the fresh ocean air -- a scent that I didn't even know I had missed until my first breath of it that morning had almost brought tears to my eyes. The air was cool along the water, though the late spring morning showed a haze on the horizon that promised sticky heat later in the day. The surf splashed cold on my bare feet, causing me to attempt to dodge the waves, but after a few hundred yards, it turned into a soothing balm for my bare soles - they were used to the protection of combat boots, and the coarse sand aggravated my skin. I would have blisters before the run was over. Oddly, the thought made me smile. I had come to be proud of my battle scars.
At that thought, I looked down to my left hand -- still bruised, swollen, and scabbed from breaking it in a training mission a couple weeks before. It ached dully as I ran, and I quietly cursed myself for not putting the damn air cast on it that morning. The orthopedist at the VA said I only needed it if I was doing physical activity, and where most of the pain was gone, I didn't really think about it until I actually needed it, at which point it was too late and I was without it somewhere. Ah, well... that's what Ibuprofen was for. I would survive.
I came up on the second lifeguard tower, where two lifeguards were setting up for the day. They waved as I passed, and I returned the greeting, continuing my solitary path down the shore. It was a good day for a run. I dodged debris left on the beach from the tides -- seaweed, driftwood, the occasional rock or piece of trash, and marveled at how much better I felt just being out of the house. How on earth did I survive 18 years with my sanity intact, with those crazy, loud, exasperatingly lovable people? I laughed at myself. It wasn't them, of course... it was me. I had changed, and I knew it was a direct result of the Army's influence. It was still too soon for me to be able to go comfortably without the structure, control, and discipline. Not that I didn't enjoy letting go for periods of time. I just couldn't quite let go ALL the time. I smiled. I'd turned into a little control freak.
As I came up on the third lifeguard tower, I lengthened my stride a bit. Another lifeguard was setting out his rescue board and buoy near the waterline, and he eyed me appreciatively as I passed. Yeah, there was something to be said for the Army, if it got tasty morsels like him to look at me like that. I smiled. I might get the hang of this return to civilian life after all.
At the fourth lifeguard tower, I turned around. The towers were a quarter-mile apart down the beach, so I had hit a mile. I knew I could run farther, but my feet were singing with each stride across the sand, so I headed back toward the jetty. It wouldn't serve me to be unable to wear shoes for the rest of my vacation. After all, I had packed some deliciously killer heels to wear out with the girls that week. So, I ran down the beach.
When I hit a mile an a half, the cool salt water stopped being a balm for my feet and started to sting. I'd broken the skin. It hurt. And oddly, the pain was very similar to the pain my sunburn left behind. I smiled. Hell, even on vacation I was getting all sorts of beat up. I slowed my pace and shortened my stride a bit as a concession to the pain, as the surf swirled in its easy rhythm, and the gulls cried overhead. I checked my watch; I was making damn good time. As the last lifeguard tower approached, my feet were on fire. I wanted to quit. In hindsight, I probably should have, but I pushed through the pain, and drove on toward the objective. I passed the tower, waved at the lifeguards, and continued down the beach, my feet slapping the sand in matching cadence to the waves. I was almost done.
As my sneakers and socks came into view, I sprinted the last hundred yards. My feet wanted to protest, but they'd gone numb. Finally, I reached the end of the beach, and stopped, ankle-deep in the water, bent over at the waist with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. I smiled.
When my breathing returned to normal, I sat down on a large rock to assess the damage to my feet. There were blisters on the balls of my feet, and the ends of my toes, all of which had popped already. I decided to go barefoot back to the car. But before I could bring myself to leave, I sat on my rock in the sunshine for a good twenty minutes, just watching the tide roll in. The sound of the waves soothed away the last of my restless frustration. As always, the ocean spoke the words my soul needed to hear -- like an old friend in a time of need. It was then that I realized that no matter how long I'm gone, it will always call me back. And what a comfort that was...
After the memory passed, I sat on my bunk here in the Shit Hole, and fervently wished for the ocean. It's calling me back again... too bad I've got several more months before I can answer the call...
