Ghosts

"The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees

that burned with sweetness or maddened

the sting: the struggle continues,

the journeys go and come between honey and pain." 

— Pablo Neruda

Maybe it's something you just don't forget.

It was the night after we came back from the children's hospital. The bags were unpacked and put away, the house was still, and the stars were out. Sky had already left for work, and both Millie and Walter were sound asleep. It should have been so peaceful, sitting there and letting the night blanket me. But my heart was racing.

Then there was Walter's follow up appointment last week. Millie helped me push the stroller down winding hallways and into a cramped office.  There was no bad news at the appointment. The surgeon smiled, winked at Millie. He examined the small bandages on Walter's stomach, shook my hand, and was gone again after a few minutes. I walked out of that room feeling all the air leave my lungs. I clenched my jaw the whole way home, trying to stay composed.

All I saw was the surgeon's face, remembering the I first time I saw it when he came in to meet us, and asked why I was crying before even introducing himself (it was because Walter's IV needed to be redone 7 times- don't ask). My vision blurred by tears, I saw his face a few times after that. He met us after the ultrasound, and we all walked briskly towards the pre-op wing, racing towards something I wanted to fight against with all I had. Dressed in blue scrubs and a white coat, he assured us about the low risk of complications and described the incisions that would be made. And when it was all over, he met with the two of us in a tiny room and told us that our son was all right. He shook another family's hands as he walked down the hallway, signaling that our time with him was over and everything was supposed to be finished.

I thought I had already felt it completely, sitting beside the large, metal crib, trying to soothe him as they started to poke and prod. I stopped wearing makeup or contacts until I was sure I wouldn't be crying all the time. But it's as if there are bruises there that keep getting bumped, over and over.

I can't stop replaying it. The feel of his hard and swollen cheek against my lips. The way I hadn't heard his cries reach that kind of wild pitch until that night. The incredibly sick feeling in my heart as I had poured the milk I had pumped down the bathroom drain while he screamed outside the door, starving after hours of fasting. Being led into the recovery unit and seeing the nurse, swaying and holding a bundle, ready to hand over my sleeping, worn out boy. The hoarseness of his voice when he woke up. The burning anger I felt towards those who didn't treat him well. The inexpressible gratefulness I felt for those who did. That long night before the surgery, trying to comfort him while I ached for something to comfort me, too. That horrible room, with its bright colors and stars and moons on the ceiling, meant to be cheerful and seeming all the more somber instead.

It's not postpartum depression. It's not that kind of haze that settles around every part of life, because I've been there before. It's more like happiness with sudden shocks of hurt. It is the smallest drop in the bucket compared to things some parents experience, I know. Walter will have no lingering effects and won't know it even happened but for our stories. Yet I'm scared- scared of things that aren't there, things that didn't happen and aren't real. I'm defeated over a battle that is already won. I'm just now going through some sort of process that should be long over by now.

There are ghosts here. I don't know how to chase them away.

Get Rhythm When You Get the Blues

A sunset during my time away


"Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant 
now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again." — Virginia Woolf 

If this were third grade, I'd be writing you a short story on blue lined and dotted paper about what I did on my summer vacation. But this record heatwave of summer isn't over, and I didn't exactly go on a vacation. I was fortunate enough to host a group of some of my most favorite bloggers, and you've been able to read their posts these past few weeks. Meanwhile, I just stopped. I didn't do anything mind blowing to clear my head, nor am I sure it's completely clear just yet. There was no solo retreat to a cabin in the woods, no massive, cathartic shopping spree, and no major self-realizations (although some minor ones).

But I wrote a couple poems. It had been a few years since the last time I wrote one. It felt so good.

I tried a new kind of cofffee. I don't even remember the name, but it was smooth and decadent.

Sky and I went over a major life choice, agreed on it, rehashed it, went back to the indecision we started from, and finally made a lot of almost-decisions- and I'm okay with that.

Millie learned new words and phrases every day. I love hearing her say, "It's funny!", "Ready? Okay! Here we go! Hold on tight!", and asking Daddy "Piggybank ride?" She announces we're on our way home now at the same bend in the road, right on cue. I heard her sing most of the words to "Jesus Loves Me", and it  warmed my heart more than I can say. I'm not the type of mom to write a potty training post, but we're in the midst of it/maybe towards the end of it, and she's just about got it at not even 2 years old, which makes for one happy mama.

I learned things about myself, like finally realizing I seem to get depressed on every holiday (and my birthday) like clockwork and I'm not really sure why. That it's okay if I don't agree with someone's political/religious/etc. posts on Facebook, but when they consistently attack my values/morals, it's probably best to click 'unfriend'- and that protecting my heart is better than a bad relationship anyway. (Also- definitely time to keep Facebook surfing to a minimum.) And I learned just how human I am , and how much my actions can affect others both in negative and positive ways (that post to come).

A tooth that's been hurting began to hurt even more. I'm going in for a root canal tomorrow. (Feel free to pray!) Most people dread them- I'm not only thankful that the pain will go away (I hope!), but grateful that this particular dentist has ways to make the cost a bit lower, and that my mom is helping with the payments. At over $1,000, usually the only option for someone like me is getting teeth pulled, and I'm so glad I don't have to do that.

As you probably all knew, I was ready to sign up for summer college classes, then told I missed the deadline by a half hour. I was crushed. After all the energy and angst I've thrown into it over the course of my life (it's been 10 years since I took my first college class), I decided to officially give up on school. I called my mom in hot, angry tears, and she decided to talk to someone (yes, on behalf her 27 year old daughter), and though summer classes still weren't an option, fall classes are. I'm signed up for 13 hours this coming semester, thanks to the Pell Grant and my mama's perseverance when my own failed. It's the first time I've ever gone full time to school in my life. I'm both embarrassed by that and incredibly proud that I'm finally going. I've already told everyone that if all I end up getting is an associate degree, I still plan on renting that cap and gown and walking proudly across that tiny college's stage, because it will be monumental to me. And in case you're dying of curiosity, my classes are English 102 (easy), Biology (hard), Intro to Cultural Anthropology (not sure what to expect- I keep picturing anthropology class from Community) and Intro to Advertising (Mad Men). It's an associate of liberal arts I'm aiming for; journalism has always been goal numero uno, but psychology and advertising are right after it, interest-wise- psychology because it's fascinating to me, and advertising because it's the perfect mix of journalism and psychology, really.

