Fri, 20 Sep 2024 17:13:20 -0700WeeblySun, 30 Jul 2017 22:10:43 GMThttps://www.herwarhervoice.com/melissas-memories/invisibleI sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.

W.B. Yeats….”Circus Animals’ Desertion”

With a hollow marrow and broken bone, I am trudging.
Outside, my smile on display, my heart for all to see, I am a vibrant shell. A bright shining beacon. But I am invisible.
I feel alone. Not in life. Not in friendship. Not in any avenue other than the one I seek with a seething passion: my marriage.
I feel invisible. To the one person who I want to shine.
Not him. He sees me. Has seen me. Will always see me.
And like any other affliction, any other pain, I have blamed all I can imagine.
While at war, I blamed others. “Tell your husband I am proud of him.” “Tell your husband I am praying for him.” “Tell your husband I am thinking of him.”
I wanted to scream, “What about me?” Where are my thoughts? Who is proud? Who is thinking of me?
Immediately followed by guilt. How could I seethe this venom while he fought in war? How could I ever be so selfish?
So I tied yellow ribbons. Created a world of wife. Mother. All with the knowledge that I am a good mother. A good wife. This I know.
But what about woman?
Where is she? The person I have sought for so long? The creator of music? Art? Poetry?
The woman who once thrived on beauty and experience?
Invisible.
When he came home, I blamed it on the deployment. Blamed it on the waiting. Always, I am waiting. And when I have to wait no longer, perhaps she will be there: the woman I seek in the mirror. The lady who at one time shone with an inner light I never saw. Not until I extinguished it. Not until it was too late. “You don’t know what you had until it is gone.”
“If I wasn’t locked in this house, this life, waiting—perhaps I could be her. She. The.” Right? Must be something outside. Something other than ME.
“I want you to see me, the woman I am inside,” I told him. And was met with a blank stare.
And my heart broke and splintered into a thousand pieces.
Because I am alone in my marriage.
Not the one between man and woman. No. He is here. Pulling his weight. Putting his shattered soul back together. And healing. And I used him for a crutch. He needed me right?
Needed me to keep waiting for him. Needed me to continue to be the mother, the wife. The person of “perfect” family?
I am invisible. And empty in my relationship.
But not the one with him. The one with me.
I forgot how to love that part of me. The one that is more than this. The one that existed, and I pray, somewhere still lives and thrives inside me.
The one that is more. Brighter. Vibrant.
The one I love more than anyone else. And the one I have failed miserably. And made invisible.
And so I stand here, looking in the mirror, and hoping and praying it isn’t too late. That I haven’t let her go and that somewhere, somehow, I can resurrect our love. Our friendship. Our one-ness that must exist. Needs to exist.
Without her, the one who I desperately need to be complete, to be whole again, I am invisible.

]]>Sun, 30 Jul 2017 22:02:25 GMThttps://www.herwarhervoice.com/melissas-memories/i-dont-laugh-when-you-are-goneOn rare occasions, between the anger of constant separations, the crying of children missing their father, and the overwhelmed sigh of me, the person seemingly stuck in this quagmire, I see glimmers of my “happily-ever-after” marriage. Almost like subliminal images instilled in an old silent film.
    I imagine watching myself from a chair in an abandoned film house. I see myself on the celluloid screen. See the faint smile and the miming motion of swirling life. I see my arms wrap around my children and see their willing arms wrap around my neck. Our words pop onto the screen. “I love you, honey,” is written in white on a black screen with delicate fancy framework.
    We are happy. Functioning. Living. Moving and breathing.
    But it isn’t until he enters from stage left that our world begins to expand. The black and white images burst with explosive Technicolor. Our words, no longer mimed in silence, inject themselves onto our tongues. Our explosive reactions thunder from the surrounding speakers. “Daddy!” my children scream. “Hi, babies!” he answers.
    Our children, in their new neon-colored clothes run to his open arms. Their laughter, loud and boisterous, echoes throughout the theater.
    We fall in with him, walking toward a glowing sunset and feeling the warmth of the day. Our shoulders, no longer drooping, push back and our hands, no longer searching, encircle and graze over his. The credits begin to roll as we stand, stoic and proud, basking in the colorful glow of happiness.
    When they are sleeping soundly and happily in their beds, I turn to him. When all is quiet, I release stories of our life without him. I tell him about our growing children, about our lives apart from him. He responds, telling jokes and filling the air between us. I laugh. So hard and full that I begin to realize how empty I feel when he isn’t next to me.
    A tear fills my eyes, and he leans in, his hands cupping my face. “You okay?” he asks. I sigh. Feeling the heat radiating from his hand. “Yeah,” I say. “I just realized that I don’t laugh when you are gone. Well, I mean….I do. I enjoy myself. But, I don’t laugh until I’m dizzy unless you are next to me.” The tear that haunted him falls from my eye. He wipes it clean, leans into my ear, and whispers, “Then we will just learn to exist between the laughs.”
    I can’t imagine any other way.

