Sunday, June 20, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Reasons
You know, the reason I don't write here often is simple. I pull up Blogger, I write a few sentences about how overwhelmed I am by everything, and then, because I AM so overwhelmed, I'm just too exhausted to dive into it all.
It's pretty pitiable, if I do say so myself. Poor me, eh? Yeahh.
The situation with Andrew and me, well, it frankly still sucks right now. I've not spoken to him in a week, and haven't had a proper conversation in two weeks, and haven't had a pleasant conversation in almost 3 weeks. We're not arguing, we're just... really struggling. I'm struggling to muster any strength at all, he's struggling to muster any good feeling at all. The last time I got an email from him, he remarked with a sigh that it seemed like someone up in the government genuinely wanted all of the 1-17 men to die. It just gets harder and busier and more dangerous for them. You'd think it would be getting easier. Most of them are coming home in a week and a half, and yet, it seems like the military is squeezing every last drop of effort and life and use out of them before they leave.
I've gotta set that aside for now. It's too exhausting even to think on.
On another note, today marks the one-year anniversary of my beloved granddaddy's homecoming. I miss him alot. He was the best man I knew. And, in the same few weeks leading up to his heavenbound journey, I was falling in love with the other best man I'd ever know--my love Andrew. I only wish Granddaddy could have met Andrew. But at least, I did have the chance to tell him about my new romance, so Granddaddy knew that I had found the other half of my heart, just like he had, over six decades earlier.
In memoriam, here is the first bit of my senior thesis, which was inspired directly by Granddaddy's wonderful stories. Just substitute "Warren" and "Betty June" for Henry and Annie May, and you've almost got a biography instead of a piece of fiction.
Love you, Granddaddy.
Henry had two weeks of shore leave and a girl at home to propose to. When Hughes, Greene, and Berger told him they had scrounged up a Ford and did he want to drive across country with them, all he could see was her in that green dress standing on her mother’s porch. He stepped on land, it was early June, and her name was Annie May. Annie May Mills. There had never been such a beautiful name on such a beautiful girl. Fourteen months on the destroyer, and his mind was just as drenched with her—the high lashes, the typists’ fingers, the well-made linen dresses, the gardenia cologne. They had written letters, and though sometimes his letters were sentimental, she always wrote so calmly. So cool, so clever, so old-family South, just what he liked about her. She wrote about her sisters, and about her painting, and her job, and he could tell that she always wrote exactly what she meant. He wrote about seeing the Polynesian islands and all the pungent sweat-and-flowers smells he’d never forget, when he wanted to write about how he remembered the scent of her hair. He wrote about his Catholic bunkmate, when he was really thinking about the times she’d let him escort her to the Presbyterian Church. He wrote about hard-as-shoe-leather Navy biscuits, when he was yearning to recall the light-as-a-cloud meringue pie she made for Easter last year. He wasn’t a shy fellow, but something about her and the thought of how she’d read his letters knocked him to pieces.
When he wrote her about his two weeks in June, he told her he loved her, terrifically, and that she’d better watch out or he might ask her to marry him. He had shoved that letter directly into the hands of the petty officer and ran off again before he could change his mind, and then he had cold sweats for the rest of the morning. He drank a lemonade, paced on about on deck, and told Hughes to physically restrain him if he attempted to go steal it back. They both got shouted at for brawling, but back in their quarters that night, Henry shook his Hughes’ hand and called him a good friend.
The Washington port was thick with rain, but a little damp didn’t bother the four young seamen. It was not yet dawn. They laughed and pushed as they climbed over each other into the faded ‘36 Fordor Sedan, as the little wiper worked madly over a cracked windshield. Greene ridiculed the prickly holes in the upholstery and the coughing engine, but Berger thumped him in the head and asked if he thought he could have done any better. He kicked on the low beams, and waited with a temper as the doors were shut the door.
“I’ll leave you all here to go moldy,” he growled as the car nosed its way out of town, but when Henry offered him two dollars for gasoline, he shut up quick.