As for military news, Sky still practices for his upcoming PT test that will determine whether he stays in the Reserves or not (as well as the chance to pay off the Army debt). We also signed up for another Strong Bonds weekend (since the one last year was less than stellar), which means he'll also need to pass the PT test if we're going to be able to go. The conference is held in Seattle, and that's a big deal for us- we've never been on a plane or went on any sort of honeymoon, let alone out of state together (unless you count St. Louis a couple hours away), so it's not only a chance to reconnect and make up for last year, but a quite possibly once-in-a-lifetime vacation. My mom lives in Oregon, and plans to drive up to see us when we have free time. I haven't seen her for a year and a half, and Sky's only met her once, so that opportunity is wonderful, too.

It's hard being married to someone who gets depressed. I would imagine so anyway- Sky could tell you firsthand. During a particularly rough night, I told him, "I feel this way now. I know I'll get over it, but I also know I will feel it again. You need to understand that I don't enjoy it any more than you do. I hate it and I don't choose it."

And somehow, he did understand a little, I think. I'll never in my life forget the night he curled up next to me in bed, the ceiling fan circling above us, trying to calm my tears. He assured me that Millie loves me with or without a college degree, that I can write, and that he didn't marry me for a profession I might have but for me. I needed to hear it, and know I'll probably need to hear it again. Am I happier and back to feeling fine? I don't know, which probably means I'm not. Time always gets me there eventually, though.

This is the disjointed catch up post to what's been happening in my absence. Now, it's back to real blogging, which is a love near and dear to my heart. Johnny Cash advised to "get rhythm when you get the blues." And maybe I'll never find my rhythm with depression and all its ins and outs, ups and downs, and spirals. Maybe I won't find it with school, and it'll take me another ten years before I graduate. Maybe a lot of things will be off beat.

But all I can hope is to find a little music in the back and forths of life, the sways towards happiness or sadness, and people who dance along with me. That would be enough.

Secret Keepers and the Truth

“Antonin Artaud wrote on one of his drawings, "Never real and always true," 

and that is how depression feels. 

You know that it is not real, that you are someone else, and yet you know that it is absolutely true.” 

― Andrew Solomon, The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression

Bloggers are writers- as least, some of them are. And writers are secret keepers, for all their attempts to bare their souls. As much as they will say that they are telling you every bit, every part, rest assured there is so much more. When you're tempted to be jealous of their relationship with their husband, the style of their hair, or the way their kitchen looks, stop and remember. Remember what they don't write about. There is so much they aren't saying.

I haven't written about some things lately. And it isn't even because I didn't want to be honest and tell my story. I think it's because I hoped that if I didn't set it in type, it would go away before it came to the must-be-written phase. It hasn't gone away. And I suppose I also dislike announcing it because I'm afraid people will treat me differently than they would otherwise. With that said, I write this not to complain, but just as a reminder that life happens behind these little blogs of ours, and sometimes, it isn't the pretty picture we carefully shoot, but something confusing and out of focus.

I've been sad. It's been in those small spaces in between moments, spaces so small I'd almost miss them. Slowly, it grew a little more and more every day. It got a lot worse when Sky was away- the daily stresses of Millie missing her daddy were unexpected and rough. The morning before he came home, I received two pieces of news that both angered and upset me a lot (one being that I'm not able to take a summer college class after all). After hearing this news, our reunion seemed lackluster, and Sky seemed disappointed. This, with a few other things that are so heavy on my heart but I'm not able to write, have gotten me back to this place again.

This place. The one I know so well, and the one you've likely read here before. The place where there is numbness at good things and a bottomless pit at bad things. The place where it seems the only thing I've ever been good at is knowing how to be sad. I don't know why it comes and goes, why it's come and gone since the the first time I remember it, at 12 or 13 years old. And I don't know how long it will last or how bad it will get until it's over.

I just know I wish I was practiced at something better than heartache.

*I have disabled comments on this post. I don't ever do that, and I always appreciate your words, but I needed to write this- not out of self pity, but out of truthfulness. 

The Girl Who Hoped

This is the kind of post that left me hovering over the publish button for a long time before clicking it. Forgive me ahead of time.

I watched the ball drop last night, and my heart sank with it. I saw the lights and glitter burst and then fade out, and reflected over the last year. I found myself in tears. They weren't the nostalgic, happy tears I wanted to cry, either. These tears were sad and even a little bitter. I thought about the dreams I had for myself- the ones I have had for a long time, but grew stronger over 2011- and how I hadn't come close enough to taste them or even feel them brush against my hand. Instead of becoming more of who I want to be, I feel like I've been pushed in the opposite direction.

It wasn't for a lack of desire. It seems like so many successful people preach that we need only want something badly enough, and we can get it, or that hard work alone will make us successful. They leave out the part about luck, I think. The things I want (and not things, as in something I could buy, but goals) I have wanted so deeply, so fiercely. I have worked towards them in every single way I know how, and still have ended up without at the end of the year. My college degree is one of those things, but I haven't been able to take a single class since the summer of 2009. I hate it, and I hate even more that there seems to be no way around it. I know a few other bloggers who have wanted something just as badly (and some, I know, even more), and were empty handed on New Year's, too.