]]>Sun, 30 Jul 2017 21:55:31 GMThttps://www.herwarhervoice.com/melissas-memories/i-believe-your-daughter-is-depressed“I believe your daughter is depressed,” she said. “This isn’t to say that I am certain just yet. I need to spend more time working with her, but you may want to consider medication.” Essentially, she explained, my five-year-old daughter is walking through a ground fog, and working her tiny body overtime in trying to get out.
    Why did I instantly feel like a failure? Like all my emotions, my pain, my idiosyncrycies were somehow jumping from my frazzled brain to hers? This has nothing to do with me.
    Or does it?
    She has my blood. My eyes. My drive. And my inability to turn off a need to save everything. Every spider. Every person.
    Her heart bleeds, and I want desperately to turn it off. Like a faucet that has overflowed a tub.
    “What are you coloring, honey?” the counselor asked while my daughter doodled. She had a sun in the sky, which I am always looking for—does she still see light in her day? But, around the sun were black clouds. And as the counselor continued to talk, she drew more and more raindrops.
    She looked up at the counselor, and I could see her breaking. Her nose running. Licking her lips. She was on the verge of crying. On the verge of falling apart. But she forced it down. Way back down.
    And I hated myself for ever showing her how to do that. Hate myself now that I hurt too much when she cries to see it for what it is worth.
    How could I have been so blind? So ignorant of the blatant signs of her pain?
    And why do I still have the smallest feeling that this “can’t be my daughter. My daughter can’t be depressed.” But, then, a friend said to me, “How could you expect her not to be?”
    And that is true. How could I expect her to do better or be better at this than I am. I know I am depressed. But I can take it. Can process it.
    But how can her poor tiny body possibly take anymore? Damn!
    Why her? But asking that question means that someone else would have to fill her shoes. Why any of them? Why?
    Her body is tired and her mind is worn. I’m desperate for a way to help her feel the light again. Not just pretend. And not just in a drawing.

]]>Sun, 30 Jul 2017 21:54:44 GMThttps://www.herwarhervoice.com/melissas-memories/her-hairHer hair, curly and bouncy, is knotted and dripping with tears. Tears she has been crying for hours now.
Her hands, dainty and small, are wrapped around my neck, while she says his name. Over and over again.

Her mouth, beautiful when she smiles, is contorted in rage.
My heart, which I can toughen and open at will, is twisted and wrenched. I’m tired of listening to my six-year-old cry. Tired of knowing she is aching for a father who loves her every ounce as much as she loves him.
She should be running, flying kites, never thinking of words like war. Tanks. Guns.
She should be laughing at six-year-old jokes, playing in sand boxes, digging to China while she imagines foreign lands and make-believe trips.
She should be pushing and working her legs, pumping them over and over again while she swings back and forth, looking to the sky. “I’m in the clouds, Mommy!” she should squeal.
Instead she wails.
And I can’t stop it. Or control it. Or ignore it.
I can only respect it. Forcing myself to listen to the wails leaving her body. Praying those demons, those fears of abandonment, will not remain with her for the rest of her life.
In her six years, she has only had him for 10 straight months. Each hello is immediately followed by , “How long will he be here? When will he leave again?”
I force myself to listen.
To her agony. To her cries. To her wails.
I desperately want to stop it. Every ounce of my blood and marrow wants to calm it. Stop it. Keep it bottled rather than listen to the sorrow, the ache in her voice.
But I won’t.
Because she deserves it. She deserves to cry. To wail. To open the cork while the serpentine force creeps from her tiny frame.
She has seen too much. Felt too much. And she deserves to wail. And for me to hold her, with open arms and a quiet mouth until she can sleep again.
That is the least I can do for her.

]]>Wed, 19 Jul 2017 00:36:57 GMThttps://www.herwarhervoice.com/melissas-memories/my-blanket“I began to ask each time: "What's the worst that could happen to me if I tell this truth?" Unlike women in other countries, our breaking silence is unlikely to have us jailed, "disappeared" or run off the road at night. Our speaking out will irritate some people, get us called bitchy or hypersensitive and disrupt some dinner parties. And then our speaking out will permit other women to speak, until laws are changed and lives are saved and the world is altered forever.” ~Audre Lorde, “The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action”