Henry didn’t see or hear much of the first day of the drive. He stared out the window at the gray landscape, cut with distant black forests, and thought about Annie, and how well she’d look on a Scottish moor or by an Irish garden. When he squinted, he could almost see flashes of red hair among the trees. Oh, perhaps he just thought she was perfect because he loved her, and perhaps every man would claim such things, but Annie truly was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. That red hair, how it haunted all of his smiles and all his frowns. Most girls needed some treatment from the beauty parlor to get what Annie had naturally. Pristine dark red curls, set just so, like a movie actress. When she said yes, and he got out of the Navy, one day he’d watch her wake up and brush those curls, and do the tricks ladies do to make themselves so pretty every morning.
It's pretty pitiable, if I do say so myself. Poor me, eh? Yeahh.
The situation with Andrew and me, well, it frankly still sucks right now. I've not spoken to him in a week, and haven't had a proper conversation in two weeks, and haven't had a pleasant conversation in almost 3 weeks. We're not arguing, we're just... really struggling. I'm struggling to muster any strength at all, he's struggling to muster any good feeling at all. The last time I got an email from him, he remarked with a sigh that it seemed like someone up in the government genuinely wanted all of the 1-17 men to die. It just gets harder and busier and more dangerous for them. You'd think it would be getting easier. Most of them are coming home in a week and a half, and yet, it seems like the military is squeezing every last drop of effort and life and use out of them before they leave.
I've gotta set that aside for now. It's too exhausting even to think on.
On another note, today marks the one-year anniversary of my beloved granddaddy's homecoming. I miss him alot. He was the best man I knew. And, in the same few weeks leading up to his heavenbound journey, I was falling in love with the other best man I'd ever know--my love Andrew. I only wish Granddaddy could have met Andrew. But at least, I did have the chance to tell him about my new romance, so Granddaddy knew that I had found the other half of my heart, just like he had, over six decades earlier.
In memoriam, here is the first bit of my senior thesis, which was inspired directly by Granddaddy's wonderful stories. Just substitute "Warren" and "Betty June" for Henry and Annie May, and you've almost got a biography instead of a piece of fiction.
Love you, Granddaddy.
Henry had two weeks of shore leave and a girl at home to propose to. When Hughes, Greene, and Berger told him they had scrounged up a Ford and did he want to drive across country with them, all he could see was her in that green dress standing on her mother’s porch. He stepped on land, it was early June, and her name was Annie May. Annie May Mills. There had never been such a beautiful name on such a beautiful girl. Fourteen months on the destroyer, and his mind was just as drenched with her—the high lashes, the typists’ fingers, the well-made linen dresses, the gardenia cologne. They had written letters, and though sometimes his letters were sentimental, she always wrote so calmly. So cool, so clever, so old-family South, just what he liked about her. She wrote about her sisters, and about her painting, and her job, and he could tell that she always wrote exactly what she meant. He wrote about seeing the Polynesian islands and all the pungent sweat-and-flowers smells he’d never forget, when he wanted to write about how he remembered the scent of her hair. He wrote about his Catholic bunkmate, when he was really thinking about the times she’d let him escort her to the Presbyterian Church. He wrote about hard-as-shoe-leather Navy biscuits, when he was yearning to recall the light-as-a-cloud meringue pie she made for Easter last year. He wasn’t a shy fellow, but something about her and the thought of how she’d read his letters knocked him to pieces.
When he wrote her about his two weeks in June, he told her he loved her, terrifically, and that she’d better watch out or he might ask her to marry him. He had shoved that letter directly into the hands of the petty officer and ran off again before he could change his mind, and then he had cold sweats for the rest of the morning. He drank a lemonade, paced on about on deck, and told Hughes to physically restrain him if he attempted to go steal it back. They both got shouted at for brawling, but back in their quarters that night, Henry shook his Hughes’ hand and called him a good friend.
The Washington port was thick with rain, but a little damp didn’t bother the four young seamen. It was not yet dawn. They laughed and pushed as they climbed over each other into the faded ‘36 Fordor Sedan, as the little wiper worked madly over a cracked windshield. Greene ridiculed the prickly holes in the upholstery and the coughing engine, but Berger thumped him in the head and asked if he thought he could have done any better. He kicked on the low beams, and waited with a temper as the doors were shut the door.
