​            It was the toothpaste that ultimately shattered Tyana--the thin line of blue that snaked across the counter. Remnants of fingers that squeezed with glee while it oozed from the tube onto the marbled surface.
            Resentment crept up her back and settled behind her ears. Tingling pricks of aching need pushing at the thin membrane.
            She knew it wouldn’t take much. How could it? She had built her exterior with leftover fragments of need, longing, wistfulness, and the grit of “never giving up.” Small edgings of hope and love--a thin-soldered line bursting at the seams.
            “Renee!” She screamed into the hallway of their small two-bedroom home. “How many times do I have to tell you to clean up the toothpaste if you spill it? This isn’t hard!” She jerked toilet paper from the wall. The roll spun its layers into the floor. She growled. She would have to clean that up, too.
Tiny feet moved in the hallway. Soft thuds of frustration in facing the same argument. Again and again.
            “I did!” Renee stood at the door, her head barely clearing the door, her eyes wide with fear. Tyana whipped around and squatted to her level. Those large almond-shaped eyes asked for forgiveness before her mouth could form the words.
            “Oh yeah? Then what’s this?” Tyana pointed. Her finger was crooked from arthritis that had begun to settle into her joints. She longed for the day when she had played the piano without pain. Or worked on a car with steady hands. Hell…when she could thread a needle without needing two sets of glasses. Or even when she could stitch a person while bouncing through the desert without flinching. Or nicking.
            Renee pushed her foot into the floor and twirled her leg. “Mommy. I didn’t do it. I swear I didn’t.”
            “So did some kind of fairy come in here in the middle of the night and do it?” Rage rattled in Tyana’s chest. The push and pull of the last fifteen years. All the time she had spent in a uniform, waiting or hoping for something to change—looking for a way back to her family.
            But that way was riddled with an MEB board, VA testing, piles of paperwork, and a diagnosis that often still left her reeling. She could handle the PTSD. Well, at least she thought she could. Who didn’t have PTSD at this point? But the TBI often left her lonely and vacant. Constantly wondering if what she remembered was real. Or a figment of a memory she had twisted into her own thought. Her own reality. Separate from everyone else’s.
            She knew it was hard on her family. Which translated into: She was a problem for her family. Of course, they never said that. But she felt it in her husband’s sad eyes. She saw it in Renee’s as her young mind worked to understand what it meant to have a “holey brain.”
            Renee stood for a long while in front of her. Her small body shifting from one foot to the other. Her eyes down. Her heart racing.
            Tyana knew what was coming. But knowing didn’t stop the pain when the words steeped into her chest.
            “No, mama. You did it. Remember?” Renee refused to look at Tyana. Respect and honesty were such fine lines for a small body to walk.
            “You said you wanted to teach me a lesson and that I had to get up this morning and clean it.”
            Tears pooled in the corner of Tyana’s eyes. She wanted to break the mirror. Or to run. Anything to get away from the shame she felt.
            How could she be a mother like this?
            How could she be a partner like this?
            How could she ever be herself again like this?
            Renee deserved better. And the fact that Tyana knew this ripped her in two.
            “I’m sorry,” Tyana whispered. She pulled Renee’s chin gently up and begged her eyes to meet hers.
            “Renee. Honey. I’m sorry.” Renee nodded. A nod that showed how used to this she was. And how worn she was in the pattern.
“Sometimes Mommy just can’t remember, and well…I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” Tears fell down her face and she lowered herself to her knees—just in front of Renee, in some hope that she had lowered herself enough. She opened her arms and her daughter fell into them.
            Renee’s small body held years of pain. Pain that no child should ever have to bear. Tyana wondered if there would ever be a way she could make it up to her. Make it better. Make her brain whole again so her sweet child did not have to carry such a burden. Or that her patient husband did not have to feel so alone.
            Renee walked from the room, her head slightly higher. A spring back in her step. And Tyana pulled a wet cloth from the bathtub to wipe away the toothpaste.
            Tears rolled down her nose and onto the countertop.
            “Hey, babe. What’s up?” Ryan said. He rubbed his eyes, working the sleep out of them.
            “Oh. You know. Just the usual.” Tyana created blue circles on the counter. The toothpaste seeped deeper into the pores.
            “What happened?” Ryan put his hand over hers. The mere touch made her want to scream.
            “I happened! Just like I always do.”
            She threw the rag into the sink and kicked the cabinet. The door swung open and back against the frame. She gripped the edge of the counter. Panic surged into her throat and forced her breathing into short, raspy hiccups.
            “What am I going to do?” she asked through her gulps of air. Fresh sobs filling the staccato void.
            Ryan moved closer to her. He lifted her chin and pulled her eyes into his.
            “What are we going to do.”  He pulled her into his arms and exhaled. Then took another deep breath. She worked to align herself with him. She gripped the back of his shirt and forced her body to submit to his calm demeanor.
            “We are going to do this like we do everything else. Together.”
            She sighed and melted into him. The worry of tomorrow ate at the edges of her brain. The fear of what was to come stuck on the roof of her mouth.
            But for one moment, she chose to believe.

