Commitment phobias die hard.

It is amazing what a day can do to one's heart and mind. My whole spirit feels overwhelmed with comfort today.

This morning I woke up and decided that I was going to be happy. It's my choice to feel how I will feel. Today I decided to feel happy. Or maybe just better? I don't know.

I'm thinking about joining a "run for an hour straight in two months" challenge. It has been a life's goal to be able to run a mile by the time I'm 35. I have never been able to run. Even when I was young. My lungs just couldn't handle it. I'm not sure my heart can take any more failure on my body's part, hence the nervousness. But it does start quite gradually, and maybe that will help? I don't know. I'm thinking about it. But I suppose, as with all things, I am reluctant to commit. Or maybe I'm just too sober to commit? LOL!

I am feeling so discouraged. I feel like all of my positivity is gone and I just feel completely defeated. I am so frustrated with my broken body that is not functioning right. I'm exhausted all the time, sick all the time, and if I eat more than 1000 calories a day I gain weight and more weight and more weight. I hurt because my body can't handle this much weight. It doesn't matter that I exercise every. single. day. It doesn't matter that I eat like a health nut. It doesn't matter that I take vitamins, stay away from soft drinks, consume an incredible amount of water, etc etc. I don't like sweets, so I exceptionally rarely eat them (we're talking maybe once every two months). I don't crave junk food (chips are such a waste of nutrition). I just am so fed up.

So after four months of being sick (literally), I went to the doctor. As much as I love medicine, I am intelligent enough to know when a physician actually needs to treat me and when I just need to suffer through. I know I need to see an endocrinologist. I know my hormones are off. But now my insurance company no longer believes in referring people out. So the doctor said it will probably be denied. Wonderful. The Army will pay thousands of dollars for me to have some sort of weight loss surgery but heaven forbid I should actually see the specialist who can fix what's wrong with me.

I feel like giving up. I feel like crawling into a hole and hiding. It's not that I care about being fat. Seriously, I don't. It's the control. I have none. Yes, I can control what I eat. Yes, I control whether or not I work out. But I have no control over my body performing the way it is supposed to. I have no control over whether or not all of my nutritional and health efforts will do anything.

Today my blood pressure was really high. So despite that I eat like a nutrition nut. Despite that I exercise every day, my body is still falling apart. It is incredibly maddening and immensely frustrating.

Is this my punishment for getting my tubes tied?

I have been incredibly sick. I have been horrifically sick. I hate being sick and it literally irritates the bananas out of me, but it is what it is.

This being said, I don't know what I feel about Christmas this year. I feel incomplete, if that makes sense at all. I feel like the Christmas story hasn't been focused on or perfected enough. I feel like I've barely started writing December, let alone the notion of Christmas.

I have immensely loved being with my children and husband. Our days have been filled with laughter, smiles, cuddles and closeness. I have stayed as far away from my phone as humanly possible. I suppose the deployment caused phone burn out.

Life is good. Despite the sickness aspect. I feel so thankful to be with my whole family again. I am blessed beyond measure.

Parenting. It's scary!

I always hate when people write excuses for why they haven't updated their blogs. So I won't. My apologies.

The past couple of weeks I have really been vegging out. It's amazing how this time of year I end up completely exhausted. I don't feel like talking on the phone or doing much of anything, because everything is so GO GO GO and busy, busy, busy.

I have really been trying to pay a lot of attention to my kids. I think they've been overlooked the past few months. I have intentionally removed myself from the deployed-glued-to-the-phone viewpoint, and have made efforts to being with them. The truth is, they are growing up so fast. These moments will fade away quickly. Soon they will be grown up and I'll be sitting here wondering why I didn't play with them more and focus on everyone else less.

Tonight was one of these moments. We all sat around and watched a movie together. Then we turned on some Christmas music and started dancing. The dancing then led to laughing, which led to chasing, which led to two hours of fun and play time. It. was. a. blast.

Even now as an adult I remember the moments when my parents would chillax and play with us. There was one day when we went to the park and played "baseball" with a tennis racket (we were poor) and a hand ball (all we had). It was the time of my life. I didn't care about how we looked, or what other people thought. We were just having the time of our lives.

I wonder if these moments will be lasting for my children. I have to admit, I am a pretty strict mom. I really am. On the flip side of that, I want my children to remember their childhoods with smiles and silliness. I want them to remember a home where laughter reigned supreme. I want the foundation of their adult selves to be joy and love.

Why is this notion so easily lost in the chaos of raising children? For some it's lost in the guise of strictness and rules. For others it's completely lost in the complete and utter lack of any sort of rules at all. Truth is, raising kids is really freaking hard. It's the hardest thing I have ever done. The truth is, I don't really have any answers at all. Parenting is always a work in progress, an ever evolving process of figuring out some really weird stuff and then trying to set guidelines (which are always changing, by the way, because your kids get older and need larger guidelines!) and teach the kids to live within them. You are doing all of this, while also internally embarking on WWIII within your very self because all you want to do is protect them, shelter them, and save them from anything that might ever hurt them.

So anyway. I love the moments when I can throw off the roles of "momzilla" and just be silly and crazy. I love laughing with my children.

Love

When I was young I believed that real love didn't exist. I viewed love as selfish, manipulative, conniving, dishonest, abusive, destructive. I hated love. I hated affection. Love was something that people only had in the movies. Love wasn't real, and love was certainly not something I was going to experience.

I dated a decent amount of fellows desperately wanting to believe that love was real. Until Ace (nickname).

That whole "relationship" started out on a lie. He asked me to "go steady" (lol) with him and I told him I needed to pray about it. For a whole week I prayed, and I knew God was telling me no. I knew it wasn't something I was supposed to be in. At the end of the week, he called me for my response (doesn't this all sound so dramatic!?). He was so excited and I didn't have the heart to hurt him. So, to be nice, I said yes. I remember telling God that night that I was tired of being hurt and that I just wanted this one thing to work, and that I needed him to make it work. I literally told God that he "owed" me and that he needed to make this happen because I needed it.