“I’ll leave you all here to go moldy,” he growled as the car nosed its way out of town, but when Henry offered him two dollars for gasoline, he shut up quick.
Henry didn’t see or hear much of the first day of the drive. He stared out the window at the gray landscape, cut with distant black forests, and thought about Annie, and how well she’d look on a Scottish moor or by an Irish garden. When he squinted, he could almost see flashes of red hair among the trees. Oh, perhaps he just thought she was perfect because he loved her, and perhaps every man would claim such things, but Annie truly was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. That red hair, how it haunted all of his smiles and all his frowns. Most girls needed some treatment from the beauty parlor to get what Annie had naturally. Pristine dark red curls, set just so, like a movie actress. When she said yes, and he got out of the Navy, one day he’d watch her wake up and brush those curls, and do the tricks ladies do to make themselves so pretty every morning.
September 5th, 2007. Mimi and Granddaddy, with my wee sister Anna.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
We continue...
I tell you what, the army isn't nice.
I don't even know where to start. Suffice to say, for now, that my heart is breaking for Andrew. He was so excited to come home. He was so excited...and now, I don't think I've ever seen a man so disappointed. He thought he was almost done, he thought he was almost safe, he thought he had gone on his final mission last week. They changed his return date on him again... and most of his men are coming home June 20th. Not him. He gets to stay for another 3 weeks with his sergeant to wrap things up.Now, I think he's equal parts angry and scared. He said today... lots of his men are heading back to the Forward Operations Base, and he remains, being sent out to do all this special forces-type stuff that he never trained for. He's already feeling so alone, and he's gonna be in more danger than before.
He was so excited to come home. He was so excited. I hate what that place does to him--that horrible, dry, dirty, evil place. It destroys all hope, all happiness. I hate it. I hate what it does to him.All I can do is keep praying, and hope that he lets me in enough to help him.
I don't even know where to start. Suffice to say, for now, that my heart is breaking for Andrew. He was so excited to come home. He was so excited...and now, I don't think I've ever seen a man so disappointed. He thought he was almost done, he thought he was almost safe, he thought he had gone on his final mission last week. They changed his return date on him again... and most of his men are coming home June 20th. Not him. He gets to stay for another 3 weeks with his sergeant to wrap things up.Now, I think he's equal parts angry and scared. He said today... lots of his men are heading back to the Forward Operations Base, and he remains, being sent out to do all this special forces-type stuff that he never trained for. He's already feeling so alone, and he's gonna be in more danger than before.
He was so excited to come home. He was so excited. I hate what that place does to him--that horrible, dry, dirty, evil place. It destroys all hope, all happiness. I hate it. I hate what it does to him.All I can do is keep praying, and hope that he lets me in enough to help him.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Good sir!
I've exhausted much of my strugglings, which may sound nice, but still indeed means that I am left exhausted. Life has many trials and vexations. But there are reasons that we as men are not islands.
As my beloved said to me today,
Of course, I'm still a wee stressed. More than a wee. But less than before. I never intended this blog to end up as a constant platform for my affection for my fella, but sometimes I can't help it. When he came into my life, he brought nothing but light.
I guess, he's the light at the end of the tunnel :)
Oh and P.S.--it looks like (possibly, tentatively, Army-willingly), the wedding's gonna be the weekend of July 16th or 23rd :)
As my beloved said to me today,
"Chelsea, you're imagining this huuuuuuge beautiful portrait, and you want it to be so, but you haven't even lifted your brush yet... Just slow down and take your time--you have too many people that love you and will happily take care of you for you to be so stressed.