This story is very emotional and very triggering. Before you read this please know that it contains rape and abuse.
It is extremely important though.
When we can, we talk about what we've gone through, what we're going through. We try to be there and see those going through the same things, or those who have been through it.
Because we know, from personal experience, that no one actually understands unless they've gone through that same hell.


    “Make one more move, and I will kill you.” His voice wraps around Sarah like hot oil, burning and singeing her skin. His hands squeeze her neck, pushing her tendons into her muscle until she can feel nothing but numbness. Lost. Disappearing inside herself.
    Images blur, shifting from blue diamonds behind her eyes to red triangles. And bright stars--stars like she once saw in the beautiful night sky on the Syrian border. Stars that she lay under, planning her future, her bright career as she climbed the ranks. Stars that now dim and burrow into the background, hidden away in the depths of her mind.
    Her body jerks awake, attempting to protect her. Even now. So many years after that night was first burned into her dark skin.
    The trip to the hospital. The rape kit. The feeling of being violated all over again while someone probed and pushed and “sweetied” her to the point of tears.
    “I know, honey. It hurts. But we have to do it,” the nurse had said. Sarah could remember nothing more about her beyond the smell of lavender oil and latex. Her body curling into itself. Her mind blaming and shaming her for every movement.
    How could I let this happen to me? Why didn’t I fight harder? I am trained in combatives, and I still froze.
    Sarah had tried to tell herself the things she knew, or had heard in the classes she had been forced to attend. “Rape is about power, not sex.” “No means no.” “Rape is never the victim’s fault.”
    But that word had hung around Sarah’s neck like an albatross: victim. Victim felt dirty. Weak.
    And if she is honest, weak is how she feels. Day in and day out. As he moves every step with her, infiltrating her mind, and working so hard to maintain his control.
    He follows her into every dream. Each dark night when she walks alone. Her arms wrapped tightly around her. Her dog tags around her neck, reminding her that she is trained to fight. Enemies. Surprise attacks.
    But never one of her own.
    Never someone she had trusted. Never someone who was supposed to protect her at all costs.
    It all swirls and wraps her in ratty sheets. Each thought. Each memory. Each moment not feeling like her own.
    She pulls the covers from her sweat-filled bed. An outline of her body stays behind. A reminder of the shadow of a person she has become.
    She moves into the bathroom and turns on the shower. The hot mist slowly snaking its way across the mirror—pulling her tear-stained face with it. A face she hates. Despises.
    One that feels like it should be ripped apart with razors. Scarred for life so that no one would ever want to touch her again. Ever want to put his hands over her throat to keep her silent.
    It takes a lot to love a face that only holds shadows were light and joy once existed.
    If she goes deep within herself, down to that very core that beats with the self-loathing she has come to live with, eat with, drive to work every day with—like a dark companion that moves and glides with her, just one step away at any given moment—she hears that dark thought that keeps her from going to sleep at night. The one that echoes at the bottom of an empty beer bottle. The one that rattles in a bottle of pills.
    You deserved it.