Here's the truth of it- I'm scared to hope. It hasn't gotten me very far in the past. I see everyone's optimism for 2012, and I truly envy it, but sometimes I look in the mirror and think, "You're 27, and you've only gotten this far in life? What have you actually done?" That girl looks the same as the 26 year old, the 25 year old, etc. I search for ways she's grown, but come up empty.

Crying over a silly blog post isn't the way I had hoped to spend New Year's Day, and I apologize if I sound ungrateful. I know I am blessed. In some ways, I wish I could switch off that ache in me that wants to grow and run farther, but it doesn't work that way- or if it does, I still wouldn't do it.

I don't want to be the girl with potential, the girl with hope. I want to be the girl that did it, instead of the girl who dreamed it. I want to be the girl who doesn't cry when the ball drops at the end of 2012.

Birthday Girl

source

"As I grow older, I regret to say that a detestable habit of thinking seems to be getting a hold of me."

 — H. Rider Haggard

So, here's the thing.

My birthday is coming up. And I'm kind of dreading it. Actually, I'm a bit terrified.

Not for the typical reason of turning another year older. I'll be 27. While it sounds old in my head, I realize people usually have many years ahead of 27. It's still in my 20s, so I can still count it as young...right?

Last year, I had what can easily and honestly be labeled as the worst birthday I've ever had. The circumstances of the day were unimaginably stressful. My heart ached. I had a nearly two month old baby to keep me company, but I spent the day in an otherwise quiet apartment. I did a lot of thinking, a lot of praying, and a ridiculous amount of crying. I even thought about the birthday I'm about to have, and wondered if it would be any better.

This year, things are still stressful, but in different ways. I've been trying to make my silly birthday wish list, just like all my birthdays and Christmases before. I have repeated to myself over and over that birthdays are more for kids than anything, and I need to learn to let go of my expectations a little bit...or a lot. The sentimental, selfish little girl inside of me just has a hard time swallowing those things.

Because I want it all made up to me, even though I know it's wrong to want that, and even though I know it's an impossible task. I want streamers and balloons and fireworks on Lake Michigan because I'd finally take the Chicago trip I've wanted for the last few years. I want 5 different birthday cakes, a new school outfit (because that's what you get when your birthday is in September) and bouquets of flowers decorating every surface. I want the whole day to shout, "You didn't deserve last year, so I'm giving you ten birthdays in one."

If you think I sound like a spoiled baby, you'd be right. It's not about the things, though. It's just about that delirious giddiness you feel when you first open your eyes in the morning, and realize that on this one, single day of the year, you are important. You are hopeful. Cards are stuffed into a mailbox with your name on them. People shower love on you, and anything negative can wait until the next day. This day belongs to you. On this day, if on no other, your heart is protected.

I guess that's what I really hope for on my birthday...a bubble-wrapped heart, and a day that I own.

The Apple Crisp

This past year has been nothing if not uneventful. I've been thinking about where I am right now, and where I've gotten so far in this life of mine. (Beka's latest post made me think about it all, too.) Sometimes, I feel like I'm living a life, but not mine. Sometimes I feel so far removed from what's happening- life is so different from the 25 versions of the future I had planned in my mind. Does this make sense?

Things are not great. Big things. My mom likes to quote her father-in-law, who says, "It's only money." Except, it's only so many things right now. I don't pretend to be the only one on earth struggling- in fact, I know several people who are struggling with different, but just-as-big things. It seems to be going around. Or maybe this is what is called adulthood. (If so, can I pass?)

I try, so fervently, to be thankful for little things. This blog has sometimes pushed me towards that. So I began thinking about the apple crisp I made last night...

And I thought about the flour, oats, brown sugar, and spices were mixed in a large bowl full of melted sticks of butter. 

How the smell sank deep into every room in our apartment.

The richness of warm scent made it feel like late autumn, or even Christmastime.

It reminded me of my childhood, and all the homemade meals my mother would make for us.

It reminded me of comfort, of home, of sweetness and ease.

I watched the very thin trails of steam slipping out from beneath the crumbled pieces and gooey apples, and I thought to myself, very consciously: this is making me happy. 

Right now, at this moment, I am happy.

But for a couple exceptions (such as Millie, of course), the day was not only unremarkable, but pretty unpleasant. I've honestly never been good at the Pollyanna attitude, and sometimes I cannot help but think of positive, upbeat quotes I come across as being trite and naive. But I forced myself to remember the apple crisp moment for the rest of the night, even as the scent still lingered thinly in the night air. Because, in the end, it was just as real as all the sad moments- this was my epiphany. I didn't have to paste on a smile to be happy about it. I just was.

I am hoping for more apple crisp nights. I want to string together weeks of dessert at a time, both reveling in them and looking back on them with fondness. Until then, I will take each one as they come. I will taste every bite.

End of the Road

"Life's under no obligation to give us what we expect."  — Margaret Mitchell

There were no phone calls. There were no officers stopping by with long-winded explanations. There was no elaborate discharge ceremony with salutes and guns. Somehow, I thought there would be something. But there was nothing but a letter. Just a letter, arriving on a Saturday- a single sheet of paper typed with faded-looking ink that read, "You are discharged from the Army National Guard." A failed PT test, and here we are. At the end.

Just like that. 

Instantly, I felt like everything was gone. I can't begin to even describe how far reaching the military is in even a Guard family (let alone, active duty, I'm sure.) It was like a huge part of my identity vanished in an instant- it honestly feels like a death. One of the pieces is obviously my military blogging identity. Suddenly, I wonder if I am kicked out of the club- basically, the only club I've really felt I belonged to, and the biggest source of friendship for me. (By the way- thank you, Kris, for emailing me sweet encouragement as you deal with your husband's deployment. Gosh, you humbled me tonight!) But I'm not struggling with my husband's retirement or his end of contract- this is something unexpected, unwanted, and unbelievable. 