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Getting Back To It
Fitness is something that I enjoy. However, I tend to lack motivation a lot of the time. Hence, one of the many reasons that the Army is good for me. It forces me to make fitness a part of my regular routine, whether I want to or not.
Stateside, before I came to the Shit Hole, I did CrossFit. For those of you that don't know what CrossFit is, you can find out here. It was an amazing work out, and had the close-knit family feeling with the members that I had missed since leaving Basic Training. The encouragement, motivation and support from others suffering through the same misery spoke to that little part of my soul that missed the grueling days at Ft. Leonard Wood. Despite life being crazy the summer before I left for the Shit Hole, I fit in workouts fairly regularly, and saw progress. I was sad to leave them when my orders came, and I shipped off to Texas, and later the Shit Hole. And in the weeks that followed, my level of fitness declined. I was training hard in Texas, which left little time for PT, and when I finally arrived overseas, it took awhile to adjust enough to function on a day-to-day basis, let alone work out. So, when I finally did start training again, I was pretty much starting at ground zero. It was embarrassing.
But, I am happy to report that I have done some dramatic improving over the last several months, and the credit for that goes to a handful of Army NCO's that pushed me in Remedial PT, and some Navy cats that have continued the effort since I outgrew the Remedial PT. And now, after some cajoling, one of my Navy girls and I have convinced one of the Navy CrossFit instructors to hold an early morning class for us. It won't be daily, but it will be a handful of times a week. I'm just happy that I'm physically in a place that I can go back to CrossFit and not die, lol.
This morning was our first WOD. It was a baby-WOD by my old standards, and I'm equal parts happy and embarrassed to report that it killed me. I won't get into the technicalities of it (however, if you're interested, you can see it on my Facebook Page), but in an open-air gym in a place where the air quality sucks, my lungs burned almost as fiercely as my muscles, and I'm still marveling at the fact that I didn't puke somewhere in the middle of my breathless misery. It was a good day :)
I don't know what tomorrow holds, as far as fitness is concerned. My day-to-day schedule is kind a "fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants" kind of thing. But I am hopeful, and optimistic, knowing that somewhere soon, I will be back in the Box, and though its not home, in the Box of CrossFit LionHeart, its a good temporary fix to vent my frustrations, and maintain my own fitness standards.
I'm getting back to it -- back to normal, in a place that is anything but.
Stateside, before I came to the Shit Hole, I did CrossFit. For those of you that don't know what CrossFit is, you can find out here. It was an amazing work out, and had the close-knit family feeling with the members that I had missed since leaving Basic Training. The encouragement, motivation and support from others suffering through the same misery spoke to that little part of my soul that missed the grueling days at Ft. Leonard Wood. Despite life being crazy the summer before I left for the Shit Hole, I fit in workouts fairly regularly, and saw progress. I was sad to leave them when my orders came, and I shipped off to Texas, and later the Shit Hole. And in the weeks that followed, my level of fitness declined. I was training hard in Texas, which left little time for PT, and when I finally arrived overseas, it took awhile to adjust enough to function on a day-to-day basis, let alone work out. So, when I finally did start training again, I was pretty much starting at ground zero. It was embarrassing.
But, I am happy to report that I have done some dramatic improving over the last several months, and the credit for that goes to a handful of Army NCO's that pushed me in Remedial PT, and some Navy cats that have continued the effort since I outgrew the Remedial PT. And now, after some cajoling, one of my Navy girls and I have convinced one of the Navy CrossFit instructors to hold an early morning class for us. It won't be daily, but it will be a handful of times a week. I'm just happy that I'm physically in a place that I can go back to CrossFit and not die, lol.