People like... me :)
Everything will be fine. I promise. In less than 2 1/2 months, you're gonna be living with ME, and you're gonna look back on all this--on this conversation--and say to yourself ''ya know... I really didn't need to be that stressed, cuz there was no reason to think things wouldn't work out'' and you're gonna turn around and see me standing there, and I'm gonna smile at you and I'll probably ask you ''What is it, sweetie?''
and you're gonna say ''...Nothing. Everything is perfect.'' :)"
People like... me :)
Everything will be fine. I promise. In less than 2 1/2 months, you're gonna be living with ME, and you're gonna look back on all this--on this conversation--and say to yourself ''ya know... I really didn't need to be that stressed, cuz there was no reason to think things wouldn't work out'' and you're gonna turn around and see me standing there, and I'm gonna smile at you and I'll probably ask you ''What is it, sweetie?''
and you're gonna say ''...Nothing. Everything is perfect.'' :)"
Of course, I'm still a wee stressed. More than a wee. But less than before. I never intended this blog to end up as a constant platform for my affection for my fella, but sometimes I can't help it. When he came into my life, he brought nothing but light.
I guess, he's the light at the end of the tunnel :)
Oh and P.S.--it looks like (possibly, tentatively, Army-willingly), the wedding's gonna be the weekend of July 16th or 23rd :)
Monday, May 17, 2010
All of this
I'm so over all of this. What people say, and the motives and thoughts on which they actually base their actions and decisions are very different things.
I'm tired of everyone telling me "it's your wedding! Do it your way!" and yet, when it comes down to it, it's not really my wedding. This wedding apparently belongs to everyone else. I have to answer question after question, I have to fend off ideas and offers for help, and point by point, the list of requirements lengthens.
Maybe I sound really bitter, or ungrateful, or something. Yes, my friends and family got me to where I am--why can't they participate? Why can't this be a "celebration for all of us together"?
Because I hate being the center of attention. I hate it when "everything is about me." And every time some little aspect of this wedding is added, suggested, required, or just there because it would "mean alot" to someone, I lose interest in the whole thing.
I've been talking constantly about meaning, worth, and value, and it seems like no one has picked up on what I actually mean. How Andrew and I have learned, through alot of pain, what matters in this world, what actions and arguments are worth it or not, what time is valued or wasted.
Here's the simple thing-- every thing has value, but not everything matters. Does that make any sense? Flowers and family and beautiful dresses and receptions and being the center of attention and letting people give me presents and hug me alot all have value. They're good things. I love my family. I love my friends.
But every day that goes by in which I have to watch Andrew suffer makes me care even less about all this nonsense. Every conversation I have with him in which, at some point, I remember, "oh yeah- he can't hear as well as he used to anymore," makes me care less. Every time I see this damn war rip him open and drag to the surface pain from twenty years ago, I care even less. Every time I look at photos of him from before he deployed, and compare them to photos we took in February, I realize that my beautiful, carefree young boyfriend has aged fifteen years and so much of the light has left his eyes-- and I DON'T CARE about anything else.
I need him to come home, and I need to be his wife, because sometimes that's the only thing keeping either of us alive. God has shown me, at every turn, that His path for us is very clear-cut, simple, and largely untouched by human ideas, and I don't want to lose sight of that.
Don't make me think about bridal showers and bachelorette parties. I'm trying not to cry every night.
Don't talk to me about programs and invitations. I'm praying that I get even a sentence-long email today.
Don't ask me when the wedding's gonna be. He's out on mission right now and he doesn't even know when he'll get to sleep again.
The fact is, anybody can ask any question they want about my supposed wedding. I don't have any answers. I've NEVER had any answers. I naively thought "once people know he's deployed to Afghanistan, they'll forgive me for not having plans yet. They'll understand." Yeah, not at all. People don't understand, they just don't take me seriously. Yeah, I don't have an engagement ring. Because he asked me the night before he had to go back to a war zone. Yeah, I don't have a date set. Because he doesn't know when he'll come home. Yeah, I don't know what my freaking "colors" are. I haven't planned a honeymoon. I haven't picked out bridesmaid's dresses. I haven't registered. There's no bridal shower, there's no bachelorette party, there's no ceremony venue, there's no reception site, there's no officiant, there's NOTHING, because HE'S NOT HERE, and apparently I'm not as "engaged" as other girls are. My engagement isn't as legitimate. We're just stupid kids, who don't really know what love is and we just got really excited about the idea of getting married--but oh, no, it's not as "official" because we don't have any plans. Apparently the things that I think matter in my wedding aren't what really matter.