Can you feel it out there? The stickiness? The wondering of our community? The tired and wear and the constant wondering of “What am I supposed to DO with all this?” What is it that is swirling around and what can be done?
I suppose some things are left unsaid. At least that is what I have often been told. Or at times, even believed myself. But some things stick in my throat and burn, and then I have to ask myself: “What is the worst that could happen if I gave these words life? Breath? Ability to mean something other than the suffocating gagging pieces in my broken, charred throat?”
I am not alone in this. I can’t be alone in this. It doesn’t make sense at all to me that I could remotely be alone in this!
Some kind of thickness is out there, moving through and ravaging our community, and I have no words or explanation for what it could be. Except the “unknown” we have all heard is coming regarding the effect of years of war.
I have no specific words or pretty syllables to describe it. But I FEEL it.
I feel the exhaustion. I feel the worn. I feel the anger. Resentment. And, the scariest one I feel: the inability to feel. The inability to find a way to even describe or explain what years of war have done. It surrounds us all, pulling at us with invisible tentacles and infiltrating our homes and our hope and need for peace and calm and a chance to heal.  
Because I have learned so much from experts and friends, and mentors and teachers, and amazing and wonderful people who just simply KNOW what it means to be hurt and ripped and torn, they give me the desire to speak. The desire to do something. Anything.
I am not crazy. And I am not invisible. And I simply know I cannot be alone in wondering so often, “Will we make any sense of this madness?”
This community is traumatized. And sometimes you can’t find the words for that. But, you can feel it so intensely in your body that it locks up and begs for a way out. And sometimes that way out comes in the form of hurting someone else. Or raging. Or yelling. Or holing yourself into a cave until you can figure out what it is you need to say. Or how you will go on. Or what it means to literally put one foot in front of another.
And that is where I have been. In my cave. Trying to figure out how to make sense of all this.
But what if there is no sense to be made? What if we have felt so much that we honestly don’t know how to process feeling anymore?
Should I have logic/rhyme or reason in seeing and watching all that has happened?
Is there a way to discuss all I do not understand? Can’t fathom? Want to fix? Can’t fix?
Here is what I know to be true:

1. Two people working on relationships to the point of having to walk away in order to maintain their sanity and their hearts without losing themselves in an abyss is terrifying. To know this has happened because war tore at them and they tried so hard to keep the love there first? Excruciating.
2. Watching men and women give everything they have to a cause, only to realize it is a system and are now left wondering where they will go is upsetting. To know this will just continue to happen while we fly into the wind—breathtaking. For me, this is not a political issue, a downsizing issue, a logistical issue, this is a  people who believed, issue. That makes it a human problem.
3. Knowing something is wrong and not being able to put your finger on it is unsettling. Knowing something is so far gone that you have lost your ability to speak? The silence is deafening.
4. We all knew war would take a toll. We all knew more than one war would take a greater toll. None of us knew what to expect. That is certain. To now feel the pain and confusion swirling around us while we try to figure out what all this means feels alienating. Even when we know the person next door is filled with, “me, too.”

These are things I know and have witnessed. To name a few. Now, figuring out what to do seems daunting. And that leaves words, even if we had descriptors and definitions and identifiers, feeling less than. In so many ways, less than. But even with finding words to describe the pain and hurt and loss, I come up empty.
I can’t put my exact finger on what I need to say. Because I just don’t know there are words yet for the pain and fear and sadness our community has wrapped around them in a blanket we cling to until it is filled with tears and sweat and blood. And then, because we do not know how to give up and we keep going, we wring it out, and put it on again.
What I do know is that I need to say something.  Something. Just something. And when the words finally come to the tip of my tongue, or when I can figure out exactly what I need, or what we need, or dear heavens what do we all need?! That somehow this dark crevice will begin to close. Or dissipate. Or that we will find a way to stop the gyrating spinning of the last 13 years. I will find that release yawp that has closed my throat.
For now, I am spinning. And needing to speak. And at a loss for the words.

But I see it. And feel it. And I see you all and feel you all and I AM you all.
Me, too.
For now I am out of my cave and feeling the rushing ocean of insanity all around me with my wet dripping blanket around my shoulders. And I will eventually rise like the fierce Kraken from within.
For now, I believe it is enough to simply sit down, take a moment, and tell anyone who can hear me: My blanket is shredded.
But I have room in here for you, too.