    The rational side of her, the one that takes a shower, does her PT every morning, makes sure her short hair never touches her shoulders—that side knows the voice is wrong. That it is the darkness calling to her. The words his hands used as they attacked her. The hopes he had when he left her on the floor, broken, beaten, bleeding. That he would forever win.
    But there is a piece deep inside her that he will never be allowed to touch. The one that she hid that night—in the protective corner of her gut.
    That little piece of her that pushes her to actually step into the shower. Face the day. And walk into work. Her uniform crisp and perfectly set. Because she knows the price she paid to wear it. The battle she fights every day to come into the office, feel them all snap to and say: “Good morning, ma’am.”
    Some days she wonders what they see in her eyes. Can they feel her fear? Her worry that she will be found out? Exposed? Again?
    Do they wonder why she never goes out for beers? Never wants to stay for a bit and “chat with the guys”? Can they see through her? Or do they only see the cold exterior she works to keep her locked away?
    She keeps her eyes straight ahead. Steely and always ready. Away and untouchable.
Until she sees eyes that mirror her own. Eyes that look down, unable to maintain eye contact. Bodies that step to the side, too quickly, too easily. Fear of being known radiating from them.
    Those eyes get her up every day--the ones who need to hear the story, who ache for someone to understand. She pushes herself out of bed and onto the floor for those who need her to stand. The ones who are looking for someone, anyone, who is willing to protect them. To hear the words, “I will fight for you.”
    This is how she wins over him—how she regains her control. She will say the words that spewed from his mouth, the words that she trusted. Only she will embody them.
His hands will not destroy her. And she will do all she can to ensure no one ever feels alone ever again.
    Not on my watch.
    She steps forward to the eyes. The ones that have changed since the last time she saw them. The ones that look away just a little too quickly.
    “Good morning,” she says, quietly. She looks just to the right of young woman’s face, beyond the demand that is well known in the military. A way to let her escape eye contact.  A way to offer control for someone who feels powerless.
    “Good morning, ma’am,” she responds.
    “I have some paperwork in my office I need to discuss with you. Come with me,” she says.
    Sarah can feel the eyes move. The fear permeating the air. Boots squeak over the linoleum floor.
    She opens the door and waits for those boots to walk through. She closes it quietly behind her. Forcing the dream-like hands from her neck and into submission.
    She clears her throat, taking a deep breath and feeling the strength in her tendons and muscles as she prepares to utter the most important words she can say to a person who has been crushed with the weight of pain and shame:
I believe you.


If you need help, please reach out.
We have been here. Lived here.
You can learn to make plans for next year.
Please, reach out. To us, or one of these groups:


MILITARY ONESOURCE

Consultant Line: 1(800) 342-9647 Web: www.militaryonesource.mil
Military Crisis Line: 1(800) 273-TALK (8255)

NATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION LIFELINE

1 (800) 273-TALK (8255) Web: www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

NATIONAL DOMESTIC VIOLENCE HOTLINE

1(800) 799-SAFE (7233) Web: www.thehotline.org

NATIONAL SEXUAL ASSAULT HOTLINE

1 (800) 656-HOPE (4673) Web: www.rainn.org

NATIONAL CHILD ABUSE HOTLINE

1 (800) 4-A-CHILD (422-4453) Web: www.childhelp.org

NATIONAL CENTER FOR MISSING AND EXPLOITED CHILDREN

1 (800) THE-LOST (843-5678) Web: www.missingkids.com

Note: Many of these have options for those with communication
needs such as Español only or hearing impaired. Check the organization’s website for details.