"What, you can't make plans? Because... you don't know when he'll be home...? So... you're just gonna try and throw something together...? Okay, well, um, that's..."
I want nothing to do with any of this anymore. Yeah, my life and my engagement don't look like everybody else's. Who is it really hurting? Who really cares? Who is really gonna mind?
Well, apparently, everyone.
I'm tired of everyone telling me "it's your wedding! Do it your way!" and yet, when it comes down to it, it's not really my wedding. This wedding apparently belongs to everyone else. I have to answer question after question, I have to fend off ideas and offers for help, and point by point, the list of requirements lengthens.
Maybe I sound really bitter, or ungrateful, or something. Yes, my friends and family got me to where I am--why can't they participate? Why can't this be a "celebration for all of us together"?
Because I hate being the center of attention. I hate it when "everything is about me." And every time some little aspect of this wedding is added, suggested, required, or just there because it would "mean alot" to someone, I lose interest in the whole thing.
I've been talking constantly about meaning, worth, and value, and it seems like no one has picked up on what I actually mean. How Andrew and I have learned, through alot of pain, what matters in this world, what actions and arguments are worth it or not, what time is valued or wasted.
Here's the simple thing-- every thing has value, but not everything matters. Does that make any sense? Flowers and family and beautiful dresses and receptions and being the center of attention and letting people give me presents and hug me alot all have value. They're good things. I love my family. I love my friends.
But every day that goes by in which I have to watch Andrew suffer makes me care even less about all this nonsense. Every conversation I have with him in which, at some point, I remember, "oh yeah- he can't hear as well as he used to anymore," makes me care less. Every time I see this damn war rip him open and drag to the surface pain from twenty years ago, I care even less. Every time I look at photos of him from before he deployed, and compare them to photos we took in February, I realize that my beautiful, carefree young boyfriend has aged fifteen years and so much of the light has left his eyes-- and I DON'T CARE about anything else.
I need him to come home, and I need to be his wife, because sometimes that's the only thing keeping either of us alive. God has shown me, at every turn, that His path for us is very clear-cut, simple, and largely untouched by human ideas, and I don't want to lose sight of that.
Don't make me think about bridal showers and bachelorette parties. I'm trying not to cry every night.
Don't talk to me about programs and invitations. I'm praying that I get even a sentence-long email today.
Don't ask me when the wedding's gonna be. He's out on mission right now and he doesn't even know when he'll get to sleep again.
The fact is, anybody can ask any question they want about my supposed wedding. I don't have any answers. I've NEVER had any answers. I naively thought "once people know he's deployed to Afghanistan, they'll forgive me for not having plans yet. They'll understand." Yeah, not at all. People don't understand, they just don't take me seriously. Yeah, I don't have an engagement ring. Because he asked me the night before he had to go back to a war zone. Yeah, I don't have a date set. Because he doesn't know when he'll come home. Yeah, I don't know what my freaking "colors" are. I haven't planned a honeymoon. I haven't picked out bridesmaid's dresses. I haven't registered. There's no bridal shower, there's no bachelorette party, there's no ceremony venue, there's no reception site, there's no officiant, there's NOTHING, because HE'S NOT HERE, and apparently I'm not as "engaged" as other girls are. My engagement isn't as legitimate. We're just stupid kids, who don't really know what love is and we just got really excited about the idea of getting married--but oh, no, it's not as "official" because we don't have any plans. Apparently the things that I think matter in my wedding aren't what really matter.
"What, you can't make plans? Because... you don't know when he'll be home...? So... you're just gonna try and throw something together...? Okay, well, um, that's..."
I want nothing to do with any of this anymore. Yeah, my life and my engagement don't look like everybody else's. Who is it really hurting? Who really cares? Who is really gonna mind?
Well, apparently, everyone.
Monday, April 12, 2010
More Common than a Comet
Things shake, lose strength, and my hands have forgotten how to hold on. I don't mean that metaphorically--lately there's something wrong with my peripheral nervous system, and it's rather annoying.