I feel like Sky has lost some of his identity too. I have never known him as not being a soldier. I have never known how to feel completely at rest, because I knew they could call him for anything at any minute. Deployments and separations were an accepted part of our future. It was something that could give me pride, knowing that my husband had been to war. "He is a soldier" is now "he was." Was. Is a veteran. Was a soldier.

Just like that. 

I mourn the things I'm losing. When we weren't making ends meet before, I sit in disbelief wondering how on earth we'll make it without his drill pay every month. Watching TV and 'fancy' phones are long gone- now I'm back to an old one- ironically, the one that used to beep when a boy in Afghanistan was talking to me. I used to think I was 'poor' before, but I have a feeling it was just the tip of the iceberg then. People who have more probably can't understand, but being poor is really isolating, and it's hard for even an introvert like me to accept it. I've missed one of my closest friend's wedding and another close friend's birthday this summer, because I couldn't afford to go. (Kim and Dena- I'm so sorry.) When I can't afford to use extra gas money to take Millie to the park, other activity seems really out of the question. So we stay home. She doesn't seem to know what she's missing yet- but I know.

What I'm really missing is the future we had planned. It's unreal how much centered on the military. If we could work out all our marriage issues, we planned to possibly try for a baby after he came home from the next deployment. We talked about using the money he'd earn overseas to try and get a better car to fit our family, and to open a bank account for Millie's future. We even discussed the possibility of taking a trip to England- my lifelong dream. We talked about using the VA home loans to get a place of our own. Because he'd have to extend his contract to deploy (because his time would have been up around the same month he would leave), it meant enough time in service that he could transfer his GI bill to me- I could have finally been able to go to school. All of that is gone.

Just like that. 

No shopping at the PX after flashing our military IDs at the base gate. No dressing up for batllion balls. No switching over from ACUs to multicam. No asking the store for a military discount. No washing uniforms after a long weekend at drill. No hunts for military scholarships. No excitement at the possibility of a bonus for Sky finding a new recruit. Instead, we spend hours scouring the internet- he searches for a better paying job, and I search for a part time job that somehow could fit in between his work hours and caring for Millie. In the meantime, I put away photos, pens with the National Guard logo, everything and anything that reminds me of the Army. I spent an hour just clicking 'hide' on all the Facebook pages I've liked as a military spouse. The reminders are a bit heartbreaking already.

And what are we supposed to do with all of it? His piles of uniforms. All the patches and pins and medals. His beret, his PC. The photo of us from the ball, with my grey dress and his class A jacket that he wore when he married me. A military prayer book that was made to fit in his ACUs pocket. The wine glass from the ball with his unit's crest. His dog tags. His pairs of boots that walked on foreign roads, narrowly escaping roadside bombs at times. I don't even know if I want the reminders now. Because it's gone.

Just like that. 

A Year's Time

I have opened Blogger every day this week. I've sat and stared at the white screen, the blinking cursor waiting impatiently for me to begin. And nothing happens. I close the page, open up the screen with all the blogs I follow, and read everyone else's thoughts instead.

It's strange living a life I have no faith in. All marriages start with that hope, that unshakable knowledge that nothing can break the relationship- until it gets broken. I don't have faith in ours anymore, and it's spilled out into every part of my life. Eating and sleeping have become a joke. Having a 24 hour period without horrible thoughts or nightmares has become impossible. I used to spend so much time worrying about the next deployment. Now I wonder if we'll make it that far. I think both of us would be relieved at the thought of a year apart.

Everything is glazed with apathy right now. I have wanted to post Millie's birthday photos, but none of them seem good enough. I've wanted to find out if I won the scholarship I applied for, but I'm too worried I didn't get it to investigate. I have put in so much effort during the past year, and I feel like I don't have any energy left. I am tired of being the only one who cares.

I recently found a blogger who is struggling with a very similar situation- except struggling isn't the word. She's found some sort of peace, because she's moved past the ugly things. She's had another child with her husband, she's madly in love with him, and she assures her readers that it's possible to be happy again. I looked at their family photo, with four smiling faces, and felt such a disgust for the man in the picture. She's forgiven someone that stabbed her in the heart, and yet I'm angry at a stranger?

Life seems exactly as it was a year ago. The only difference now is a year's amount of time to prove that things haven't improved. How much longer are we supposed to wait?

Troubles

I'll never forget that scene. Never. I remember how he leaned down on his hands and knees, and began scrubbing the kitchen floor. He'd never done it before and he hasn't done it since. And I knew, deep in my stomach, that he was doing it out of guilt. That was his admission to me, even though he hadn't said it out loud yet. And my heart sank lower than it ever had before.

This is our strange, sad anniversary of when we almost fell apart- where we did fall apart, but tried to put ourselves back together again. I wish I could ignore it and pretend like it never happened. Most days, that's what we seem to do. But one year later, despite the progress we tell ourselves we've made and the obstacles we've overcome, my mind still aches thinking about it. It's like everyone is fine...except me.

It seems like I was a naive girl, living a pretty life that looked like a Pinterest board full of pretty things, good intentions, and big, wide ideals. Somewhere along the way, I turned into a girl who's learned the weight of a bad word in her mouth, who's learned to crave a cigarette when she's stressed, and who has shut the bathroom door and cried more than she's cared to admit. Whose self confidence, if it were ever there, crumbled up and faded like a wilted flower. Whose actions have often been driven by anger, which was fueled by pure white, searing hurt. It's ugly, and I hate typing it out in black and white.

Everything I've read about my situation tells me that I'll never forget it or get past it, but that it is possible to have a happy marriage despite these things. I wonder how. That seems like nonsense. I've begged for permission to be allowed to feel these things, to express them when I need to- but now what? After a while, I could recite these things to myself and even I would get tired. In fact, I do. I am tired. I am tired of this story that seems to go up and down and backwards and forwards and never have a happy ending. A resting place, even.