Biggest mistake ever. That relationship was probably the most destructive I've ever been in. Not because of him, or really because of me, but simply because of circumstance. Despite the fact that I knew God was saying no, I literally fell hard for Ace. My heart was wholly his. Nevermind that our personalities were just completely inappropriately matched. This relationship failure was not for lack of trying. Ace loved me. Ace really loved me. And I really loved him. And we tried. We tried with every fiber of both of our beings and in the end, we both ended up messed up, confused, and broken. I learned then that it didn't matter how hard I tried, sometimes two good people just don't belong together.

After that break up, I launched myself into three years of playing with men. I was a tease. I was bored. I was angry. I was hurt. Guys were just a tool to feel better about myself.

On some random day in January, my whole world changed. I met this person, on the phone, who literally rocked my core. I met this person who sassed back at me, who teased back at me, who wasn't intimidated by me. I met this person who fought back at what I dished out. I met this person who completely mesmerized me. I fell in love. It was instantaneous. There was no arguing with it either. I was completely a lost cause. I had no idea what this chap looked like. I knew nothing about him at all, except that he was in the Army. I went to dinner that night and told my friends that I met the man I was going to marry. They laughed at me. Mind you, this laughter was deserved, since I had a "new guy" every week and they knew me only to be incredibly fickle, however, I still knew I was going to marry this dude.

All of a sudden, love became something completely different. All of a sudden, love became terrifying. It wasn't  hard. It was easy. Too easy. We never fought or argued. We agreed about everything. Not in a superficial, but in a completely literal way. We thought alike. We believed alike. We viewed the world the same way. It was amazing. I couldn't wrap my brain around the possibility of real love being so easy. So I ran.

I took off and tried on a love that was "hard" because I guess my screwed up brain needed to be completely convinced that "hard love" wasn't real love. Well, it isn't. Love isn't hard. At least not the way so many people like to make it seem. Love isn't endless compromising, or fighting, or changing, or morphing, or sacrificing. Love isn't giving everything up, or bending over backwards over and over again. Love isn't generous. Love is completely selfish. But in a beautiful way.

It is selfish for me to love him. I LOVE loving him! It is selfish for me to do the things that make him smile, because I LOVE making him smile. I don't change myself to fit his "status quo". I am my complete self. He loves my complete self. He loves my flaws, my insanities, my silliness, my seriousness, my emotional basketcaseness, my worrying side, my angry side, my comforting side. He knows every facet of my self and he loves me anyway. THAT is what love is. Love is loving someone, accepting someone, completely as they are. Not as you want them to be, pretend that they are (or they pretend to be), or you imagine you both could be together.

I have seen so many people commit themselves to love being hard. I have seen this (and done it myself) because of a complete fear of being alone. I think we all have an aspect in ourselves that says "I'd rather have a difficult 'love' than no love". I think this is a lie that evil feeds us. Difficult love isn't love. It's infatuation, desperation, anxiety, and maybe a lot of other words, but it isn't love. Real love sets you free and finding it is a complete and utter miracle.

Love is a powerful, simple and yet completely complicated word. Love is life changing, perspective altering. Love gives all. It has to, because it doesn't have the option of holding back. Love is messy, feisty, argumentative, emotional, and completely insane.

In my own life, I have different levels of "love". I can literally count on just a few fingers the number of people that are on the receiving end of my intense love. With all of them, I instantly loved them (despite all logic), and have continued to do so. With all of them I have given more of my emotional state than with everyone else combined. With each of them I would give and give and give and give. With each of them I would bend over backwards, climb Mount Everest, swim the ocean, and cry buckets and buckets of tears.

These are people in my life who don't get a lot of public recognition, with the exception of Chief. This is for a multitude of reasons, the first of which is that I am incredibly protective of them. Ferociously so. Almost borderline psychotically protective. The second is that my love for them is not an option. It isn't something that I can choose to turn off. It isn't something that anyone else is allowed to have an opinion about. It is what it is because it has to be. 

I have never been able to pinpoint what it is about these individuals that creates this attachment. I have spent an incredible amount of introspective thought power to try to say why it is that I must love these people. I can't say. There is no one thing that clicks in my mind and says this is it! This is why! Now it makes sense. There are just too many reasons to list. There is too much about them that is too significant. It is on a completely different plane of reality from everyone else.

This morning I took what I can only call the most significant step in my whole life. A lot of people think that getting married, having children, or buying a house would classify as this pivotal moment in their life. For me, getting married and having children were massively significant moments in my life, but they paled in comparison to this one. On this day, December 4, 2011, I officially and publicly said goodbye to my former life of Baptist faith and tradition, and stated my intention to join in full communion with the Roman Catholic Church.

I was a passionate Baptist. I led bible studies, dove into massive theological understanding, sought out truth, challenged and questioned God, myself and others. I have had people say a lot of things about what my spiritual gifts are. I have been the "hope" of a lot of leaders who wanted me to take up the biblical teaching task and allow them to relax a little.

Truth be told, I love Scripture. I thrive on it. I enjoy studying it. It is a massive passion of mine to take what so many people struggle to grasp, or barely pay attention to, and then help them to look at it in a different way. It is a massive desire in my heart to help other people fall in love with Jesus. So many people have no idea who He really is and they live angry, frustrated lives, because no one actually takes the time to introduce them. That breaks my heart.

Leaving my life of Protestantism was incredibly painful. The amount of agony in my heart over all the people that I have assisted in leading in error cripples me. I am hungry for more and more truth and understanding. I am sad to leave that which has been so familiar to me. It hurts. It seems so silly that it does, but I can't seem to stop myself. It hurts to know that I have to draw the line, and I can't partake in this wishy washy attitude of "aren't we all a part of the same team" kind of perspective. Truthfully, we're not. Catholicism and Protestantism are mutually exclusive beliefs. You either believe that the Catholic Church was the backbone on which Christ established his tradition and church or you don't. You either believe the Eucharist is a commandment (John 6) or you don't. You either believe that the Eucharist is the actual blood and body of Christ or you don't. You either believe that scripture has called all of us to a life of submission to both God and the church, or you don't. You really do have to choose between the two. And it's hard.