Such are the unsung effects of who I am.
But enough. I must keep my brain moving with happier things.
I realize that almost nothing is in my control, but it feels like they should be, so my body is aching and groaning with frustration. My heart won't sit still. I can't make more money appear. I can't bring Andrew home sooner. I can't make my hands work or my feelings balance, simply out of sheer will. Believe me, I fight as hard as I can.
I get angry sometimes, because Andrew can't pour himself out for me. No, that's not accurate--I get angry that I get so drained that I can't take care of him, and he can't take care of me because he's also drained beyond measure, and so I'm angry at the whole situation, not him. I told Dad that it feels like my bones have been scraped out.
I don't blame Andrew. I don't blame the war, or the Army. That's just where we are right now, and I don't mind it. I don't know what I blame. I blame myself, I suppose. I hate that I can't be strong. I hate that I can breathe and calm myself and psyche myself up and muster every ounce of courage I have, but then someone looks me in the eye, and I fall to pieces.
I've ended up crying in front of two different people at work today. I feel terrible. I feel like I'm letting them down, because these are people I love, and this is a place that I love, yet--my insides are abandoning them, and I hate it.
I hate being so weak. I hate that everyone sees me weak. I hate that everyone else has to pick me up. I hate that people suffer because I'm weak. They worry for me, they fear for me, they stand around feeling helpless as they watch me wasting away. They blame themselves because they can't help me (a feeling I understand, as its one I often carry when I see Andrew suffering).
This is the second time I've responded in anger to this. The first time was last semester, when I needed to be at my best. It was my last semester, for god's sake! I was excited, confident, brave--and then I was eaten away from the inside out. But I wasn't sad, or scared, or nervous like before. I was freaking pissed. Furious. Why the hell do I have to do this yet AGAIN? That angry energy did not bode well for my nerves, but at least it kept my eyes clear, for the most part.
Now I'm angry again. Anger, and anguished. My hands refuse to grasp. I drop things, misjudge distances and hit my arms and hips and feet on everything as I try to walk and move. I've honestly been screaming at God a fair bit. Not blaming Him, but pleading with Him. I hate the animal sound of my own cries.
I can't show Andrew what I'm going through. How could I? We talked Saturday night, and just before he got online, I prayed, as fiercely as I could, "God, please, please, let things be okay with him. I can't help him today. I need him to help me. Please, PLEASE."
But last week, it turns out, was one of the worst weeks his unit has had in a long time. Horror, death, destruction, they finally walk back onto their base, dirty, torn to shreds, and hello, emails from wives--I can't do this anymore. I want a divorce. And full custody of your children. So, yeah... you get to come home from war in a few months... come home to nothing and no one.
Andrew was a wreck. He was watching the men he loved suffer, watching their hearts break at a time when they needed their hearts to be strongest. It was almost no comfort for him to be reassured that I would not leave him. The pain wasn't his, and it couldn't be healed by me.
I did what I could. Luckily, we were only chatting. It's easy to type, "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry" over and over as he spilled his burdens. It would not have been easy to look him in the face or hear his voice. With the chat at least, I could weep and weep and weep on my end and he would never know.
Of course, majestically, he recovers so quickly, and because of the amazing man he is, he can turn around with a day or two and cheer me up and, if nothing else, give me certainty. Of everything in the world, of everything in me, of all that is in turmoil (whether in truth or in my perception)--I know he loves me. Even if he can't be here to hug me, or put a bandaid on my pain, he shows me that he loves me. He can be in the worst of moods, suffering through the worst of memories, angry and bitter and railling against all the evil, but he'll manage to drag himself through the thickets and say, "I know you probably don't feel it, and I kinda don't feel anything right now, but you know I love you, right?"
That's something. That's a huge something. It sounds pretty sacrilegious, but I don't feel even as certain of God's love right now (I know He loves me, but I don't FEEL it, ya know?), because part of me thinks He just wants to piss me off right now.