I haven't written this bluntly in a long time, but the calendar's quickly flipping towards all those dates I could recite like my family's birthdays. Only, there's nothing joyful in these days. There's just grief. Grief, a little disbelief still, and a pessimism I cannot seem to shake no matter how hard I try. Of course I want to be happy. Of course I want things to magically heal. But getting to that point seems to require more pieces from my heart than I can afford to give.

I used to be sure about the future. Now I wonder, day to day, what tomorrow will bring. What life will look like a year from now. There's more fear than anything else. I can't say I feel any more put together than I did a year ago, and that's what frightens me. I'm not sure how long I can be this strong, or this dismissive, or this sad.

I want to tell all of you that things are perfect. But I'm not a liar.

Not Ideal

"Such interpersonal harmony might be a romantic ideal, 

but then Idealists are incurable romantics who prefer to focus on what might be, rather than what is." 

My dad and I exchange emails fairly regularly, though he lives half a mile away. We find some random internet snippet that the other would appreciate and click the send button. A few weeks ago, he sent me this personality test that he had taken before. I posted the full results below, but the main point was that I'm considered an "idealist".

The problem with that is life is often far from ideal. This weekend was a prime example. I've already ranted about it to a few people, but it involved racing home from two hours away to hug my best friend who's heart had just been broken. That was the beginning of the night. The end of the night involved paying $150.00 to get my car out of a tower's lot when it was wrongfully taken, even after Sky and I both argued with them. I can home feeling like I had failed my sweet friend, Sky, and myself. I was angry that life seems to switch from good to bad so quickly, without warning.

Sky asked me last night why I can't "just be happy". I think the answer might lie in that personality test. I want my world to be perfect, harmonious, and to be able to trust everyone implicitly. But most people are not idealists, and even if they were, no one is perfect- even I will mess up my ideal world. I think I spend more time wishing life was fair than I do trying to accept it will never be fair.

Am I the only one who fights this? Am I the only one who somehow gets caught off guard when things don't go as planned or as promised?

Custom Keirsey Temperament Report for: chambanachik Your Keirsey Temperament Sorter Results indicates that your personality type is that of the Idealists, as a temperament, are passionately concerned with personal growth and development. Idealists strive to discover who they are and how they can become their best possible self -- always this quest for self-knowledge and self-improvement drives their imagination. And they want to help others make the journey. Idealists are naturally drawn to working with people, and whether in education or counseling, in social services or personnel work, in journalism or the ministry, they are gifted at helping others find their way in life, often inspiring them to grow as individuals and to fulfill their potentials. Idealists are sure that friendly cooperation is the best way for people to achieve their goals. Conflict and confrontation upset them because they seem to put up angry barriers between people. Idealists dream of creating harmonious, even caring personal relations, and they have a unique talent for helping people get along with each other and work together for the good of all. Such interpersonal harmony might be a romantic ideal, but then Idealists are incurable romantics who prefer to focus on what might be, rather than what is. The real, practical world is only a starting place for Idealists; they believe that life is filled with possibilities waiting to be realized, rich with meanings calling out to be understood. This idea of a mystical or spiritual dimension to life, the "not visible" or the "not yet" that can only be known through intuition or by a leap of faith, is far more important to Idealists than the world of material things. Highly ethical in their actions, Idealists hold themselves to a strict standard of personal integrity. They must be true to themselves and to others, and they can be quite hard on themselves when they are dishonest, or when they are false or insincere. More often, however, Idealists are the very soul of kindness. Particularly in their personal relationships, Idealists are without question filled with love and good will. They believe in giving of themselves to help others; they cherish a few warm, sensitive friendships; they strive for a special rapport with their children; and in marriage they wish to find a "soulmate," someone with whom they can bond emotionally and spiritually, sharing their deepest feelings and their complex inner worlds. Idealists are relatively rare, making up no more than 15 to 20 percent of the population. But their ability to inspire people with their enthusiasm and their idealism has given them influence far beyond their numbers. Idealists at Work Idealists, as a temperament, are passionately concerned with personal growth and development. They are naturally drawn to working with people and are gifted with helping others find their way in life, often inspiring them to grow as individuals and to fulfill their potential both on, and off, the job. Your beliefs are the arbiter of your actions, even if you cannot articulate those beliefs specifically. You hold a strong, clear sense of the way the universe works, what's "right" and what's "wrong," and what your purpose is in the overall scheme of things. In your ideal job, you can embody those beliefs in your relationships with other people. Because you likely have a talent for de-escalating situations and can almost always find just the "right words", you often significantly improve the morale of organizations to which you belong.

The four types of Idealists are: Champion (ENFP) | Healer (INFP) | Teacher (ENFJ) | Counselor (INFJ) Which one are you?

Summertime

"Summertime is always the best of what might be." 

— Charles Bowden

It's June.

By most accounts, it's a nice time of year. It's the beginning of summertime. School is out, pools are open, and life gets a little more easy and carefree. After such a stormy spring, I should be welcoming the warm weather and the chance to take Millie exploring outside.

The thing is, there is so much that reminds me of what happened in our marriage a year ago, and summer is the most vague, but most inescapable one. The goodness of remembering the heat when Millie was born also makes my stomach churn when I think about the rest of it. I have a horrible memory, but I can somehow recall every date of every argument and every time I thought it was the end. It's not the kind of anniversary I want to celebrate in the least.

I've likened it, for lack of better words, to a strange kind of post-traumatic stress that pulls me into flashbacks every time something triggers an old thought. It's maddening sometimes. If I listed all the various sights and sounds to you that draw me back into those thoughts, you'd laugh- silly things, innocent things, that have turned into a punch in the gut. I've thrown things away, thing that I liked, just to keep from being reminded. Unfortunately, you can't throw everything away that hurts.

I want to let it roll off my shoulders- all of it- and breathe in the smells of watermelon or sunscreen with a sense of excitement and joy. I want to forget that this date or that date was when something bad happened, and focus solely on making new memories.