Protestantism is incredibly successful because it's entirely emotions based. Truthfully, that's all it really has going for it. Think about it, Sunday morning is all about "vibe." Do I feel good in this place? Do I feel the Holy Spirit here? Do I feel welcomed? Do I feel this is where God wants me to be? Do I like the worship? Do I feel moved when the music is playing? The list of self centered questions go on and on. Protestant church, however, is all about self. And when it's all about self, it's not about God. Because self focus and God focus are mutually exclusive. You are either focused on God, or yourself.

Leaving a life which has been entirely centered on my feelings is hard. I used to feel the presence of God all around me. I used to feel God moving in me and around me. I don't anymore. Not that I don't know that He's moving and that He's here, I just don't have the emotional aspect of it anymore. It requires a massive change in perspective. Knowing and feeling are two completely different things. I know God is around me. I know God is here and moving.

Today, I had all the physical manifestations of my body's version of panic: migraine headache, sweating, dizziness, shaking. I literally felt sick. Then Fr. Rick started talking. He started talking about this beautiful experience is clinging to God, and letting all of the other stuff fade away. This has been lost in the "christian" realm. People are too focused on feelings. They're too focused on numbers, or tithes, or buildings, or popularity, or concerts. People are too focused on appearing like they're in love with God to actually be in love with God. People don't cling to Him anymore. I don't even think they really know Him.

This day is painful in a lot of ways. I have always been immaculately different from those around me. I have always been the odd one: in my family, in my friends, in the crowd. I have hated this aspect of myself. So today I walked away from the faith of my family, the faith of my friends, and I feel incredibly alone in my circle. I was hurt that my friends didn't support me today. I was hurt that while so many of my beautiful church family shared in celebrations and encouragement, I was ignored and snapped at. It's not that those things are required. I'm not on this journey for the celebration of others. This is not about anyone other than me and Christ, but it still stings.

I am so grateful for my brothers and sisters at St. Patrick's. I am thankful for their hugs and their cheers and their support. I am thankful for the journey that we're all on together. I'm thankful for the sense of family that they have brought to my life. I am thankful even for the stings that came along with this day. I am thankful that Chief was standing right next to me while we both said our first official "goodbye" to all that we had previously known and our public "hello" to Truth. I am thankful for his shoulder to cry on in mass. I am thankful for the man that he is. I am constantly in awe of his support, encouragement and wisdom.

So I suppose I'm trying to process all of this.

All's fair in love and heat strokes

I love my husband, I really do. I think all you have to do is read through just a couple of my posts and you can see that I am pretty hardcore in this dude that I'm married to. However, there are moments when the love of my life drives me completely crazy. I will divulge into this very serious issue, now.

Sleep is a sensitive issue for me. When Chief deploys, I no longer have to battles with his middle-of-the-night (okay, slight exaggeration) alarm clock sounds, the worry that he got up and went back to sleep in the living room instead of getting ready for work, and the fifteen thousand times he comes in and out of my room, turning the bathroom light on and off, while getting ready for work. Let me just say, I have not missed these activities. I have tried to shift my morning schedule to get up when he does so that this will bother me less, however, it has never really proved successful. Maybe I should take up the fight again.

Of all things aggravating, however, this is minor on the scale. You see, women, especially women who are getting older (gasp! Did she just say getting older? Well chillax my women friends, there is no such thing as a woman who is not getting older. Or a girl, boy, man, etc etc for that matter as well) have this lovely concoction within themselves called hormones. Hormones create, in women, what I like to call female heat strokes (AKA night sweats) while we attempt to sleep. Women, if they have children, who don't get a decent amount of sleep become highly agitated and snippy.

Now, I confess to you that I suffer from female heat strokes. I am constantly roasting under my thin sheets. It has been so awful on occasion, that I have actually slept with ice packs!

So how does Chief play into this disturbing phenomena? I will tell you. I am 100% convinced that Chief's body temperature rises to 800 degrees when he falls asleep. I kid you not, we can be snuggling in bed reading books, or playing games, and he does not cause me to roast. I will give you an example. Last night I slept with the window open in my room. It was negative 700 degrees outside, so I figured that for certain I would get a decent night's sleep. Is this what played out? No. Chief decided that he was not content to sleep next to me in our massive bed, no no. Chief had to sleep on top of me, with Spaniel alongside just to ensure my experience of heat stroke. I kicked off all the blankets to try to cool off, and then I decided to feel Chief's forehead. Um, if I had a thermometer handy, I swear his body temperature was AT LEAST 105 degrees (on a side note, is this why he's so skinny!? He just sweats off every single calorie that enters his body! Humph!).

Now I know that to have him here to sleep next to (or under) is a wonderful treat. So I tried to fall asleep, and tolerate how hot I was. I know that so many dear friends' husbands are far away. I know that he and I have spend many nights not sleeping next to each other, and it is a beautiful gift to hear his sleep talking, the rise and fall of his chest, and the comfort of his embrace. I get all of that. However, at about four o'clock in the morning, I tried to gently push Chief over to his side of the bed. What happened? He took that as wanting to snuggle more and in his sleep starts to tell me how much he loves me (is this sleep induced guilt-tripping? Does that exist!?). I finally snapped. I was a rubber band that had been stretched too thin from lack of sleep and too much overheating. I spicily said, "Can you please move over to your side of the bed!?!?!?!" He reacted like a child who just put his hand on a hot stove.

I finally cooled off. I could feel my skin breathing a massive sigh of relief. So, do you know where I was when his alarm went off this morning for him to go to work? I had shifted myself over to his side of the bed and I was snuggling him!

I guess I'm just a glutton for heat stroke. :)

Arrivals

On thanksgiving night the love of my life came home safely from Iraq. I still can't believe I'm writing those words. My brain is so completely emotionally overwhelmed. Sitting right here next to me is the person I love most in this entire world. His comfort, his love, his leadership, has overwhelmingly consumed me. I don't have enough words to say what he means to me. To try to say anything is the grandest understatement. He is perfection.