]]>Sun, 09 Jul 2017 22:25:56 GMThttps://www.herwarhervoice.com/melissas-memories/baby-steps    After two weeks of travel, driving, hotels, unloading and reloading the truck, I was very happy to be home. Sleeping in my own bed. Touching my own things. It was heavenly. And still is.
    But in coming home, where he was, is, and will be, there was that small sense of sadness. Not enough to grip me again mind you, but enough to tug on me. I pushed it aside, though, happy with the fact that the holidays are now behind me. A new year is under way—the one that will bring him home. And I could return to my rhythm of marking off days, doing activities with the kids, and, of course, writing about everything in between.
    Feeling proud, strong, and ready to relax a bit rather than trying to outrun this deployment, I finally sat down to watch some television. I have rarely forced myself to sit in “our” chair. The one big enough to hold us both, swallow our bodies, and bury us in cushions. The one space that constantly makes me think of him.
    But, now I was ready. Ready to remember him without anger or sadness, but full of memories and understanding of why we have chosen this life. I was stoic. And prepared. And, I could do it!
    Almost.
    I eased myself down into the chair, feeling IT push halfway up my throat. I waited, hoping that knot would work its way back down, but determined not to fight it. If it came, it came. But it didn’t. Nothing came. No tears. No runny nose. I made it through.
    Allowing my full weight to sit in the chair, my legs warm under the blanket, I settled in to watch television. For months I have avoided it. Instead, I sat in front of the computer, writing, doodling, listening to music. Or, I kept myself busy running errands. Starting new projects. Creating, basically, amazing havoc.
    But, not this time. This time, I was calm. Cool. Collected.
    “What’s on television?” I asked myself, knowing full well that any romantic comedies were out. No one could die. No explosions. Certainly no movies about soldiers. Skipping over shows about army wives. Comedies? Nope. Would make me think of him.
    What did that leave? Rudy, the story about that sweet guy who just wanted to play football for Notre Dame. Why is that a crime?
    Settled on catching up with good ol’ Rudy, I snuggled under the blanket and spread my body all over the chair, leaving no room for him to sneak in.
    Football practices. Notre Dame pride. Random janitor who believed in Rudy. Totally safe.
Until the end. When the whole crowd starts chanting his name and he runs out on the field, just so darn happy to be there.
    Tears. That turned into blubbering. “What am I doing! Over football?”
    Instantly, I was that sweet blonde from A League of Their Own, the kind war wife, mother of Stillwell Angel. I saw myself standing there, in my best girly Notre Dame uniform and Tom Hanks screaming at me. “There’s no crying in football!”
    With Rudy happily carried off the field, and my new box of tissues beside me, I looked for something else. Something far from football.
    Aha! Con Air. Nothing about this could possibly remind me of my husband. Good choice.
    “Oh. Look at that! Crazy-haired Nick Cage on a truck. Oh. Blood. Fights. Okay. Nice.” No problem.
    “Wait. No! No! Definitely do NOT give that cute white bunny to your daughter who hasn’t seen you in years. No! No! Don’t you dare hug her!”
    Dang!
    Haven’t been back in the chair. Probably won’t go there for a few more days. It is all about baby steps, right?

]]>Sun, 09 Jul 2017 22:22:46 GMThttps://www.herwarhervoice.com/melissas-memories/again    After two weeks of little to no sleep and a four-year-old child who can’t seem to kick a fever, I finally lost it. Not on someone who deserved it. No, I never take that route. Finding someone who just happens to gleefully and innocently step into my self-destructive fit of rage seems to be my deployment forte. My I-was-just-okay-yesterday, but-now-all-hell-is-breaking-lose pattern.
    While I clean up puke from the floor, the phone rings.
    Me: “Hello?”
    She:  “May I speak to the head of the household?”
    Me:  laughing my internal diabolical laugh. Sure. I’m the head of the household. Who else would be? A husband? A soldier who might actually be home for more than two minutes of our marriage? Of course not! That would be asking for too much normalcy! “This is she.” Sweetly. Sticky. Pulling her into my horrific cage of torture.
    She: “I’m calling on behalf of someone with something who wants to make sure that I rub into your face that normal people are going on vacations. Or at least suffering from the recession in each other’s arms. We are giving away free tickets to the ‘here is how the rest of the world lives exhibition.’ Can I interest you in blowing your money on a pipe dream? Because surely if you buy this wonderful vacation package by the time you actually pay off your credit card bill and pack your luggage, your husband will be shipped off to Korea for a year while you try to salvage your ‘family’ vacation by packing, driving, smiling, photoing, and entertaining your children all without the company of your spouse. Are you interested in this Mrs. Husband-is-never-home?”
    Me: “No thank you. I’m not interested.”
    She: “Are you sure because I am authorized to repeat to you once more about the joys that others are experiencing while you currently ache in your knees from cleaning puke. And, you subsequently have oil dripping from your hair because every time you want to shower, a child either vomits, poops, or screams.”
    Me: “no. Not interested”
    She: “May I ask why?”
    Me: “Because my husband is deployed. And all those wonderful vacations you are describing will not include us, and may never include us again. Is that good enough?” I can feel tears burning.
    She: Silence.
    Me: Smiling. Feeling wonderful. I must be the first person to ever put this horrific, evil…… probably a mother, and most likely the nicest telemarketer to ever call, into her place. Surely no other person could be as brave, no as genius as I to slit open her vein and simply watch it drip, drip, drip while I relish in the sting. The shock. The inappropriateness of my outburst. Surely she deserves this? Surely all who cannot understand what I am going through deserve to have me selfishly pound on them? I am evil. And pathetic. And typical.
    She: I’m truly sorry, ma’am. I won’t take up any more of your time. And, thank you for all you are doing.
    Me: Silence.
Again I am angry. At everyone. No one. And all that lie in between. I have avoided all calls. Pushed myself to recognize when I am moving over into the rage. Educated myself. Talked to others about how the anger will just “sneak up on you. Don’t hate yourself when it does. We all do it. You are fine….” And here I am again. Angry. And ashamed.
    The scariest part is how comfortable it feels to pull that familiar companion from my gut and wear it again.
    So, I’m searching for ways to curb this. Punching a pillow. Signing up for kickboxing classes. Talking. Writing. I don’t enjoy this anger. This horrific toxic fume that fills my body. I keep saying this time I will give in to the process and quit trying to fight it. But who wants to feel this angry? Especially when it spills and “outs” us from our previously pleasant exterior?
    I wish I could call her back and explain how horribly I feel. But, since I can’t, I’ll have to find some way to forgive myself and expel it in some way that doesn’t hurt anyone.
    How do you deal with these fits of rage? Do you have any helpful ideas to get through this?
   