But Andrew's love IS a part of God's love. Andrew belongs to God, I belong to God, God gave us each other. Our love is a reflection of Him. So maybe, when I feel loved by Andrew, that's God's way of showing me His love, reaffirming that there is good to be had, and He is the one who brought it.
My favorite verse for a long time has been James 1:17---every good gift and every perfect gift comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.
There's so much promise in those short words. Every good thing is from God. God is the originator of all light, of all good. He does not change from His good ways.
But the problem right now is, I don't feel any ways. I don't feel good ways. I don't feel bad ways. I feel like nothing has a way to it.
But I'm loved. That's a start. I guess the paths and ways will be found later.
Such are the unsung effects of who I am.
But enough. I must keep my brain moving with happier things.
I realize that almost nothing is in my control, but it feels like they should be, so my body is aching and groaning with frustration. My heart won't sit still. I can't make more money appear. I can't bring Andrew home sooner. I can't make my hands work or my feelings balance, simply out of sheer will. Believe me, I fight as hard as I can.
I get angry sometimes, because Andrew can't pour himself out for me. No, that's not accurate--I get angry that I get so drained that I can't take care of him, and he can't take care of me because he's also drained beyond measure, and so I'm angry at the whole situation, not him. I told Dad that it feels like my bones have been scraped out.
I don't blame Andrew. I don't blame the war, or the Army. That's just where we are right now, and I don't mind it. I don't know what I blame. I blame myself, I suppose. I hate that I can't be strong. I hate that I can breathe and calm myself and psyche myself up and muster every ounce of courage I have, but then someone looks me in the eye, and I fall to pieces.
I've ended up crying in front of two different people at work today. I feel terrible. I feel like I'm letting them down, because these are people I love, and this is a place that I love, yet--my insides are abandoning them, and I hate it.
I hate being so weak. I hate that everyone sees me weak. I hate that everyone else has to pick me up. I hate that people suffer because I'm weak. They worry for me, they fear for me, they stand around feeling helpless as they watch me wasting away. They blame themselves because they can't help me (a feeling I understand, as its one I often carry when I see Andrew suffering).
This is the second time I've responded in anger to this. The first time was last semester, when I needed to be at my best. It was my last semester, for god's sake! I was excited, confident, brave--and then I was eaten away from the inside out. But I wasn't sad, or scared, or nervous like before. I was freaking pissed. Furious. Why the hell do I have to do this yet AGAIN? That angry energy did not bode well for my nerves, but at least it kept my eyes clear, for the most part.
Now I'm angry again. Anger, and anguished. My hands refuse to grasp. I drop things, misjudge distances and hit my arms and hips and feet on everything as I try to walk and move. I've honestly been screaming at God a fair bit. Not blaming Him, but pleading with Him. I hate the animal sound of my own cries.
I can't show Andrew what I'm going through. How could I? We talked Saturday night, and just before he got online, I prayed, as fiercely as I could, "God, please, please, let things be okay with him. I can't help him today. I need him to help me. Please, PLEASE."
But last week, it turns out, was one of the worst weeks his unit has had in a long time. Horror, death, destruction, they finally walk back onto their base, dirty, torn to shreds, and hello, emails from wives--I can't do this anymore. I want a divorce. And full custody of your children. So, yeah... you get to come home from war in a few months... come home to nothing and no one.
Andrew was a wreck. He was watching the men he loved suffer, watching their hearts break at a time when they needed their hearts to be strongest. It was almost no comfort for him to be reassured that I would not leave him. The pain wasn't his, and it couldn't be healed by me.
I did what I could. Luckily, we were only chatting. It's easy to type, "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry" over and over as he spilled his burdens. It would not have been easy to look him in the face or hear his voice. With the chat at least, I could weep and weep and weep on my end and he would never know.
Of course, majestically, he recovers so quickly, and because of the amazing man he is, he can turn around with a day or two and cheer me up and, if nothing else, give me certainty. Of everything in the world, of everything in me, of all that is in turmoil (whether in truth or in my perception)--I know he loves me. Even if he can't be here to hug me, or put a bandaid on my pain, he shows me that he loves me. He can be in the worst of moods, suffering through the worst of memories, angry and bitter and railling against all the evil, but he'll manage to drag himself through the thickets and say, "I know you probably don't feel it, and I kinda don't feel anything right now, but you know I love you, right?"