The past few days we have been readjusting. We have been snuggling, cuddling, playing, and team leading our children. As I write this, I can't make myself stop crying. I was petrified that he wouldn't come back to me.

He lights up my heart. His smile melts my bones. His laugh sends fireworks through my spirit. His embrace... well, I'm sure you can imagine. :)

So why am I writing this? Aside from the typical banter of my gooey lovey sappy chick stuff for this fella. I want to document for my future moments his awesomeness. This weekend, he has completed these random acts of amazingness. For example, I walked into the kitchen to see that he's taken all of my carpet cleaner's attachments and cleaned them. I have not once seen a sink filled with dirty dishes. He tag teamed (without any begging on my part) making sure our oldest completely cleaned her room. He has handled children who are misbehaving, letting me sleep in, picking out, carrying around, tying down, and putting up our Christmas tree (despite his yearly announcements that this year we will buy a fake tree, and never actually forcing me to live with this Christmasy misery). He put lights on the tree, only to discover they didn't work and take them all off. He has played with our children, in the way that only he can do so magically. We have laughed together. I mean, really laughed together, without the delay/echo of phones and internet.

It's been an amazing few days. My heart is overwhelmed. I love this man so much more than I am capable of saying. I have never known a human being to be so amazing. I have never encountered another individual so capable of bringing my heart to such soaring heights. He is everything that I begged God for. I am so happy that he's home.

I am really sick of people's "thankfulness". I realize that's a pretty shocking thing to read, especially considering that I am all about gratitude, however, I am sick of this notion that because thanksgiving occurred, we're all supposed to focus extra attention on gratitude for this period of time. I am annoyed by that. I'm sick of the "30 days of thanksgiving" that people have been doing around me. I mean, should thankfulness have a statute of limitations of 30 days? Should we only be thankful for the month of November? Then we are free to launch right back into the self centered, ego driven mentality that we all employ throughout the rest of the year?

If I'm honest, November embarrasses me. Really, it does. My brother in law posted this comical joke about how  it's ironic that Americans spend a whole day being thankful for what they have, and then they follow it up the very next day with buying new stuff (black friday). It's embarrassing. I think it's embarrassing to sit in my fancy house, with my fancy clothes and my fancy stuff, and my big massive fancy meal and not be burdened by those suffering around me. I think it's embarrassing to start focusing on buying an incredible amount of "stuff" for Christmas, rather than to focus on the people in the world who are starving. I carry those hearts with me. I am so eager for the day when I can run to them and love on them in the physical sense.

I am embarrassed that Thanksgiving's meaning has been changed. I am embarrassed that this country holds no traditions sacred anymore. I am embarrassed that my children are bombarded with imagery and electronicism (totally just made that up), while creativity and activity become things we have to "push" them to do, rather than just standard practice. I am embarrassed that it's against the law in my city, to feed a homeless person, or give them money.

I am so sick of this pseudo-thankfulness that I see going on around me. Are you really truly grateful? Then why do just 30 days of thanksgiving? Why not make it 365?

I am sitting here an emotional basket case. I seriously am a mess. I can't seem to make myself stop crying. What the hell is wrong with me?

A thousand memories of that damned hell hole are blowing through my brain. It hurts. It hurts like hell. It's powerful to hate an entire country. Not it's people. I don't feel any sort of animosity to the people themselves, but the nation. I hate the nation. I hate it's name. I hate the connotations that are awakened in me when I hear the word. To me, Iraq, is a dirty word. It's worse than f*** or b***** or c***. It's the dirtiest of all dirty words. It's a word that arouses murder, destruction, insanity, and complete and utter heartache in my soul.

How do I get over that country? How do I let go of that place? I don't have any idea where to even begin. How do I think of that place without bursting in to tears? So far, it hasn't been possible. That place hurts me. That place haunts me. And I hate it for doing that. I hate that it still plagues me like a nightmare. I hate that it makes me weak.

War is so ugly. It's ugly in ways that I can't even begin to communicate. It's devastating, on all parties involved: the "winners" and the "losers". War, truthfully, only brings loss. There isn't really any way to "win" at war.

What is the cost? How many beautiful people have died? For what? How many marriages destroyed? For what? What was gained? A psychopath was removed, that's true. But it doesn't seem very likely that a non psychopath will take his place, so what gives? Was this worth it?

I am a part of a club. A club of people who have been tortured by this experience. I am a part of a group that no one else can understand, except those who've lived it. It's a club that's filled with battle scarred individuals. We all have combat patches. We all have wounds. We all don't have enough words. We all are hurting.

I am so sick and tired of idiots trying to compare this specific set of combat circumstances to others before. This is NOT Vietnam. This is NOT World War II. To try to compare different combative actions only proves the individual to be a fool. Those are all so uniquely different. How dare anyone try to trivialize or conceptualize this experience, or theirs? WWII and Vietnam were hell on earth. Iraq and Afghanistan are too. But they're their own different doses of heartache. Are we so stupid that we have to try to compete and compare war? Are we so stupid that we have to try to "one up" each other in regards to whom has suffered more?

My God I have no words. I have only tears. I have only tears for those I've loved who've been lost. I have only tears for the widows who are suffering. I have only heartache for the peace that's been destroyed. I have only tears for the PTSD, devastation, suffering, anxiety, destruction... This has been ten years of hell. I imagine it will take at least that long to wrap my brain around it all.

Screw you Iraq. I hate everything that you symbolize in my mind.

I live in a musical household. We are basically a family of singers. In any given hour, you will hear someone singing something at some point. To be honest, singing is so common that I half expect my children to burst in to some song in order to communicate with me, at any given moment.

All four of my children sing. Chief is probably the only one that we ask not to grace us with the singing aspect. I think he's happy to oblige. :) The reason why I am writing about this, is that two of my children are currently singing a portion of mass: Kyrie Eleison. They sing it often. It warms my heart.

Consummatum est.

Welcome home. It's the craziest set of two words to even be contemplating, let alone facing, right now with the lobster. Welcome home. What? Didn't he just leave? I mean, wasn't it just four months ago that I was unwrapping my body from his and watching him walk away from me?