]]>Mon, 29 May 2017 19:29:17 GMThttps://www.herwarhervoice.com/melissas-memories/what-a-military-spouse-knowsAs I forced my hands to unfurl from his neck, feeling the familiar sting in my nose as tears pushed against my will, the words rattled and echoed in my brain. “Not again.”
I watched him walk away--that uniform, identifiable gait—and my heart bent and splintered as the reality of a third deployment began to shower over me.
I picked up the phone, dialing the numbers my numb fingers always meander toward, and sat in silence while she tried to ease my pain. “I can’t imagine…He will be home….I’m here.”
And then she said six words that shot through my ears, penetrated my brain, and stiffened my spine: “You know how to do this.”
She was right. I do know how to do this. I intimately know the all-too familiar lump in my throat. The year of being both father and mother, making the best of a situation. I know exactly how one year feels  as I X each day off my calendar. And I know how to ensure that while our lives are on hold, we still live.
The truth is I know a lot:


* The thought of being alone for a year doesn’t bother me. The fear of being alone for a lifetime—does.
*Flat rate boxes can hold twenty whoopee cushions, four kindergarten projects, and five perfume-scented letters.
*Technology can be a double-edged sword—one side delivering his face; the other a brutal live-action feed of explosions and camouflaged body parts.
*Murphy’s Law is a constant companion. The moment he walks out the door, anything that can break, collapse, bleed, or explode--will .
*Five hours of uninterrupted sleep is a gift from the deployment gods
*Holidays are hard, but manageable.
*Deployments come and go, but sand from his boots never leaves.
*Nothing can replace a handwritten letter. Through those beautifully folded pages, he is holding my hand again.
*When the National Anthem is played, I know goosebumps will rise on my arms, and a lump will fill my throat.
*The silence in communication following a warzone attack is agonizing.
*Laughter is a powerful ally.
*Each deployment offers two options: grow or regress. This is a choice.
*Cereal is always a dinner option.
*Videos of lost teeth, ballerina recitals, and preschool graduations can be emailed to Iraq nearly instantly.
*Five powers of attorney and the intimate details of his will are needed to navigate a deployment.
*White out blizzards can actually bury a truck in five minutes.
*Rosie the Riveter was right: We can do it.
*Children cling to hope and the promise of tomorrow.
* Living in each moment together is possible when facing the fear that it could be your last.
*Welcome home kisses are sweeter than the finest chocolate.
*Anger will grip me and depression can hold me, but another military spouse will steady me.
*A six-year-old child can feel the absence of her father so deeply that she can suffer from clinical depression.
*A military spouse will often hold her/his tongue, silencing a story, for fear of sounding “unpatriotic.”
*The sound of a bugle can make my heart swell with pride or collapse in sorrow.
*Duct tape and a monkey wrench can fix nearly anything.
*Despite the protestors and those who tell me I “knew” what I was getting into, I know there are countless American citizens who will go above and beyond to show they support us.


There are many things I know.
*I know how to change the brakes on my truck, rappel from the side of a cliff, shoot a double-barreled shotgun, balance a checkbook, earn my keep, and kiss a child enough to feel like two.


But there are still so many things I don’t know.


*I don’t know how to start my heart again when I see a death notification car on my street.  
*When that knock echoes on the door of my neighbor, I don’t know how to forgive myself when I am relieved.  
*I don’t know how to hug him enough to last a lifetime, or kiss him just so in order to feel satisfied—should our reunion be at the foot of a pine box.
*I’m not willing to learn how to pretend he doesn’t exist, to keep him out of our life while it goes on without him, or to build a wall so high he has no way to scale it.
*I don’t know how to stop his panic attacks, and I have no idea how to make my nightmares of rampant bombs and lifeless limbs disappear.
*I don’t know how to adjust to his presence in my house when our floor rarely feels the weight of his boots.
*I don’t know how to tell his small children that, yes, he leaves them all the time. But because he loves them so deeply, he is willing to die to keep them free.
*I can’t understand those who would question my desire to stay with him, or how I can peacefully sleep beside a “killer.”
*I am amazed and confounded that despite all he has seen, he still has the courage to laugh.
*I don’t’ know how to give up on my family.


But, most important:


*I have no clue how to still my pounding heart when he finally walks through our door again, I don’t know how to pull my hands from his sand-stained neck and say goodbye, and I don’t know how to ever walk away from a man who stands while many choose to sit.