This morning was our first WOD. It was a baby-WOD by my old standards, and I'm equal parts happy and embarrassed to report that it killed me. I won't get into the technicalities of it (however, if you're interested, you can see it on my Facebook Page), but in an open-air gym in a place where the air quality sucks, my lungs burned almost as fiercely as my muscles, and I'm still marveling at the fact that I didn't puke somewhere in the middle of my breathless misery. It was a good day :)
I don't know what tomorrow holds, as far as fitness is concerned. My day-to-day schedule is kind a "fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants" kind of thing. But I am hopeful, and optimistic, knowing that somewhere soon, I will be back in the Box, and though its not home, in the Box of CrossFit LionHeart, its a good temporary fix to vent my frustrations, and maintain my own fitness standards.
I'm getting back to it -- back to normal, in a place that is anything but.
A Little TLC
After nearly two years, I thought it was time to tweak my blog, and make it a smidgen more aesthetic... after all, two years is a long time without an update. Well, that "tweak" took almost three hours. Technologically savvy I am not!
But, I am pleased with the result, though there may be some more minor tweaking in store... who knows? Stay tuned...
But, I am pleased with the result, though there may be some more minor tweaking in store... who knows? Stay tuned...
Monday, June 25, 2012
And the weeks roll along...
Today is Monday -- the start of a new week. Where did the last one go?
The weeks since leave have gone quickly, and while there has been brief periods of chaos, drama, and turmoil, I can't say they've been bad weeks. I've adjusted to being on day shift, and its so lovely to see the sunshine. I've fallen into a wonderful routine that includes the gym five days a week, and am seeing results in that regard that are pleasing me to no end. My dear roommate and I are getting along famously as always, and I'm keeping well in-touch with my loves from home. All in all, life is good.
It's such a wonderful, wonderful change...
The weeks since leave have gone quickly, and while there has been brief periods of chaos, drama, and turmoil, I can't say they've been bad weeks. I've adjusted to being on day shift, and its so lovely to see the sunshine. I've fallen into a wonderful routine that includes the gym five days a week, and am seeing results in that regard that are pleasing me to no end. My dear roommate and I are getting along famously as always, and I'm keeping well in-touch with my loves from home. All in all, life is good.
It's such a wonderful, wonderful change...
Friday, June 8, 2012
"Love can do much, but duty more."
Love can do much, but duty more. -- Goethe
This has become my mantra, as I while away the days here. I have poured myself into a combination of work, the gym, and photography, and slowly that resolute focus on the tasks at hand have pushed some of the pain of my broken engagement out of immediate view. Not all of it -- No, little Agony Ninjas still lurk in the dark corners of my psyche, and seem to ambush me at inopportune moments, and still can leave me a little breathless and shaken. But their attacks are less frequent, and I anticipate that eventually they'll get bored with whole endeavor and give up on it all together and leave me in peace. But I'm enough of a realist to recognize though, that time is a long time coming. I've just got wait it out.
Leave was tumultuous, which is everything that your rest and relaxation time from a war zone shouldn't be. Given the tasks I had to tackle, such as moving out of the house I once shared with Chris, there wasn't much that could be done to prevent the chaos. But, I could have handled the whole mess better. Live and learn, I guess... Live and learn. But the time spent with family and friends was like a salve on my raw wounds, and was welcomed and appreciated more than I can put into words. While there isn't a minute of my leave I'll forget anytime soon, it's those moments with friends and family that I focus on now. The rest I've boxed up to deal with later. No need to replay ugly memories over and over and torture myself with them, when there is nothing I can do to change them.
I'm doing okay. Actually, most days better than that. I've had some closure in my dealings with Chris, and since that time I've been quicker to laugh and been more optimistic than I was even months before my leave. That I find as even more evidence that I've made the right choices. It's extremely comforting.
In the tidying up of the space I call home these days, I found a series of letters that I had written to Christopher -- letters that I never sent, and never will. Last night, I stepped outside onto the crushed rock driveway, and burned them. When I was done, I let their ashes scatter to the wind, and felt infinitely better for it. As my charred words drifted away on the evening breeze, my eyes were dry. My tears for a man that was more fiction than fact have long since been spent. I realized then, that when I leave this God-forsaken country, I'll be over him. That time can't come soon enough.
I will leave you with a photo of this place... of the horizon the night after I returned from leave. It seemed hopeful to me, and I have found myself bringing it up often to look at it when my spirits have needed a little lifting. Sometimes images can heal far better than words...