The Army has consistently not given me deployment presents. Deployments have been extended. Goodbye days have been moved up. Dwell time has been shortened. Communication has been worse than anticipated. When it comes to deployments, the Army and I don't have the happiest of track records. So when the President announced that all the soldiers would be leaving Iraq, I smiled that he would be out of the country that almost killed me, and assumed the next big hill to climb would be heading my way. I have lived this life for quite a while now and I know to expect the unexpected. Except that the unexpected in this life is negative. It means that things change, but they change for the worse, not the better.

To be honest, I can't believe that I have spent that past three weeks making welcome home banners, posters, cards. I can't believe that I have worked on preparing barracks for soldiers from our company to move in to. I can't believe that my husband is safely out of what I consider to be my heart's hell hole. I can't believe this is all coming to an end.

It's difficult to process. It's emotional in a way that I don't know how to describe. For some of you dear readers, you know what it means. You know what that country has cost me. You know. So here I sit, trying to wrap my brain around all of this. Here I sit trying to comprehend how I feel.

I asked the lobster to save the uniform he was wearing when he left that place for the last time. I plan to have it framed, along with his boots and dog tags, and the last picture ever taken of him in that place. I plan to have some sort of purging, letting go, moving on ceremony with the lobster. Maybe we'll write down the things that country stole from us. Maybe we'll sit on our back porch, sipping wine and just journeying down the memory lane of Iraq.

When he walks off of that airplane, and he walks into my arms, one thing is for certain, this welcome home is the most significant in a number of ways. It didn't win. The war, the country, the place didn't win. It didn't destroy us. It didn't conquer us, and I promise you it tried. It tried with all of the ugliness that it could muster. It tried and failed. And I will cry. I will seriously cry. I will probably cry harder than I've ever cried. I will breathe differently. I will feel lighter. I will wrap my arms around him and rejoice because I can finally say for good and forever that it. is. finished.

Don't hesitate, communicate!

Communication is such an incredibly powerful word. The lack of it can cause the greatest of destruction. Ineffective communication can lead to misunderstanding, resentment, hostility. It always ends up having a trickle down effect and causing the breakdown of relationships. To communicate effectively is incredibly important. I think it can actually be the most important aspect of humanity, second only to love.

I am often times surrounded by people who are either so stressed, or so overwhelmed, or so frustrated that their communication has reached a breakdown point. When we allow emotions to rule our verbiage, we put ourselves at great risk. Sometimes the risk is a beautiful one, as in when we lovingly, passionately, plead with our loved one to make a better choice, or to realize we're "the one". Other times it can cause the complete loss of that which matters to us: allow rage/anger to guide your mouth and watch what happens.

The truth is, most of us have forgotten the art of thinking before we speak. Most of us have gotten so caught up in the hollywood mood boob that we can almost hear the soundtrack playing in our minds as we embark on our hollywood journey of emotional outbursts. Except, why do the stories almost always turn out so perfectly in the movies and so horrifically in real life? Um... because it isn't real!

The reality behind communication is that it's messy. You can't always predict how people will react. You don't always know the reasons behind why someone is saying what they're saying. You can't just assume that they're thinking or feeling one way unless you've asked.

The reality is that when you stop giving people the benefit of the doubt, you choose to assume the worst in them and you immediately build up a barrier between them and you. You immediately stop the free flow of love.

I work so hard on a daily basis to assume the best in people. I work hard at this because it's required of me. Every day I communicate with people who are overwhelmed, over stressed, over panicked, over worried, over impatient, over defensive, or over whatever else it is, and bring it to my table. Do I have moments when I've had enough and I just have to step back? You bet I do. I have a lot of them. But do I also have moments when I get to see the good and beauty behind people's overwhelming emotions as well? Yes.

I get so frustrated sometimes when people try to read into my thoughts, my perspectives, my emotions. I work hard to communicate exactly what I'm thinking/feeling when I'm ready to. I am not the type of individual who just callously sits around silent and then blabbers to everyone else what I'm thinking. When I see problems I need addressed, I address them. I don't like to fight.

I realize that there are people on this earth that need a cause. I know that God has wonderfully created individuals who need to have something to stand up for, to argue against, wrongs that they can right. To be honest, the older the get, the less energy I have for that. I think that the older I become the more I realize that my husband and my children are the only things that are genuinely worth fighting for. Everything else is absolutely worth loving, but fighting for? No.

I'm sure you're sitting there going, now seriously, how the heck did she go from communication to love and fighting and worth fighting things for and what!? I promise you that there is a back story here, I just know better than to say it out loud. I'm sorry. I know I just now had you all revved up to read a story and now I've just cut you off. I'm a story tease. I apologize.

There's this prayer that I pray which says "God give me the grace to effectively communicate." I love that prayer. Because I love recognizing before God that speaking can create all sorts of mess and ugliness if it isn't done from a pure heart. I also love the reminder that every time I talk, someone is listening, even if it feels like no one is. The trick of talking is to make sure that love of the individual is your guide. When there is no love, words are almost always ugly. When words are ugly, communication is an incredibly destructive force.

There is a confusing hustle and bustle within my spirit. The past two days have been a haze of ultra stomach sickness the details of which I will spare you. This latest addition to the plague that has been haunting me brings my sick total of days to over a month. I finally had an emotional break down when my children called my mom and said she needed to come. My mom asked if I needed her to and I just started to cry. I am so sick of being sick.

My house is in desperate need of cleaning. In fact, we've reached the critical level here. I have cut back and cut back on activities to allow my body time to rest and heal, but we're getting to the point where everything is in critical need. I was so upset. I was so frustrated. I was overwhelmed. I wanted two people: my husband or my mom, and they're both far away. So I had a pity party, and I sat in my red chair and cried.

I am better today. Well, better on the stomach front anyway. I've been able to keep down some saltine crackers and plenty of 7up, which is much better than yesterday. I also was able to manage to not sleep the entire day away. Thank God the kids are older and they managed to keep DVDs going for long enough to let me sleep as much as my body needed to.