]]>Mon, 29 May 2017 19:28:05 GMThttps://www.herwarhervoice.com/melissas-memories/the-dream“I had the dream again last night,” I whisper to my friend. “Yeah?” she urges, pulling me to the side. I lower my voice. “He was back in Iraq,” I say. She asks no more. There is no need for an explanation. I feel a burn and a tear slides down my cheek.


“Don’t,” she says, resting her hand on my shoulder. “Not yet,” she says. I look around the restaurant. Army uniforms inhabit nearly every seat. Our husbands return to the table, and we both force a smile. The upcoming deployment is their new dinner companion. I refuse to meet his eyes. Refuse to hand any of my pain, worry, or fear to him. I will resume the mold of the perfect army wife.


Because what if I kill him?


What if the knowledge that another deployment could break me distracts him from his job? What if I show him the inside of my frazzled brain and I muddle his? What if my worried face on a webcam or my tear-filled voice on the phone is the very distraction that puts a bullet through his head?


The fear clutches me with icy hands. He has no way to assuage my worry. Our marriage is no longer our own. He works late, training. He leaves for months at a time, and I have no idea when or where he will be. He isn’t mine. Not completely. And that knowledge infuriates me.


Throughout the day, I attempt to numb my pain. To pacify my rage. But it is there, always boiling and ready to attack.


“How was your day at school?” I ask my daughter as she skips through the school parking lot. “Fine,” she responds. The sun warms my shoulders, and a soft breeze lifts my hair. My anger remains hidden. Until she begins to break. “Where’s Daddy?” she asks, her lips quivering. My face is instantly hot. My mind, racing. Fury begins to roll up my spine. “He’s gone to work for a few weeks, honey. Remember?” I try to hide my anger so she won’t share it. I fail. “Why?” she wails. My hands begin to clench, and my mind moves back in time. I want to know why myself. Why does he always leave? Why can’t he ever be here with us? With me? “I want Daddy!” she finally releases. Blackness fills my mind. At the end of the pinhole tunnel, I remember the last deployment, her tiny two-year-old frame raging and sobbing for him. Instantly, I am there again.


He is in Iraq. I am on the floor, begging her to stop screaming. She bangs her head, repeatedly on the hard linoleum floor. She screams. Bites me. Punches me. Anything to dispel her rage. Vividly I see her there again, flailing. It is excruciating. Mortifying. And I am filled with rage that he did that to her. That he continues to do that to her.


I look at her now, her body bigger, her arms leaner, and I see her months from now, when he is in Iraq again, begging, writhing, and wailing. “Stop screaming,” I snap. “I’m here. Why can’t you just be happy with that? Daddy’s gone!” Her wet eyes meet mine. I can only imagine my bulging eyes. My twisted mouth. My trembling lips. I must look like a monster to her. I turn from her, ashamed and instantly filled with guilt.


“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper. She wants nothing to do with me, and we walk home in silence.


When he finally walks through our door again, she runs to him, flooding him with hugs and kisses. He returns her affection and begins the long process of catching up. After the stories, the new “tricks” and giving of gifts, she finally lets out my secret. “Mommy yelled at me,” she says. “What?” he asks, confused. “She screamed very so loud, and she scared me!” she whines. He looks to me, searching my face for an answer.


I lie. “Oh, she’s just joking,” I say. “It was just a rough day,” I explain, hoping he will let it go. He does. He trusts me. And I hate myself. But I can’t worry him. Can’t make him fear that I will crack and somehow hurt our children in his absence. I can’t allow him to think this pain will break me. I can’t explain that watching her writhe in pain again, watching her beg me and bite me for a father I can’t produce, could be the fuse that explodes me. I can tell him none of that. I have to be the perfect mother.


The pressure to be perfect swirls around him as well. The fear of failing in his role of soldier sits on his drooping shoulders. He sits at the table, his head in his hands, reading the latest headlines. “We lost another one,” he says. “Oh? Iraq? Or Afghanistan?” I ask. “Neither,” he says. “Another suicide,” he states, pushing away the paper. His eyes, glazed and unfocused, look over my head.


“How did he do it?” I ask, cautiously. He stares. “Why?” he asks. “Does it matter?” he questions. “Just curious,” I mutter, avoiding his eyes. “He took a bunch of pills,” he says. He looks up. I glance at him for only a moment then push my gaze toward the wall. “That’s the way to go,” I mumble. He stops, puzzled. “I’m just saying it’s better than shooting yourself.” I try to avoid his stare. He puts his hand over mine, and I immediately pull away. “You okay?” he asks. I get up, move across the floor, and clumsily begin to prepare dinner. “Sure,” I say beneath my breath.


