Today is day number one of this, “let’s live apart for 8 months while we fight for our foster daughter” thing we’re going through. It sucks. It’s hard. It feels like someone sucked the light out of my little world, and even worse, it’s raining. How cliché is that? But after all the times he’s left, I just feel numb to it all.
I always give myself one “wallow day” when he leaves for an extended time. I let myself eat whatever the heck I want, I watch horrid movies, and don’t put on makeup. Basically I feel whatever needs to be “felt” so I can get up tomorrow like the butt-kicking army wife I am. Of course, when you have five kids at home, “wallow day” looks a lot like laundry day. Regardless, today just kind of … well … sucks.
I’m cranky, and a little numb, and generally assessing the status of our life, and yet, within 12 hours of him leaving, I heard my first, “Well, at least he’s not being shot at.”
So. Not. Helpful.
This is not a deployment. Deployments are soul-sucking wretches where fear is your constant companion. This is most definitely not that. But this hardship demands to be felt as well. It might not be the fear of never seeing Jason again, but it’s a different kind – the kind that we’re giving up our dwell time before the next deployment. My fears aren’t that he won’t come home, they’re so much broader than that.
He hasn’t even been home 9 months. Am I even used to him being here? When we’re finally together, whole as a family, will he immediately deploy? Will we both be too set in our independent ways? What if this is the only time we would have had together? What if it’s all for nothing? No, this is not a deployment – it’s another beast entirely, and reminding me that his physical safety isn’t at risk. Well, that’s not making me feel better.
As military spouses, we endure separations and hardships that civilian families do not. While this makes us stronger, maybe it also makes us more callous, less able to sympathize because our empathy has been so abraded that we only think in worst-case scenarios. Our pain tolerance is fearfully, stoically high. But maybe what we’re losing is the ability to see that while something may not reach a ten on our pain-scale, it’s sure up there on someone else’s.
Every spouse is going to hit a day one of something they’ve dreaded. Maybe it’s a TDY that hits over a birthday or a holiday. Maybe it’s a hardship tour, or even a deployment. Chances are, if you’ve been around the military long enough, you’ve had it worse than someone else. But that doesn’t mean that what they’re going through isn’t valid, isn’t increasing their pain tolerance.
Perhaps, in the walls we’ve built, we’ve lost a little perspective. Heck, I know that I have. When my sister’s husband went away on business for two weeks, I had little to no sympathy besides to raise my eyebrows and think, “welcome to the slightest taste of my world.” Was that the right response? Heck no. But I’ve grown so accustomed to going a year without Jason that two weeks seemed like a pinprick next to open heart surgery. Maybe that’s just what happened to me.
We’ve been through much worse. We’ve endured four deployments, one of which sent him home seriously wounded. We’ve been through times where our only communication came on MRE post cards sent from the Iraq/Syria border. We’ve been through solo PCS’s and too many tough re-integrations. But that doesn’t lessen the utter crappiness of what this is now – our choice.
Yes, Jason is gone, and we’re now living separately, fighting for the smidgeon of a chance to keep our family whole. No, it’s not fun. Yes, it comes with a unique set of challenges. Nope, it’s not a deployment.
Maybe you’re right, and I should simply look on the bright side that he’s not being shot at – but my mind automatically jumps to add, “this time.” Because I’m jaded just like so many other “lightly salted” spouses. But this experience is teaching me that it’s not always worst-case scenario. My pain meter today is at a 5. It’s hectic, I miss him, and I’m pretty sure my dog is going to rebel if I stick this cone-of-shame on his head one more time. But it’s day one. I can call him when I want to, or even buy him a ticket home for Thanksgiving.
And as it’s been said … at least he’s not being shot at.