This has become my mantra, as I while away the days here. I have poured myself into a combination of work, the gym, and photography, and slowly that resolute focus on the tasks at hand have pushed some of the pain of my broken engagement out of immediate view. Not all of it -- No, little Agony Ninjas still lurk in the dark corners of my psyche, and seem to ambush me at inopportune moments, and still can leave me a little breathless and shaken. But their attacks are less frequent, and I anticipate that eventually they'll get bored with whole endeavor and give up on it all together and leave me in peace. But I'm enough of a realist to recognize though, that time is a long time coming. I've just got wait it out.
Leave was tumultuous, which is everything that your rest and relaxation time from a war zone shouldn't be. Given the tasks I had to tackle, such as moving out of the house I once shared with Chris, there wasn't much that could be done to prevent the chaos. But, I could have handled the whole mess better. Live and learn, I guess... Live and learn. But the time spent with family and friends was like a salve on my raw wounds, and was welcomed and appreciated more than I can put into words. While there isn't a minute of my leave I'll forget anytime soon, it's those moments with friends and family that I focus on now. The rest I've boxed up to deal with later. No need to replay ugly memories over and over and torture myself with them, when there is nothing I can do to change them.
I'm doing okay. Actually, most days better than that. I've had some closure in my dealings with Chris, and since that time I've been quicker to laugh and been more optimistic than I was even months before my leave. That I find as even more evidence that I've made the right choices. It's extremely comforting.
In the tidying up of the space I call home these days, I found a series of letters that I had written to Christopher -- letters that I never sent, and never will. Last night, I stepped outside onto the crushed rock driveway, and burned them. When I was done, I let their ashes scatter to the wind, and felt infinitely better for it. As my charred words drifted away on the evening breeze, my eyes were dry. My tears for a man that was more fiction than fact have long since been spent. I realized then, that when I leave this God-forsaken country, I'll be over him. That time can't come soon enough.
I will leave you with a photo of this place... of the horizon the night after I returned from leave. It seemed hopeful to me, and I have found myself bringing it up often to look at it when my spirits have needed a little lifting. Sometimes images can heal far better than words...
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Sore Spots and Rough Patches
I've been through a lot in my life. I've suffered heart break and disappointment, enjoyed true friendships as well as false ones, openly relished joy, and quietly harbored grief. I've worked hard for goals only to come up short, and had opportunities I didn't deserve fall in my lap. At twenty-six years old, I can honestly say that I've had a very colorful, though not always pretty life. But, with a confidence and determination I haven't felt in awhile, I can say that life is mine. I have no shame, and I have very few regrets.
In the few weeks since I've written last, the turmoil within myself has quieted some, and the confidence and acceptance of my choices has solidified. I am single. But, I'm not alone.
I love people. It was one of the things that made me a very good waitress years ago, and that innate ability to strike up a conversation with perfect strangers has served me well in countless other circumstances as well. The Army is no different. With the thousands of service members on this post from all branches of service, as well as countless US civilian employees, and local national tradesmen, there are as many opportunities for interesting exchange as there are colors of the rainbow. It took me four months and a breakup to even notice.
When I was with Chris, I walked with blinders on a lot of the time, afraid that a conversation with a stranger would somehow make him jealous, or that he would disapprove. Looking back, I know it was foolish, and I kick myself for so many opportunities missed. After all, isn't humanity the root of why America is in Afghanistan anyway? Isn't that the basis of any mission? The protection, liberation, education, of some form of humanity??
We have a small (and what would be called "rustic" at best by stateside standards) spa here on post. They do the basics -- hair cuts and color, manicures, pedicures, waxing, and massages. I know, it sounds so frivolous in a combat zone. I was shocked when I heard of it, but was not long taking advantage of it. Every week since we arrived here, I go to the spa on my day off. I get a massage (and for only $30 for an hour, its quite an inexpensive indulgence), and occasionally a pedicure, as combat boots can be killer on your feet, and the massage is a great way to relieve what seems like never ending stress from this job. It's my little break from the madness, and my savored weekly indulgence.