I can’t tell him that I think about it. Not dying. Just escaping. I want to sleep peacefully. To never have to hear those words again: “I’m going back.” I want to drive. Fly. Float, or even hallucinate away from this drenching reality. The possibility beckons. I know the exact location of every pill. Every pain killer. Every possibility of deadening myself. But I can’t acknowledge it. Because he would patrol the streets of Baghdad, wondering if he hid that bottle of sleeping pills. I need him focused. Need him to be vigilant. I can’t be the reason he comes home in a box.


Only other military wives understand this fear. We are intimate with it. Possessed with it. No one beyond the grasp of the military can understand me. And I hate them for it. I am completely numb and intolerant of their world.


My phone rings constantly. He checks the caller ID. “Your friend is calling again,” he says, handing the phone to me. “I don’t want to talk right now. I’m tired,” I say, ignoring the hard plastic in his hand. “She has left several messages,” he pushes. “I’ll call her later,” I say, hoping he will drop it. He doesn’t. He pushes the green button and walks out of the room. “No. Sorry. She’s gone again,” I hear him say. “I’ll tell her,” he responds. He ends the conversation, staring at me from across the room. “She’s been your friend for ten years. Shouldn’t you talk to her?” he asks. “I will,” I answer. “Just drop it,” I urge.


She can’t understand. She has never kissed her husband goodbye. She has never waited all day for a death notification knock on her door. She has never worried he could be beheaded, and she has never welcomed him home, wondering if he would resemble the same man who left. She has no idea what a daily goodbye feels like. It isn’t casual. Never flippant. Our goodbyes are a final statement. Over and over again. Hers are hopeful. And I hate her for it. But I can’t tell him. Can’t let him know that my friends and family cannot ease my pain while I worry my day away.


It isn’t just our days that are haunted. Our nights, once an escape, are dense with nightmares, flashbacks, and horrific visions of things yet to come.


I dream, over and over again, of his explosive death. Pieces of his body rain down on me, and smoke fills my lungs before I snap awake, sweating and crying. There is no escape. I try to count at night in some attempt to dull my mind. I try reading long after he sleeps. I try creating future vacations, visions of our grown children. Nothing saves me.


While I dream of death, he dreams of escaping it. Over and over again. He tosses angrily in his sleep. To avoid his clenched fists, I ease myself toward the end of the bed. I move slowly and methodically. After all, behind his eyelids, he is searching for an elusive enemy. He yells. Grunts and moans. When I finally reach the other side of the room, I wait, sometimes for nearly an hour, for him to stop thrashing and punching the bed. When he is finally still, I call his name. “David,” I whisper. Nothing. “Honey,” I say, remembering the advice to help him separate war from home. “Sweetie,” I say, louder. “Yeah?” he responds, cloudy and confused. “What are you doing over there?” he asks when his eyes finally adjust to our bedroom. “Was I dreaming?” he questions. “Yeah,” I say. “But this one wasn’t too bad.”


He sits up in the bed, drinking water to wet his scorched throat. I sit beside him, waiting. He remains quiet. I don’t blame him. I don’t want to talk about my dream either. “Did I hurt you?” he asks timidly. “No,” I respond. “Were you afraid I would?” he continues. I pause, knowing he knows the truth. “No,” I whisper.


We sit in silence, waiting for the night to take us again.


He knows I am tortured. Knows that I am breaking. I know he is worried. Terrified that a third deployment could be the final nail in his coffin. We live each day in the shadow of another deployment. Always pretending there is no deployment. The agony is eating me alive. I am disintegrating in front of him. But I can’t tell him.


Because what if I kill him?




]]>Mon, 29 May 2017 19:21:46 GMThttps://www.herwarhervoice.com/melissas-memories/pinecones
“I just love a man in uniform,” my college roommate said, looking over my shoulder into the dim lights of the pub. I turned my head, following her gaze and finding her object of lust. He had on a set of army fatigues, and his eyes met hers.

“Not me,” I responded. “Give me a dirty, shaggy hippy any day,” I said, half laughing. With every great uncle, every uncle, as well as my father in war, I knew intimately what a uniform represented: sacrifice. I ran from camouflage.

As if beckoned, he pulled out a chair across from me. His eyes oozed zest. He smiled, smirking and mocking me. I instantly hated him. “You need to leave,” I told his inviting goatee, shaggy hair, and grungy clothes. He ignored me, staring across the table and urging me to give in.

He talked. I ignored. He laughed. I stared.

“Look at these guys,” he said, pointing to the fraternity table behind us. “They are here on their parent’s money. They have no idea what suffering looks like,” he said. “And how would you know?” I spit, ready to fight. “Because I just got back from El Salvador. I’m in the army reserves and we went there for a hurricane relief mission.” Without my consent, I began to give.

Three weeks later, he showed up at my house. I opened the door, electrified to see his tongue piercing. His thick curly hair. His long, wiry goatee. “I just wanted to stop in before I leave. I’m on my way to shave and get my hair cut,” he said. He had his uniform folded over his arm, and I immediately stiffened. “These are for you,” he said, holding out a basket of pinecones. I stared at them, puzzled. “It’s every pinecone between my house and yours. I didn’t have the heart to pick the flowers,” he said. He leaned in to kiss me goodbye.