That's something. That's a huge something. It sounds pretty sacrilegious, but I don't feel even as certain of God's love right now (I know He loves me, but I don't FEEL it, ya know?), because part of me thinks He just wants to piss me off right now.
But Andrew's love IS a part of God's love. Andrew belongs to God, I belong to God, God gave us each other. Our love is a reflection of Him. So maybe, when I feel loved by Andrew, that's God's way of showing me His love, reaffirming that there is good to be had, and He is the one who brought it.
My favorite verse for a long time has been James 1:17---every good gift and every perfect gift comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.
There's so much promise in those short words. Every good thing is from God. God is the originator of all light, of all good. He does not change from His good ways.
But the problem right now is, I don't feel any ways. I don't feel good ways. I don't feel bad ways. I feel like nothing has a way to it.
But I'm loved. That's a start. I guess the paths and ways will be found later.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Must stop procrastinating... They should have a pill for this...
The main reason why I've not blogged at all in the last month is not because I have nothing to say, but because I'm too lazy to scrounge out the necessary charming photos to accent my posts. With my new awareness of this handicap, I'm throwing caution and tradition to the wind, and we'll see at the end if I wanna do pics [update-obviously I did]. So here's my life:
ass-I-am. I raised my eyebrows at my darling roommate Whitney, and inwardly pitied her for being practically bedridden because she hadn't spoken to her Ranger boyfriend in a week. What a green thing she is, I thought to myself, I, in all my majesty, at times have gone over a month without hearing a word from Andrew. I am obviously quite superior. But then, bam. Andrew and I discover Skype. Unlike the first part, in which we got scratchy phone calls every 6 weeks, an email every 2 weeks, and perhaps a facebook chat every 3 weeks if we were lucky, at his new Combat Outpost, there are webcams. Webcams, oh, webcams, I think these make up for Noah's flood. God was all, "Hey guys, sorry about that flooding the earth thing. I know it was tough. Have some webcams. It'll make it better." And, being God, He was right.
I got to see his face, and hear his voice (Andrew, not God), and watch him smile at the things I said, and tell me I look super foxy today, and that he loves the new haircolor, etc. I can't describe
how wonderful this has been. Over the last 2 weeks, I've been able to talk to him almost every other day. Every. Other. Day. After spending 16 days with him, nonstop. He smiles so much when he sees me. Even though things are just as sucky over there--since he's been back, they've already lost several men, had a bunch of injuries, and managed to have a whole Stryker pretty much annihilated--he's not losing himself in it again. He's happy. No, he's joyful, because he knows what healing and happiness is possible, even in the midst of such ugliness. I'm joyful, because I get the chance to care for him, and witness him being so darn alright.But here's the rub---all my separation-callouses have been pumiced away by love and togetherness. (Ew, that's actually a really, really, gross metaphor. I apologize). I start getting
shaky and weepy if I haven't heard from him in 48 hours. I know he's okay, of course, and I know he's got stuff to do, of course. But I can't stand it. I look at Whitney, and I marvel. How can she do it? How can she go for two whole freaking weeks without a word from Erik?As always, in my relationship with Whit, the pendulum swings back and forth. I spent all this time comforting her, and being the strong one, and now, I'm falling apart, and she knows what to do.
But, the end is in sight. Because of how hard their company has been hit, it looks like the oh-so-disheveled Army is gonna pull them out of the red zone early (back to Kandahar Air Field, where the POGs [non-infantry people] sit in chairs all day, whine because there wasn't enough hot water for a hour-long shower that morning, and hog the computers, as Andrew describes it). Then, they'll only be in KAF for another month perhaps. As in, they may be coming home at the end of May, instead of the end of July.
ZOMG, ya'll. That's only another 12 weeks. Even if I can't toughen back up, heck, I can handle being shaky and weepy and lonely for 12 weeks. There's alot to look forward to. Getting married, ya know. It's pretty good consolation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)