I want to look at the world with Millie's eyes. Everything is waiting to be explored. Everything is beautiful. Everything is new.

Again and Again

"We had been friends. 

We could not become strangers. 

It left only one thing: we must be enemies." 

— John Christopher

A week ago, we were sitting in an old theater, watching an old movie. We held hands.

Tonight, it's a night like so many in our marriage. Separate and unloving.

I'm hoping the chamber that my heart thickens into impenetrable vines. Maybe then, I can stop caring.

Some Kind of Grief

"But what was there to say? 

Only that there were tears. 

Only that Quietness and Emptiness fitted together like stacked spoons." 

— Arundhati Roy

Tonight is one of those nights.

The kind where you can't stop crying. The kind where you lie next to him, hear his breaths slow into sleep, and consider waking him to tell him...what? You don't know what you'd say anyway. It's been said so many times already that you swallow it, fold it into a lump lodged in your throat and a knot in your stomach. You've quit talking long ago, because sterile silence still feels easier than repeating the phrases you have memorized like poetry from a heavy book. They aren't pretty words anyway.

You wander dark hallways, feeling the twists and turns of the walls until you reach your daughter's room. You sit there, a handful of tissues in your lap, and you watch her as she stirs and turns in her sleep. When she jolts a little as she hears you there, it's time to sneak out and find another refuge in the pitch black house.

You wish this night that you could call up a dear friend. She would come to your house, and you would tell her all your secrets. She would smooth your hair and tell you wise things, true things. You would sip something warm from cups that nearly burn your hands. Maybe she would have an answer.

It's the kind of night where you long for something to be close to, something to hold you and be held by you. You envision the grand talk you could have with him, the one that erases everything before this night, and paints your future with pure gold. You fantasize about that one perfect moment that makes you feel whole and right again. It occurs to you that it seems like something only possible in a movie.

Real life is different. Real life is staying up hours past the time he pulls the blankets over himself and drapes his leg across your own. Real life sometimes means crying and knowing that no one but yourself will dry your tears tonight. It's where you start to compare yourself to other couples, even those you know have problems, even those you know have problems that even they don't yet know they have.

It was a day that ended so well, but it became incredibly cold and silent in a matter of minutes. Sometimes it feels like we live this day over and over again. It's become too predictable.

Evacuating

source

"Even if our efforts [...] seem for years to be producing no result, 

one day a light that is in exact proportion to them will flood the soul." 

— Simone Weil

My husband and my brother have been walking levees, and tonight, they (along with the rest of the National Guard there) are helping to evacuate a town that has become too unsafe for the residents to stay any longer. The river water has been rising for days, but many of the people there decided to hold on as long as they possible could. In a news story a couple days ago, there was a woman in that town that stood in front of her home, shaking her head. "They're going to have to take me away in handcuffs, because I'm not leaving."

I didn't understand. Her world was literally about to be washed away. The waters were going to rise above her steps, slowly pooling into the house until it was completely overtaken by water. Everything would be submerged. Everything would be gone. What is worth clinging to that much? What is worth staying for?

And then I thought about this past year. I thought about this home. I thought about how it felt like I was being dunked deep below black waters, and how I couldn't breathe or see even a glimmer of sunlight. I thought about how I've spent the past year holding my breath, grasping for anything that would bring me to the surface and light again. I hoped against hope that, somehow, I would be rescued and put back into a warm, familiar place. And I thought about the laugh we shared before he left, and how it felt like we had survived a massive  storm.

I think, now, I understand that women.

Millie Laughs

Every once in a while, Millie cries and cries.

She can be inconsolable.
She may not know what she wants or what she needs, only that she is unhappy.
She stirs in her blankets, bawling until exhaustion takes over.

I wonder if she learned that from me.

But daily, Millie laughs and laughs.

She doesn't pay attention to the volume level.
Her entire being is filled to overflowing with the kind of joy that children feel to their very core.
She is unabashedly, wildly happy.

I need to learn that from her. 

3 Things

"If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing,

or sing in writing, then don't write." 

— Anaïs Nin

There were 3 things that helped me to breathe yesterday.

1. Comments from some of you who don't have any solutions or advice, but simply care. Like everyone else, I sometimes feel like my voice is so tiny and my words are so insignificant. It's very healing to be reminded that I'm not unheard. I got an message on Facebook yesterday from someone who I consider a friend, although we haven't officially spent much time together- it read, simply, "You are not alone." Thank you for that.

2. Comments from others who are going through similar things. I hate that you know what it feels like, because I know how much it hurts our hearts. And we know that we don't really have advice for each other, either, but we can take some comfort in knowing that there is someone else on this great earth who has paced the same steps at night.

3. My dad. It is almost maddening at times the way he simplifies things. I am a girl and I am also a writer- that makes me a creature that wears her heart on her sleeve and tends to think of the world in a "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" kind of way. He took me out for pizza tonight, telling me the real tragedy today would be if the scary, tornadic weather in Chambana ruined the Easter bunny shaped cakes he had just purchased. He is literally the only person on earth who can make light of the darkest situations and be able to make me see any humor in them at all. But he did it yet again today. And he bought me these things for my patio- not because I need them, and not because it will fix anything, but because it made me smile.

A garden stone that happens to bear the title of the best movie on earth

A hanging plant with pink and white blossoms

Do I feel better today? Not wholly. The problems have not vanished because problems usually don't work that way. I'm still scared and I'm still worried. But I wanted to thank each and every one of you that was kind enough to send comments and prayers my way. I blurted out every thought in my head, and you didn't turn away or laugh at me. You listened.

And I even want to thank Sky, who is going through much of this with me- I appreciated the extra hugs and the huge pot of spaghetti at lunch. I think I tend to forget that he has to deal with some of these things, too- I usually feel like it's me vs. a struggling marriage, when in reality, it is Sky and I vs. it all. Maybe I would do better to remember that more often.