He has been kissing me goodbye ever since. Four years later, he went active duty, propelled by 9/11. He kissed me goodbye for seven months of training. Kissed me and our newborn daughter goodbye for a deployment to Afghanistan. In between those kisses, came more kisses for training, schools, and field exercises.

Then the excruciating kiss goodbye before he left for Iraq. Fear and worry that it could be our last. That our toddler and our newborn son wouldn’t know him.

My heart felt like lead, trying to understand how to let him go. My arms, numb and weak, felt awkward in a last hug. I watched him walk away, knowing it could be the last time I see his feet. His hands. His black hair. His smooth-shaven face.

I grieved for him. And my daughter did as well. She searched for comfort, for some way to understand what a goodbye actually means in our family. I told her he would come home. But even a small child can recognize a lie. I had no way to promise her she would ever see him again. And I had no way to ensure our new son would ever know what his father’s arms felt like. I had no way to cement David’s laughter into his memory.

We pushed our marriage through the pain, agony, worry and fear for his death. Every day, one step closer to his return. And every day another mission that could kill him. We wrote letters to ensure our memories stayed alive. I sent packages full of baby clothes and finger paintings in an attempt to keep him a vibrant part of our family.

I thought it all worked. He came home, ready to be a father and husband. I searched for a way to be his wife. For nearly a year, I was anything but that, and the shock of returning to calm, everyday chatter seemed impossible when flashbacks, panic attacks, anger, discussions of bombs, lifeless bodies, and scattered limbs ran rampant in our home.

But we managed. He was allowed a readjustment period, and he grew a goatee. Allowed his thick hair to return to lush curls. And I saw in him that same devilish grin. My heart, tattered and worn, returned to that familiar thump. That wonderful half-beat of adoration.

He kissed me goodbye for another year, going to school to become an officer. I allowed it. Tasted it and welcomed it. At least he was safe, far away from exploding bombs in Baghdad. We wrote letters again. Taped our shredded family together again. And we made it through three years of separation in our six-year marriage.

Until.

“I’m going again,” he told me. “What?” I cried. “You just got home three months ago!” There is no answer. No way to understand or control anything about this lifestyle. He shrugged his shoulders, walked away, and left me stewing in my anger.

It felt familiar and comforting to be wrapped in pain again. Instantly, I returned to concrete, refusing his embrace.

“I won’t be home tonight,” he told me over the phone. “We are headed back out to the field, and I have no idea when I will be back,” he said. “But, I have dinner,” I complained. “I can’t do anything about it,” he responded before the line went dead.

He can never do anything about it. Never stop the pain. Never assuage the worry. Never control anything except his kiss goodbye. Dinner sat untouched and cold. Our children waited patiently for him to kiss them goodnight, refusing to believe he wouldn’t be home again. They cried. I raged. My hands felt like weapons. I wanted to tear them apart, force them to bleed, to feel anything other than this rage. That same familiar fury contorted my body. He isn’t mine. Never completely. 

I lifted his plate, the one that rarely feels the weight of his food, and threw it against the wall. The sound felt comforting, and I sat in the floor, watching the colors fuse and ooze down the wall.

He is home now, playing with our children, holding my hand. But he is preparing another kiss. Another goodbye. And I am aching. Just the thought of his ear enduring more explosions, sand covering his face, and bullets ripping the air he breathes causes me to lose my breath.

I sit on the phone, watching through the window as he plays outside. The kids run, laughing and skipping as he pretends to chase them. It is a family scene that I once dreamed of while waiting for my hippy prince charming.

“When will he go?” she asks on the other end. “Who knows?” I quip. “Do I ever know anything?” I ask. She is silent. “I’m not sure I can do this anymore. I’m tired of goodbye. It is always goodbye,” I whisper into the phone.

“What are you going to do? You aren’t going to leave are you?” she asks, worried. “I don’t know,” I stammer. “Well, I don’t know how you do it anyway,” she says.

The kids burst through the door, hiding something behind their backs and giggling. I smile, curious and worried that a dead bug could be my surprise. “Open your hands and close your eyes,” they sing. I obey. In my hands, I feel the familiar spines. I inhale and instantly recognize that intoxicating smell.

I open my eyes, already crying. “Why are you sad, Mommy?” my daughter asks. “I’m not, honey. I’m very happy,” I say. She smiles, and my son wraps his arms around my legs. “They from Daddy,” he says. I look over their heads to see his face looking through the window. His eyes twinkle just as they did ten years ago. His smile, still devilish and charming, invites me in once again.

“Hello?” I hear on the receiver. “Sorry,” I say. “What were you saying?” I ask, confused. “I said I just don’t see how you do it,” she responds. “Oh,” I breathe, running my fingers over the pinecones and remembering.

“I just love a man in uniform, I suppose.”

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