Almost every week on my day off, I have had the same masseuse. I don't make an appointment, as my days off I make a point to keep blissfully free of time hacks and schedules. But, as luck would have it, Gulmira, a cute little Asian woman from Kyrgyzstan always seem to be available. I remember when I first started going to the spa, I struggled to converse with the women that work there, as their accents were thick, and their English quite broken. But, as time has gone on, I've come to communicate with them better, and can engage in light friendly conversation on my visits now. They try to teach me their languages -- at any given time, Uzbek, Kurd, Russian, Daari, Pashtun, or Mongol can be heard. Needless to say, I find it all very confusing, and can't seem to hold on to much of it. But Gulmira is patient while she laughs at my confusion, and attempts to translate what the other women say. Somehow, they all understand one another. What must it be like to live in an area where you have to learn so many different languages just to get by?
This past weekend, as I lay on Gulmira's table for my full-body massage, she did something very uncharacteristic of her. She poked me in the ribs with her index finger. I flinched, surprised, and turned my head to look at her. "You getting skinny, ma'am. What ever is on your mind is no good. You very, very... what is word? ...tense. You very tense when you see me. And you getting skinny. I see your bones. In just a week!"
I blushed and found myself wanting to apologize, but for what I don't know. Gulmira, noticing my discomfort, patted my shoulder reassuringly. "It is a man? Yes, yes, a man. Only man do this to a woman. Do not think of it. It no good for you. Now relax, and I fix." And obediently, I relaxed and let her work her magic on my muscles, and marveled at the perception of a practical stranger.
It was then that I realized that single didn't need to translate to alone. There is warmth in people everywhere, if you have the strength to look past yourself and see it. Gulmira, bless her, did more than massage my sore muscles. With her simple observation and kindness, she eased the ache in my soul.
That night I had the first restful sleep I've had in weeks. I slept for 13 hours, and awoke feeling refreshed and whole, in a way I hadn't since I arrived in Afghanistan.
My heart is not fully healed, by any means. I've slowly thrown out the letters and cards he sent me, and taken the pictures down from the walls. Each act was like a knife in my chest. It would be a lie to say I don't miss him, but the man I miss was also a lie. So, I guess it breaks even. But every day I am stronger and more prepared for the next, and every day I lean more toward laughter than tears, and anger instead of guilt. Every day I find myself looking at what lies ahead, instead of looking over my shoulder at what I left behind, and being increasingly optimistic. I never could stay sad for long -- its against my nature, and I'm so very thankful for it.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Restless
It's funny how a twin-sized bunk that I've never shared with anyone can feel so huge and empty now that I've suffered a loss.
Sleeping is proving to be a problem. Last night, after I got out of work in the wee hours of the morning, it took a double-dose of melatonin to get me to drift off, and even then my sleep was fitful and restless. I dreamed... and while most of the content of them is gone, the emotions the dreams left behind roll inside me. I can't seem to quell the storm.
I know this is normal. I know that trouble sleeping, loss of appetite, and difficulty concentrating are perfectly normal under the circumstances. But it still makes me feel like I've lost my mind. I hate it.
I've been trying to channel some of my restless energy into finding alternate locations to road trip to while home on leave. Hawaii isn't happening. Chris booked the hotel, and though we've lost the money for that, I can't go there alone after we planned it together. It would be more painful than I deserve. Plus, I need to go to PA to collect my things from his house. There isn't a lot there -- the majority of my material life is piled in boxes in my storage unit. But there are some things -- the refuse of a broken joint living space. And my truck is there. My precious Betty, that I feel the need to get behind the wheel of. I think the symbolism of that I need more than anything else right now, because I feel so out of control of my own life that I'm struggling to function.
I have no idea where I'm going to stay. I have no idea where I'm going to go. I need to put my life solidly back on my terms, and I have no idea where to start.
But, the end as always is just another beginning...