I don't know what this life is going to bring. No one does. I guess a little relief can be found in the fact that, whatever it does bring, it will be one day at a time.

Strong Bonds

"All morning I struggled with the sensation of stray wisps 

of one world seeping through the cracks of another." 

— Diane Setterfield

As most of you know, Sky and I were gone this past weekend. (I hope you enjoyed all my guest bloggers.) We attended an Army Strong Bonds weekend (a kind of marriage workshop/retreat). Would I recommend the retreat to other military spouses? Definitely. Did Sky and I have a good weekend? Definitely not.

It started out well. After checking in at the hotel, we tried to find an inexpensive place to eat dinner, which was the one meal of the weekend not provided by Strong Bonds. A Google search led us to an Italian restaurant with twinkling lights and enormous portions. Once we partially finished our servings, we got out an umbrella and took pictures despite the occasional thunder and the chilling raindrops. Sky braved all sorts of mud on the riverbanks to take a few shots of the skyline and river, while I stood on a pile of bricks in my high heels. When we walked downtown and took pictures of a beautiful, old Catholic church, a huge clap of thunder left me clutching him tight and letting out a ridiculous scream on the sidewalk.

The next morning, we sat in a large room with a few dozen other couples. Workbooks sat on the table in front of us. The chaplain began speaking, and we watched videos, had discussions, and were supposed to complete sections of the workbooks. But all the topics seemed so trivial to me. I thought to myself, "I am sitting here learning how to have a 'good fight' about household chores, and my heart is broken." I found myself longing for our problems to be that simple. One of the first things on the schedule was a giveaway of books based on the length of time married. I think the couple married the longest was 30 some years. I thought, "Sky and I will never get there. Maybe we won't get to the end of this year. How on earth do people stay married that long?" So I started crying. Luckily, we sat at our own table so no one noticed, but throughout the rest of the morning, tears flowed at completely inappropriate times. When it was time to go through the workbook, I completely blanked, frozen and unresponsive. It was like the words didn't even make sense. Sky got frustrated with me. The books sat in front of us unused, while every other couple in the room talked, read, wrote, and made progress.

Shortly after lunch, there was another break. Sky went outside to smoke (which is something we constantly fight about), and I ran up to the room sobbing. I sat in the bathroom and cried. I walked to the bed and cried. I decided I didn't want to go back or see anyone, so I locked the hotel room door and I cried and cried. After a few texts from Sky that I left unanswered, he pounded on the door. (For the record- yes, I was a total mess, and completely childish. I knew it then and I definitely know it now.) To make a long, embarrassing story short, I opened the door and told him I was not going back to the workshop. But after more crying, he talked me into walking downstairs.

On the way there, I stopped into a bathroom. I looked in the mirror and felt disgusted that I had already ruined the weekend, that our chance at a peaceful getaway was long gone. We won't get another chance to be away for months, maybe longer, and it was too late. When I walked out, there stood the chaplain next to Sky. "Would you like to talk a minute?" We sat in the hotel lobby, and he asked us what was going on. We gave him a 30 second briefing on the past year. He said we should try to come back. He told us that he has seen problems that are even worse. He prayed with us, and then coaxed us back.

As soon as we got back inside, the other speaker began talking about the very subject that is causing me so much pain, and once again, I lost it. Once the day was over, the chaplain apologized to me, saying he didn't know that topic was being discussed as he led us back. We went back to the hotel room, and I fell asleep from the pure exhaustion of being so emotional. I had no idea crying could take the life out of me so much.

When I woke up, I realized that we had missed the dinner that had been provided. The only thing we had in our room was a bag of chips I had brought from home. Here's the blunt truth that is embarrassing but part of our lives: we did not have money for another meal. We have around $50 on our food stamp card to get us to the end of this month, so even a trip to Walmart was out. We decided we should probably start eating even cheaper meals, like ramen noodles. We were still overdrawn and behind on bills whether we ate or not.

So I sat there crying about eating chips for dinner. But it wasn't about a silly meal. Because then I began thinking about Millie and how much I missed her, and I cried thinking about how many problems we have and how she deserves so much better. I cried wishing that I wasn't alive to go through so much pain, and to bring a baby into the world when her life has already been so topsy-turvy. I cried because I am so incredibly tired of crying.

And no one can give me the answer. That is the most frustrating thing of all. No one can tell me how to fix it. All I know is that we spend so much energy every day trying to not get a divorce that any kind of romance or friendship seems to be miles away. Maybe it's normal to spend certain seasons of your life in more of a survival mode than a truly living mode. But how can anyone live their whole life like that? How can anyone be that strong?

I have struggled with depression nearly my entire life. I'm used to it, you could say. I think it was always more of a chemical thing than a life events thing, though. Sure, I've had rough times, and I haven't enjoyed them. But most often, it was something that made me feel really down even when things were fine. The problem now is that things are not fine. Obviously, I am in the midst of depression, and it feels like it's swallowed me whole. And what is so exasperating is that I want is not extravagant or silly; a happy and calm marriage that lasts until we're 105. A peaceful home. A successful, happy daughter. A college degree in journalism that leads to a good job (with a full scholarship and money for books). Enough money to not worry about week-to-week survival. I do not know how to get a single one of those things.

People have told me, even recently, that I inspire them. For the life of me, I don't understand. I don't feel a bit inspirational. I feel helpless and hopeless. And I know that any admiration of me will be lost once I hit the publish button on this screen, but the truth is that I'm weak. I can handle physical pain with the best of them, but I am a wimp when it comes to emotional pain.

Many of you read Jessica's letter this past week, just as I did. When a blogger shared her P.O. box where letters could be sent, I planned to write her a long, encouraging letter. I want her to know there is hope and there is a light at the end of the tunnel. But this morning, I realized I couldn't send it, because I can't even reassure myself of those things.