Tonight I am sitting here sulking. I miss the lobster. I miss him so much that my skin hurts. My bones ache for him. I haven't talked to him in almost a week. I know he's busy, and I know he doesn't want to spend the money on calling cards, or all of the other communication forms which require spending money. I know what his logic is. I understand what he's doing. It just sucks. It hurts.

Veteran's Day

When I reflect on what Veteran's Day means to me, I honestly struggle to find words. Okay, I don't really struggle to find words exactly. I can communicate adequate sentences which convey how much I adore and am amazed by my soldier. In fact, that's the easiest aspect of Veteran's Day emotion for me to explain. The lobster really is, in every way my hero. I have an incredible amount of respect for his love, loyalty, passion, and honor in regards to the job that he has. This life has never been "just a job" to him. He has faithfully, and dutifully, served his country. I am humbled to help support him in that endeavor. I am honored that I get to play a small part in this wonderful world of the Army.

What I struggle with communicating, are my words in regards to the other aspects of this day. The soldiers who have died. I don't have words to explain how I feel. I can't put into words what the sacrifices of some of my best friends mean to me. How those gifts of life grieve me. How those spouses have managed to carry on have inspired me. What words could I possibly say? My heart loves the gold star families. My spirit is permanently linked to one special gold star wife. When I think of her, my whole being is encouraged and inspired. Of all the women I have ever known, she has given me the most strength, the greatest comfort, and the highest encouragement. I know that she knows how deeply I love her. I also know that she knows how much the lobster and I talk about, cherish, and remember her beautiful husband. I know we're not supposed to call dudes "beautiful", but to have known Yoe is to understand that beautiful defines the soul, and his soul is crazy beautiful.

What do I say about the most amazing company of spouses, parents and siblings that I have had the pleasure of being the FRG leader for? This company that we are currently serving with... I don't have words to say. I wish I did. I love these families. I grieve when they're grieving. I get excited when they have babies. I worry about them. I want to encourage them. I fight for them. I will keep on fighting for them. How could I not? We are in this crazy experience together! We have pried our fingers off of our soldiers and watched them walk away, together. We have laughed, bickered, teased, coffee'd, been frustrated, questioned, and waited, together. I love each of these families in ways I can't describe.

What can I say about our unit's "extended" family? I have been so blessed to meet some of the most amazing women within the unit's leadership team. These women are who keep everything going back here. Honestly. People gripe a lot of about what FRG's are not doing right, but they rarely sit and think about how incredibly time consuming it is TO do it "right", especially when you factor in that ALL of it is done voluntarily. It takes an incredible amount of passion, love, and dedication to spend the hours that are required, every day, to support and maintain an FRG. Not to mention, that all of these women are doing this with their soldiers deployed too, and their children needing attention too, and their worries and fears about their soldier too, and their job/time constraints as well. I literally love these people!

What can I say about the men who have led my soldier safely through five deployments? I mean, seriously, what can I possibly say about them? That I love them? Um, yup! That I will always love them? Um, yup! Even the ones who were douche bags, I still love them for being a part of the group that my soldier was deployed and returned home safely with. How can I possibly say what they have given to me? Seriously? Where could I even slightly begin?

What can I say about all of the soldiers we have known? Our amazing friends and family members, who have been (or still are) fighting the fight and defending the country flabbergast me. I am honored and humbled to have known so many of you. I am thankful for all you have done.

So Veteran's Day is emotional. It's powerful and sentimental and beautiful. It isn't about BBQ's, or "sleeping in" or going to a party. It is the day when I sit down and genuinely think about the people who have largely impacted me, many of whom have no idea the degree to which they have. It's the day when I sit here and think to myself Wow. I am really lucky that I get to share in such a tiny part of this amazing experience. I am incredibly blessed that I get to live among so many heroes. I am so thankful that I get to love so many who have freely chosen to give so much of themselves to this country. Wow.

My Dad

Tonight I was terrified. I was caught up in the fear of imagining life without Chief and I was so sad. I don't get this way often, and to be honest I felt incredibly alone. I knew immediately exactly who I wanted to talk to. I wanted to talk to the one person who can always make me laugh when I ask him to. I wanted to talk to the one person who doesn't tell me to "stop thinking that way" or to "snap out of it" or to "trust God more." I wanted to talk to my Dad.

My Dad is not my dad because of genes. In fact, he and I don't share any. He and I do not have the same blood running through our veins. My Dad married my mother when I was just over three years old. When he married her, he fulfilled the greatest of vows to love, honor and cherish, not only her but also me. Let me tell you that in my life, fulfill them, he has done.

I am a daddy's girl in every way. In my world my dad is the greatest of heroes. There are a thousand reasons why he's my hero. For starters, despite the fact that I'm not genetically his child (and he does have his own "biological" children), my Dad has always treated me like his blood. He has always believed me, even when I lied, he's told me when I was being a jerk to some boy, he's given the "speech" to every single one of my serious boyfriends (and done it so successfully that they've all left terrified of him after the encounter and NEVER said what he told them), comforted me from heartbreak, fought with me (when I deserved it), fought for me (when I needed it), and loved me, despite my flaws.

My dad makes me laugh. I've heard time and time again, that I'm a lot like him. I think that's quite a compliment. When I think of my dad a few token words come to mind: hilarious (he really is), thoughtful, and loyal. My dad is fiercely loyal. I have always wanted to emulate that.

So tonight, in this complete moment of brokenness and vulnerability, I took to my dad the things that I was afraid of. I said "Dad, will you make me laugh?" and he immediately started acting silly (and I immediately started laughing). I told him why I was sad, and he immediately filled my heart with heavenly wisdom, fatherly strength, and humanly courage.

I don't think he'll ever know what he means to me. I don't think he'll ever be able to understand how much I admire him. I don't think he'll ever know how comforting it is to know that he's always got my back. He makes me braver, because I can feed off of his bravery. He makes me trust God more, because he so beautifully displays that trust in God. He accepts me. He encourages me. He supports me. I'm a stronger person because of him.