Thursday, April 5, 2012
We're Like Fire and Gasoline
I love him. But, as so often happens, love can't always conquer all.
I am not going to into details as to what happened to bring about the demise of my relationship with Chris. From an outsider looking in, it will appear to have happened shockingly fast. But deep down, I know it was a long time coming.
There are truths about myself, and about our relationship that I didn't want to face -- events, opinions, and circumstances that I blamed on my deployment and bad timing. They were all things that I was totally convinced I could make up for, things that I was certain would be overcome and compromised on. Ah, the hope of the heart blinded by love...
Lyrics to a song keep floating through my head:
Baby when we're good you know we're great,
But there's too much bad for us to think
That there's anything worth trying to save...
I wish I could put into words how I feel right now. Naive? Disillusioned? Let down? Utterly crushed? None of what I come up with does justice to what this is like. But writing... it helps sometimes. So, here I am, at the keyboard, on yet another sleepless "night" in Afghanistan.
We sat in the cab of his truck, snuggled up against one another, as tears ran down my face. I was leaving for the unknown of deployment, and it finally really hit me that I could lose him -- lose everything. The fear of that shook me to my core -- and for a woman not easily shaken, the fear of picking up the broken pieces of myself was the only thing more terrifying.
"I'm so worried you are gonna get tired of me -- tired of us. That you'll find someone else while you're over there and forget about me." The lights from the dash illuminated his face as he spoke, highlighting the frown lines of concern.
I sat up, and wiped my tears away. We couldn't both be scared. I put my hand on his cheek and turned his face toward me. "Chris, there are only three things that could ever make me leave you -- that could ever make me walk away from us. Cheating. Lying. And if you are ever stupid enough to hit me." I was quiet while I let that sink in. "Stay inside those lines, and you've got nothing to worry about. You're all I'm ever gonna need."
That was October of last year, and I meant every word of what I said. However, life isn't always so cut and dry. He never hit me. He never cheated. And the lying... well, that's a matter of perspective and opinion, I suppose. I realize, looking back, that there were some other things I should have put on that list. Something about trust, and selflessness would have been good. And acceptance of my friends. The willingness to let me keep some of my independence. But, again, I was blinded by my love, and really thought those three things were all that could get me to leave. I was wrong. And I suppose for that I owe him an apology, because even though my intentions were good, my execution was lacking. The best laid plans of mice and men...
In the Army, news travels fast. It's like high school, only with real world drama. The support from my comrades has been overwhelming, even if there were several "I-told-you-so's" tossed in. My mother, as has happened so many times in my life was the exact voice of understanding and support that I needed today. And my dear friends from home have, as always, stepped in without being asked -- despite having been slighted in recent months. That alone made a very distinct point resonate loud and clear with me. Deep down, I know I've done the right thing. It hurts like hell, but the best lessons in life often do, I've learned.
He and I are like fire and gasoline -- when mixed will burn like the fires of hell itself, and when it has exhausted itself will leave black charred remains where the tinder used to be. Luckily, we both got out before it totally consumed us.
Nothing to do now but sweep up the ashes, try to heal the burns, and learn to live with the scars.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Little Changes Can Shock You
I find myself again cursing my inability to sleep... however, this time it is my own fault.
I finally kicked by stubborn self in the butt after my last post, and went to see the medics for my inability to sleep. They prescribed me Melatonin, a natural enzyme released by the brain that tells your body to shut down and sleep. For people that work nights and don't see the sunshine, natural body production of melatonin can be difficult. So, for us, a supplement can work wonders.
And it has. When I remember to take it.
Which brings me to today. I forgot to take it when I went to bed, because I was actually tired, and fell asleep without struggle. Until I had to wake up four hours later to go use the bathroom. Now, I cannot fall back asleep.
Part of that is my own anxiety... my job duties here in Afghanistan have changed slightly, and because of this, I need some new training. However, its training I've already had as a civilian that the Army doesn't recognize, and because of that, I wish I'd never had it. It makes it worse, because I know all to well the hell that is facing me today.