Blogland

"She was a girl who knew how to be happy even when she was sad. And that’s important—you know " 

— Marilyn Monroe

Last night, yet again, there was another comedian on TV making light of something that really hurts my heart. I had bad dreams last night, too- not the kind where made up monsters chase me, but replays of very real things in my life. Then I woke up, and read Jessica's blog post. I have been in such a funk all day.

I kept wondering if life will ever get easier. I started thinking about something someone said the other day- a girl who faces infertility was having a hard time seeing so many pictures of babies and pregnancies. And I thought about how this girl seems to have such a picture-perfect marriage, and how I would give anything to have the same. She and her husband look so happy, so right for each other. I think about how blessed I am to not have the hurdle of infertility, but then I wonder if I will ever have a strong enough marriage to have another child someday. The grass is always greener. I think we always want what seems unattainable. I think it takes an incredible person to think that they have it all. There is always a fly in the ointment.

Blogland is a strange place. There is so much support, as shown by the outpouring of comments on Jessica's blog. But there is sometimes competition, I think. Nothing spoken, and nothing tangible, but I have caught myself more than once thinking, "If only..." I think that's one of the reasons I write what I do- I could post smiling pictures of Amelia every day, and I could wax rhapsodic about the beautiful days I'm having, but it wouldn't be the whole truth. Life is painful sometimes. Things happen that you have no control over. People hurt you and events change you, and to dismiss that would be dishonest of me.

Sky told me that I need to quit shutting him out when I'm sad, and I know he's right. While writing about it comes easily for me, I am not one to want to talk. It's hard to spill the same fears and hurts to him over and over again, like a broken, scratched record. It's hard to trust anyone that much.

Anyhow, I am so glad that Jessica's parents commented to let everyone know she survived. I can honestly say I know how she feels, but I can also say that I have had so many comments and emails from people in the blogworld, and felt such immense support. I am proud of all of us bloggers for the community we've made. I don't think people quite understand the friendships that are forged through our writing. It's a really beautiful thing.

Another rant-ish post. Goodnight.

Night

"She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches,

with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars." 

— Neil Gaiman

Remember that morning a few days back, when I professed to you my new goal of some solitude and re-charging every day?

Yeah. That hasn't happened yet.

Tonight, I went to let out my dad's puppy (actually, mine- long story), and afterwards, just stood in the darkness, looking up at the moon. It was a full moon, the kind that illuminated the clouds pulled near it. There was so much quiet where I stood. I loved the way the perfect Illinois cornfields seemed endless with the moonlight hovering over them. I momentarily wished I could spend the night watching stars glisten into nothing. Instead, I left the largest moon in 18 years outside and drove back to my apartment.

I haven't had that morning. I've had too much night lately. There's nothing really to elaborate on except to say that, new rings aside, things aren't magically fixed in our house. No one snapped their fingers and made it all better, as much as I greedily pray for it so often. We have spent more of the last few months apart then together, and I think it's having an obvious effect. I don't think marriage is necessarily a you-never-forget-how type of thing, like riding a bike. I think you can forget how to be married, how to live together, or how to love each other the way you both should or the way you used to love. It's not like I can be angry at a deployment, either- something outside us and out of our control. It happened internally.

Anyhow, I guess I'm kind of melancholy and unsettled tonight. I want that long exhaled breath that comes with peace and comfort in my own home, with my own family. I want to know that everything will be okay tomorrow, and even more so, 5 years from now.

The moon is so beautiful tonight, but I am ready for sunshine on my face.


P.S. I read this blog post yesterday, and it's stuck with me intensely. You should read it too. You'll probably cry like I did, but that's okay. "You Are Not the Man She Married" {by Single Dad Laughing}

It's Not You, It's Me

"I stood still, vision blurring, and in that moment, 

I heard my heart break. 

It was a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a flower's stem." 
— Diana Gabaldon 

If someone was to stand there with a checklist, the day would have been a success. Exchanging of Valentine's cards? Check. Roses? Check. A horribly inadequate painting (mine) of the first place we saw each other? Check. A dinner at a nice restaurants in town, an attempt to make smoothies at home, and a baby who fell asleep by 7:30pm? Check, check, check.

What I realized last night, is that there is nothing else Sky could have done to try to make me happy. I was sad from the day before, when we had gone out to buy each other gifts, and the folded up bills in my pocket somehow fell out. When we barely can pay bills on time, losing money in the blink of an eye seemed like such a horrible thing. I really did try, though, after I went to bed that night, to psych myself up for a glorious day.

Instead, I couldn't stop crying. I actually had to take off my makeup and reapply it because it was so smudged. We didn't have time for me to get into the dress I'd planned to wear, so I wore jeans to the nice restaurant. I sat there, looking at all the couples around us, and the ones outside holding hands as they walked by, and I felt so alone. I couldn't speak. I could only think. There are memories that I couldn't quite grasp, but wanted to pull down to the floor and watch them smash into slivers for the waiter to sweep up. I spent most of the time staring at the ceiling so the tears welling up wouldn't escape. I tried to smile for the waitress.

What happened in the past was his fault, without question. What happens now is at least equally mine. He has things to work out, but I have to find a way to get past this- and I can't. I don't know how to un-hurt. I don't know how to erase those flashbacks of what happened. I don't remember how to look like all those others couples who were sipping wine and smiling. It's as if I sat there, trying to act like everything was fine and I was happy, while holding a hand over my wound to keep the blood from trickling out.

In the book he's been using to help work on things, there was a suggestion to make a list of 35 reasons to stay  away from that specific behavior. I'm following along in the same book, so I made my own list- a list of 35 ways I've been hurt. And while he said he could only come up with two or three for his list, my hurt and anger spilled out so easily that 35 things felt like a waterfall rushing from me. At 35, I slammed the lid of my computer, lest I go on any further.

I have so much pain, and I don't know what to do with it. If a boy gives me roses, I should be happy. I think I've forgotten what happiness tastes like it.