I love you Daddy. Thank you for choosing to love me so wonderfully.

Our introduction to parenthood.

When I was fifteen years old (give or take some years) I was diagnosed with severe endometriosis. I was told I would most likely never be able to have children. The scar tissue was enough to make it that even IVF would probably result in failure. So I wrapped my teenaged brain around the idea that I would never be a mother.

I went about my merry way and got married. Not right then, several years later. Because I was not supposed to be able to get pregnant, lets just say that "birth control" or some variant of that were far from my mind. At that time I had no moral opposition to birth control (I do now), but we just didn't use it. So about two and a half weeks after being married the "time of women" was late. A week late to be exact. I thought this was odd, because it was physically impossible for me to have gotten pregnant prior to my being married (unless God decided to create another miraculous birth, but I highly doubt that), and we had only been shaggalaging for a short period of time. Nevertheless the lobster pointed out that certain female assets had gotten bigger and then stated that he thought I was pregnant. Due to my belief that I was unable to conceive I thought this was pretty ridiculous. I took a test simply to oblige him. I genuinely did believe that it would be negative.

I went into the bathroom and did the "deed". Waited in there for the results, so that I could walk out and tell him "I TOLD YOU!!!!" Well, there was no need to wait the 2 minutes, that sucker was positive immediately. I opened that bathroom door walked right up to him and punched him square in the gut. Yes, yes I did. I went violent. Then I screamed at him "YOU GOT ME PREGNANT!" The worlds largest smile washed over his face. I swear, on some level, he was incredibly proud of himself. He probably thought "Yes! My man seed is SO potent that it can cut right through that scar tissue BS and implant itself in her uterus." While he sat there smiling and saying "Yay" I started to cry. Literally. This was not exciting news. I was devastated. I had plans. I had goals. I did not intend to have children. Children were going to come through adoption after medical school, after my residency was finished, when life was more "settled". They were not going to come from my body before medical school even began, a week before my husband was going to deploy.

He tried his best to comfort me. I started shaking (this is what I do when I'm panicking). I think he tried to hug me because I have a memory of pushing him away from me and saying "haven't you done enough to me!?"

I called my mom and told her. I was literally freaking out. Apparently my entire family believed that I was slutty enough to have gotten knocked up before we got married, and they anticipated this phone call as soon as they heard I was getting married. It is important to forgive them this horrible assumption as they know nothing of the military and the fact that rush weddings were incredibly common in a world where deployments were happening at the drop of a dime.

The lobster called his parents and told them and they were excited. His dad came into town that day to say his goodbye's before Chief deployed. That day Lolli's first baby gift was purchased: a lamb that spoke the words to "Now I lay me down to sleep". We still have it.

That day I was completely shocked. It was my first introduction to God having a completely different plan for my life than what I had imagined. I was blessed to bond with my firstborn in so many beautifully unique ways while her father was deployed. When he came home, she was almost five months old. She was my first child miracle. She is still the light of my heart. I have never encountered a child like her. She is filled with a spiritual wisdom and understanding that can only come from the God who miraculously created her.

It seems like yesterday that she was born. Can't believe that was almost seven years ago.

I'm sitting her in my grandpa's chair sipping hot coco from your favorite giant coffee cup. You know the one I'm talking about, the City of Los Angeles Starbucks one with the blue and white downtown LA outline. I miss you Chief. I mean, I really miss you. I've been forced to lay around all day and all that ends up happening is that I think about that you are not here and I feel sad. Everything feels so different from four months ago.

I have this feeling of impending doom. I know you probably think it's silly, and I suppose it is in a lot of ways. Feelings are not indications of what's to come. Feelings are manifestations of what we hope for, or fear. I fear you not coming home alive. I fear a world without you by my side. I fear raising our children alone. I fear having to make decisions without your wisdom. I fear not being strong enough to resist peer pressure, or to resist making stupid decisions. I fear life without you.

I have my limitations. Today I was supposed to be resting in bed. I obliged up until about an hour ago and then I felt more energized than I've felt in the past eight million years, and I went and cleaned my daughters' room. Can we say one whole bag of broken toys and trash!? I was flabbergasted! I don't understand why little kids are so lazy that they don't put things away as they dirty or break them. I seriously just don't get it.

I laid around all day. I've been dutifully taking the medications prescribed. I have consumed, up to right now, a gallon of water, and I will continue drinking until I fall asleep. I have weathered the hot flashes (seriously, hot flashes...apparently those are common when you have pneumonia), been patiently (okay, really impatiently) bored all day long, and I had a moment of complete weakness and cleaned. I hope that I don't wake up tomorrow morning more sick than I was before, but I really am feeling better!

We'll see how it goes.

True Confession

Of all people in my life, I have given you the least amount of credit deserved. I have fought you the hardest, felt the most betrayed, been the most resentful. I have girded up my loins and gone to war with you, deemed your opinion worthless, and rejected you. I have not given a thought about what you needed or wanted, instead demanding that you give what I needed. I have painted a picture, drawn the line, mapped out the road and you were going to follow it come hell or high water.

I hate you smoking. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I hate the smell of it. I hate the taste of it. I hate the cost of it. I hate the death of it. I hate that I can't make you stop. I hate that my ability to combat addiction isn't capable of fighting yours. I hate that your smoking, is my greatest weakness. I hate that it makes me resent you. 

Fear makes me hate your addiction. Fear creeps in and dominates the conversation, like the elephant in the room: what on earth would I do without you? What if our children think it's okay to do it too? What if I end up surrounded by a pool of addicts? What if my love is not strong enough to keep all of us together?

The thing is, that I have never really factored you into the equation. What if you smoke to fight away some horrible demons that invaded your brain when you first stepped foot in that country? What if you smoke instead of sniff, or drink, or abuse? What if you smoke because you need to feel like that rebel that you spent so many years being, hasn't died or completely disappeared? What if you smoke so that you don't cheat, or lie, or steal? Or you smoke so that you can be "bad boy" enough to keep me interested?