Melissa's written us another short story-I honestly can't yet put into words how much I've been loving the stories she's been writing for us.
In this one, we're reminded of the stress and anxiety of preparing for homecoming. That fear that the changes that have happened, both in our bodies and our lives, will somehow take away the love our partner has for us.     


  Rene stood in front of the mirror. Something she had avoided for several months. Her favorite black yoga pants had morphed into a soft, dull gray. Fraying at the edges and giving way to new weight.
    She pulled at the sides, hoping to see space there. Wishing for less flesh and exhaling with frustration as it rolled out over the top. She peeled down the elastic band, just below her belly, and examined the thick, red zigzags of traumatized skin. A checkered pattern telling a story. Only, a story that felt like it had run off without her—the protagonist.
    Getting pregnant had been hard on both of them. So many nights of watching a thermometer. Holding of breath while peeing on a stick. The shots. The pain of seeing a negative. Again and again.
    The elusive positive they both hoped for wreaked havoc on their marriage. Where there was once light and happiness and impromptu dinners and dates—hours of anguished waiting filled the air. Arguments were plenty, always pushing and questioning why they were doing it. And if it was all worth it.
    The answer was clear to both of them when the double lines appeared. Small, thin, pink affirmations that all their hopes and dreams were real and worthy--their entire universe wrapped in a small white piece of plastic.
    Rene had put the thin test stick in a plastic bag and wrapped it inside a sock for safe keeping. She kept it in a shoebox, just above her clothes. Should she ever need it. Should it ever call to her.
    At times, it had.
    And at times, she cried with it tucked close into her chest.
    The pregnancy was hard. Harder than most, she felt. But too scared and too much of a beginner to ask. The mommy circles were hard, she had learned. Quick to support. And quicker to condemn.
    She kept to herself as much as possible. Holding her stomach while she made dinner. Waiting for that uniform to show up in the driveway. Those boots to fall to the floor.
    Together they would watch movies, both cuddling around her growing belly. Living in the thick moments of family. Of life.
    Until.
    “Why can’t you talk to somebody?” she had asked. Over and over again. “Don’t they understand I am pregnant! Can’t someone else go?” They both looked down to the floor. Both longing for the ability to speak that truth out loud to someone. Anyone.  And both feeling guilty for what it would mean to even consider asking—someone else would go to war. Someone else could die. Forever cementing their presence into their marriage.
    “Orders are orders.” The words had fallen flat. Stuck in her heart with a twisted dagger of truth. They both knew this could happen. And they both knew they could not wait to start a family. Waiting had no promises in the army.  Yet, Rene had wanted, just once, to come first. A military impossibility most times.
    The words were thick between them. Twisted and jagged edges. Thick syllables. Dark adjectives.
    And her belly grew.
    Until the day she held Reese for the first time. Her belly now an empty cave. A reminder of all that had lived there. All that had breathed. And the time that had passed that would take her to a bus. The white ones she had come to dread. And love. A symbol of a cycle of missing and kissing.
    From the moment she said goodbye and walked away, months crawled. And while she worked each day to remember that her Reese was a gift she had delicately packaged and kept safe, he was also a reminder of the family that was not whole. And his eyes held the one person she did not want to see, over and over again.
    It was a twisted paradox for her. A constant punch in the gut. Followed by guilt.
    Those eyes were also a reminder of all that she believed in. All that she had ever hoped for. For the three of them. For herself.
    She loved seeing the world through his eyes. Loved watching them grow big and round when he saw an ant for the first time. When he first tried whipped cream. There was magic in his eyes. And Rene was addicted to it.
    Each day brought them closer. Tighter. Developing a language that only the two of them understood. A routine that held them. And carried them through each day.
    Every night, Rene collapsed into her bed. Exhausted from nursing him and working to find a way to keep Reese happy. Living. Laughing. And to keep her heart beating while it felt bent.