If you have never been shot with a TAZER, consider yourself lucky, and maintain whatever benign existence you have that has prevented you from being on the receiving end of one. Working civilian corrections, I've been TAZED, and its a miserable experience that translates into the longest five seconds of your life. I've been in some pretty painful circumstances over the years, but none of them compare to being TAZED. Its a completely different kind of pain -- one that nothing you can do prepares you for, and you just have to endure and ride it out. "It's only five seconds," will become a phrase that makes you want to instantly knock the speaker's teeth in. It is, no joke and no exaggeration, the longest five seconds you will ever have in your life.
I hate being TAZED. I would rather be hit with OC (Pepper) Spray on a sunburn in 100 degree weather than get hit with the TAZER. I would rather walk into a fire fight. Or a prison riot. Or the fiery depths of Hell itself.
But no. Today, I get to walk into a classroom in our chapel (which I find really ironic, by the way), sit through hours of tedious PowerPoint, and then get shot. I hate today, and it hasn't even started yet.
Someone asked me once what being TAZED felt like. There are no words that do it justice. It is a sharp, literally heart-stopping pain that you feel simultaneously in every single nerve of your body. You can't move. Personal control of any portion of your physical being is removed from you. All you can do is wait for it to be over, and resist the urge to knock out whomever shot you when it is.
I have two more hours I can sleep before I have to prepare for this ridiculousness. Wish me luck...
Saturday, March 10, 2012
I Should Be Sleeping
That, my friends, is a phrase I use often -- especially of late.
In the newest corner of the world that I find myself, I say it nearly everyday, as every moment of free time is precious, and we stretch our conscious hours to ourselves as long as humanly possible. But lately, its not been activities and goings on around me that have kept me from dreamland, but instead the workings of my own overactive mind. I just simply cannot shut down and sleep.
Today, as the rain falls on the roof of my little Army pod, I should be lulling off nicely. After all, who doesn't find soothing calm in the sound of the rain? But instead I find myself thinking back to the places I've been, and the things I've done... in the rain. While the remembrances are entertaining, deep down, I just want to shut down, and nod off.
It has been months and months since I've written here... I suppose I should catch you all up. I'm doing the Army thing... currently deployed to a wonderful vacation-spot known as Afghanistan. I've been here a few months, and fallen into a rhythm of 12-hr days, and 6-day work-weeks. I mark time by my days off, which I cherish more than I can put into words. And I spend my days finding joy in the little comforts here, because otherwise, I would probably lose my mind.
I met a man... and he swept me off my feet last summer. I still find myself struggling to catch my balance, even now, months later from across the globe. Luckily for me, the man is slightly insane, and for reasons I've yet to really understand wants to marry me. We're engaged, and are planning to do the big ordeal sometime in 2013. If I can actually be better about writing here, I will keep you posted on those endeavors.
But, that of course doesn't mean that its all sunshine and rainbows here in paradise. Keeping our relationship intact from 7,000 miles away is a struggle we're still learning the finer points of managing. We have our fights, and our disagreements. But at the end of the day, he's still mine, and I'm still his, and above the chaos and confusion, there's still more love than I know what to do with. So, we're making it work. In a few months... well, 40-something days, to be specific... I'll get my two weeks of leave, and we'll be on a true vacation in Hawaii. That will put me at about six months into all this Army madness, and I will be very excited for sun, surf, flip-flops, and enjoying the more feminine side of myself that I am forced to hide beneath the camouflage and combat boots. And two uninterrupted weeks of time with Chris... yes, I plan to make the most of every blessed instant.
But that doesn't help me now, as the minutes tick away, and the rain falls, and I'm still wide awake. Sleeping during the day (yes, I work night-shift) was something that I thought I'd mastered. But as of late, it has proven more difficult, and I've found that being exhausted is just a normal state of being for me.
Even my PT Test that I took in the rain at 0700 this morning didn't wear me out like I'd hoped. My body is tired, certainly, but my mind still will not rest. It's infuriating.
Eventually, I'll nod off. I'm confident of that at least. But not without wasting too many precious hours that I could have been asleep...
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