Army Brat

As long as I live, I will never forget driving down East Waverly Place Court that day, watching my son heave and sob in the back seat of my car, listening to his agonized screams of “I hate moving!” punctuated by animalistic cries that belied actual physical pain. I will never forget the stabbing pain in my own heart, the nauseating twisting in my stomach, as I cried along with him – both because I felt his pain and because I knew there was nothing I could do to right the traumatic wrong that was causing it.

We were driving away from our best friends – our family, really – after seven years together. It was gut-wrenching for me as an adult who has moved every few years all her life. I could not fathom what it felt like to be a child moving away from the only two people who’d been part of his life since the day it began, the little girl who knows him better than anyone … maybe even better than I do.

We had talked about it for months leading up to the move; we tried to prepare him. But as it turns out, there is no preparing for what it feels like to actually drive away. When you love someone that much, when you spend that much time with them, it is not as simple as keeping in touch and missing them from time to time. You don’t realize until later that that person was part of you to such an extent that you genuinely feel unsure of yourself without them. Even with all the shiny and the new and the happy in the new place, you feel a bit lost, a bit off, a bit sad. Again, I was feeling all of this as a grown-up able to identify her feelings and process them. It frightened me and depressed me to watch my little guy try to wade through such heavy emotions without understanding that it would eventually feel better. It was the first time I’ve ever seen him powerless and truly sad.

For a while, I could sense this in him even when he was smiling. And as if to confirm my fears and suspicions, he would randomly confess things to me when we were alone – things that reminded him of her, things that he wanted her to see, things he wanted to tell her, things that made him sad. Things that in turn made me sad. It was a complex heart-break – his pain compounded by my own compounded by the infuriating fact that there was nothing I could do for either of us except wait for time to form a scab over the wound of being ripped away from the people with whom we’d shared deployments and homecomings, birthdays and milestones, triumphs and failures, and a million every-day moments that made them our family.

And then one day, as we rode our bikes through our new neighborhood on a beautiful sunny day, he announced very matter-of-factly that he was “over” his sadness. He still misses her and she’s still his best friend, he said, but he decided he doesn’t want to cry and feel so sad anymore. As he pedaled past me, I watched the straightness of his back, how high he held his head, how confident he suddenly seemed, and I was in complete awe of this little person.

I had worried and fretted and cried, wondering how I could ever help him cope and adapt to what is truly the hardest thing he’s experienced in life so far. And yet, even with all my wisdom and experience, it was that same little boy who had to remind me that, sometimes, all you can do is suck it up and drive on.

What can I do with Okay

Afraid to reach out …

Where I live, there is a support group for women who are connected to the military. My dear friend founded the group, and I’ve long thought that she and her mission are absolutely amazing. She reaches out to women facing the challenges of being connected to the military – deployments, constant absences, depression, PTSD, the fight to figure out or maintain your identity, and so on. I strongly admire what she does, but I don’t participate.

I don’t go to the meetings or get involved or engage with the other women in the group. Not because I don’t know or can’t relate to what they are dealing with – though some of their struggles are far beyond any of the hardships I’ve ever faced. And not because I don’t think the group is important and valuable. I don’t go because I’m afraid I don’t belong.

My challenges pale in comparison to what some of these women are dealing with. I feel okay, and my life is going well. So what can I possibly offer? I’ve written before about feeling guilty for having my husband home and whole and healthy – I worried that I could no longer relate to my friends whose husbands are deployed, away constantly, or struggling with PTSD.

My mindset has always been that I needed to be in the ranks of the suffering in order to reach out to them. It felt insensitive to go to these meetings when I’m doing just fine or have never experienced the stress and frustration and pain they are facing – especially in the military community, where suffering can sometimes feel like a competition. That way of thinking has stopped me many times from reaching out to women who are dealing with tough circumstances. It has stopped me from participating in something that I believe is a good cause.

I never for a moment considered that, in the realm of helping others, what’s going on with me, where I’m at, doesn’t matter.  It’s not about me. The same very wise friend who founded the group gently pointed this out to me recently. She explained that most people – no matter what problem they are facing – just want someone to listen. They don’t want advice or answers, they don’t want to hear about the time you went through the same thing, they don’t even want you to tell them that it’s all going to be okay. They just want to be heard.

I hear all the time about the people who are afraid to step forward and ask for help. But I’ve never even considered that there are people who are afraid to give it, let alone that I might be one of them.

This is not my Dream

            Leaving the military to become a stay-at-home mom was a mixed bag for me. On the one hand, I felt like I was doing the right thing for my family and that I would be able to provide stability for my son through my husband’s every-other-year deployments. But part of me felt not only that I’d lost something, but that it had been taken away from me. Home alone with an infant, I felt victimized and indignant. Where was the praise and purpose that came with competing in the workplace? What was I supposed to do with the drive and ambition that suddenly had no outlet?

It took some time – a long time, actually – but I finally came to terms with the fact that I’d made a choice based on what was truly important to me and that now I had control over how to feel about it. I admitted that the loss of my total independence and my career stung, and then I  focused on putting the same level of energy and commitment I’d given to the Army into being a wife and mother. 

            For six years, that meant fulfilling the 1950s housewife stereotype to the utmost. I don’t know how many hours I’ve spent scrubbing and scouring, cooking and baking, primping and preening – all in pursuit of perfection.

            And then one day, just a few weeks ago, I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing my kitchen floor with a Magic Eraser, when it hit me: This is not perfection. Nobody asked me to do this. Nobody cares if I do this. Nobody even wants me to do this – least of all me!  This is not my dream.

            What exactly was I doing? Whose definition of perfection was I after – because this certainly wasn’t mine. I sat back on my feet, completely stupefied by this epiphany. And then, right on its heels, came charging the dream that I rejected and buried years ago.

It is the same dream I’ve had since I was in third grade, but as an adult it seemed so unrealistic, so impractical, that I told myself not to waste my time. And then I went ahead and did just that. I wasted my time on tasks and chores and self-imposed drudgery.

            Sadly, I can’t get that time back now. I’ve squandered years of opportunity to realize my lifelong dream. But rather than waste one more millisecond, I’m going to skip punishing myself and take advantage of the time in front of me.

            My dream is to write books for children with the hopes of inspiring young readers the way my favorite authors inspired my love of reading and literature when I was in elementary school. And I’m finally, finally taking a stab at it.

            I’m still going to clean my house and cook for my family and give them the time and attention and energy they deserve from me. But some days, I’m leaving dishes in the sink and spots on the floor and laundry piled up.

With that time, I’m writing the book I’ve always wanted to write.  And I’m even allowing myself to hope that one day, I will see that book on a shelf in a bookstore, and I will show my son (and myself) that dreams do come true … if you make them.