    So much of it felt unfair. So hard to understand. How could one person feel so attached to a baby and the person he becomes on a daily basis, and to the life they share, and yet, feel so empty? Like a shell working to find its way back to the ocean floor. Each day brought a wave of confusion as she moved from extreme happiness in all that Reese meant. And was. To deep depression when she realized, again, that she was alone in witnessing it.
    She held her stomach. Lifting the extra folds. Pulling on the story it held.
    “So much for losing all the baby weight before you came home,” she exhaled into the bathroom air.
    She pulled the new dress she had bought herself over her head. She spent several moments staring into the mirror, her mouth in an ‘O” shape while she worked the mascara through her lashes. It had been a while since she put on makeup. She had to admit that it felt nice to get dressed up. To feel like something other than a mother for a while. To be a wife. A woman. Again.
    She leaned into the mirror one last time, taking in her face. A face that felt different. New. More abundant. She could hardly see the concealer she had layered over the dark blue and purple rings just under eyes. Or the crow’s feet that had settled around the corners.
    Part of her wondered if it would matter. Would she still be attractive? Still be wanted? She knew in her heart of hearts that none of her fears were founded.  But change has a way of leaving jagged edges.
    Months apart works into a psyche. Shreds at confidence. And several reunions had already taught her that nothing is for certain.
    She could expect adjustment. And difficulty. And a first kiss that would send her body into spasms and would light her chest on fire. Again.
She sighed, deeply. Looking to the clock to see the minutes have finally ticked by. One moment closer to being a family again. To being whole.
She wondered for just a moment if she could share Reese. Would she be able to give him over so easily? To put him into arms that had not held him? Had not nursed him? Had not comforted him through countless long and exhausting nights, his cries filling the small home and floating up into the floor of her neighbors above her.  Those arms had not been there to hold her at night while she wondered if she was failing. If she was a good mother. While she begged for sleep that just would not come.
Those arms had been gone for so long.
She pushed the fear and worry down deep inside her. To a secret place she hoped would stay locked. And dormant.
She pulled the brush through her hair one last time, and ran to get Reese. 6:00. It was time to head to the hangar. The same one she had been to several times before. But this time, she would be the mother she had always envied before. The one carrying the diaper bag. The frozen milk. The stroller. The snacks to pass the time when delay upon delay happened.  The one hiding her fears and worries and concerns about how to become a family again. And the one who couldn’t wait to get home. To be alone. In the dark.
    She followed the crowd of cars into the parking lot and worked to unload all she would need for the long wait. Snacks. Sippy cups. Plush toys. Her excitement rose as she looked to Reese. His eyes taking in the balloons. The bright reds and blues floating in the cloudless sky.
They ambled along with the crowd, finding their spot on the metal bleachers.  Rene covered her heart in hopes to slow it. All the waiting. All the nights of reaching over to the next pillow, only to find it empty. They would be over in mere moments. The same thought radiated through the room. Bouncing from nervous person to person.
    The hangar door opened and a voice boomed through the loudspeaker. The bleachers vibrated, the crowd roaring in response. Rene grabbed Reese, jumping to her feet. Her ribcage rattled with each heartbeat.
    Nothing mattered. No worries. No fears. No countless thoughts cluttering a brain that had too much time to think. Nothing existed between them but a man who droned on and on while she searched the crowd for those eyes. That hair. That wink that she knew would come her way.
    His voice finally stopped. And then she heard what they all had been waiting for. The dismissal. She ran. Her heart pounding. Her world moving toward completion.
    Through the sea of uniforms, she found the arms that were just for her. Molded for just her shoulders. And she fell into them, inhaling all they had endured for the last several months.
    She sighed deeply, pulling Reese from her hips and moving him into the arms that had waited to hold him. The ones that had been there, curled around her belly. The ones that had spent hours writing letters. Creating videos. Aching.
    “Reese! Mommy’s home!” she said into his ear. And she exhaled, for the first time in months, as her hand fell into the familiar mold of her wife’s.

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