It hurt me that you spent over a year smoke free only to start again. I'm not going to lie. To be honest, I don't know how to love you enough to not hate you smoking. I'm too selfish. I want you around. I want to wake up thirty years from now, next to you and your happily functioning heart and lungs. I want it to be me and you sitting around with our grandchildren telling stories of our pasts. I want you to be the one holding me while I disintegrate when our children move away from our home. I want you to be the person I go camping with, hiking with, fear-of-heights conquering with, exploring my dangerous side with, laughing with, loving with. I want it to be you that I have gray hair and wrinkles with. 

No one knows how to love me like you do. Literally. Not a single person walking this earth, knows how to love me like you. It's amazing, completely flabbergasting, that I was so blessed to be joined with you. You love me like no other person. You lift me up, encourage me, challenge me, defend me, support me, love me, I mean really love me with all that you are. In a world filled with so many little boys, you stand tall as the greatest of men. What God has created in you humbles me. There is an awesomeness in you that can't be described. I am the luckiest woman in the world. I am the most blessed among women that this white spice rack gets to be your Mrs lobster...

So, I'm a bastard. I'm an asshole for not loving you enough to let this go. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I will try with all my might, to be as supportive as I can. Please forgive my passive aggressive comments, my overtly aggressive comments, my threats of forcing you to eat vegan, my bribes, begs, attitudes, resentments. Please forgive my silent treatments, my anger, and my inability to simply say "I love you. I'll love you no matter what. I'll keep right on choosing you every day. I'm just so scared of losing you." And as I write this, I literally can hear your voice saying "I already have..."

My funny Charlemagne.

I'd like to introduce you to my little firecracker. Her name is Charchee. Well, it's not her real name (we're not weird celebrities. Apple anyone?), but it's a nickname that has sort of stuck with her since she was incredibly tiny.

She was born incredibly tiny. She was considered to be what is called a micro premie. A micro premie is a baby that was born under a certain size and weight. Her stats weighed in at 2lbs 13oz and she was 12.5" long. She. was. tiny. I still remember the image of her with this premie sized pacifier in her mouth: it literally covered her entire face. She was so small that her blood pressure cuff was the size of a small bandaid (you know, the skinny ones). I still have it, if you need proof.

Charchee has been a fighter since birth. She was the last of the triplets to come out of my body. She was also the only one who was never intubated, or in need of oxygen (there was one time when she had the early stages of bowel death where they put a nasal canula on her, but this was precautionary only and she never required the use of assisted breathing). Charchee was in the NICU for 7 weeks. She would have come home with her brother and sister, but her bone marrow had a harder time producing red blood cells, and she became dangerously anemic. She had to have a procedure where they took all of her blood out of her body, and replaced it with healthy blood. Because of this, they required her to stay an additional 7 days in the hospital to ensure no infection occurred and that her body was adapting.

She was the first of the triplets that I was allowed to hold. She was three days old when I was allowed to finally hold her in my arms. I remember the moment so miraculously because I had been anxious to hold them all for what felt like forever. They handed me this massive bundle (she literally was covered in blankets, a hat, basically cold weather gear). When they put her in my arms, I was shocked by the weight of her. Or maybe it would be better to say, the lack of weight while holding her. She weighed nothing. Her skin was translucent. But I treasured that 15 minutes that I was allowed to feel somewhat normal. I absorbed it with all that I had. The lobster was there and he didn't try to claim holding privileges. He said to me that he knew I needed to hold her more than he did (we were only allowed one 15 minute period of holding per day and that was based entirely on whether or not her body had been struggling to maintain its temperature that day--if it was struggling, no holding). He stood there over by Pinot's incubator while I held her. I think he didn't want to hold her because he was afraid. The entire time the triplets were in the NICU, the lobster was immensely emotionally withdrawn. Maybe it was a defense mechanism. He needed to maintain his distance until he knew they weren't going to die anymore. For him, it was almost as if they weren't born. I hated him for that, back then. I hated that he wasn't broken, hurting, aching, devastated with me. I was too damaged to realize that he was being that way for me. If we both disintegrated then who would have been strong enough to hold our family together? And I seriously disintegrated. I was completely insane for about a year and a half. I didn't care about anything. I was just "functioning" and barely that.

In the NICU Charchee was completely chill. She did, however, wear her emotions on her sleeve. There was one day where I was holding her and she went from frowning, to smiling, to frowning, to smiling, over and over again. She did it for about five minutes. It was so funny. She pulled out about five PIC lines (these are IV's that are threaded directly into the major artery of the heart. They are considered a surgical procedure to have installed, and it's a massively long IV), endless regular IV's (when the nurses finally gave up on putting PIC lines in her), feeding tubes, and basically anything that "tied her down." She was bound and determined to be free.

Charchee was also funny baby. She loved her Auntie's Virgin Mary blanket, which Tonio had given to her. She would cry and cry until Tia wrapped her up in that huge furry green blanket. Jules used to wrap her up in it and prop her up on her bed while she did her hair and makeup. I would go in the and say "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" and Jules would say "What? She's fine! She likes it!" Maybe that was the first sign of the type of child I would have.

When Charchee was littler, she would walk out into the living room, stand there with her feet apart, hands on the hips, look around at what everyone was doing and say "What are you doing?" with authority. She never wanted to be held, unless it was her idea. But there were moments of complete beautiful vulnerability where she would let her guard down. There was one morning, after the trips had moved up to twin beds, when I walked into her room in the morning and found her and her brother snuggled in bed together. They both had their blankabies and their fingers in their mouths, faces touching, passed out. It was so cute. That was back when they were two, before the boy was moved to his own room.

Charchee has had her fair share of sicknesses. She's been in the hospital a gazillion times for uncontrollable vomiting. She used to turn purple for no known reason (which also invited a hospital stay). She has underactive sweat glands, so she overheats at the drop of a dime. She has a skin condition which they are calling exzema, but doesn't function on any level like normal exzema.

Charchee is the most incredibly girly girl I have ever known. She loves clothes, fashion, high heels, nail polish, pretty hair bows, dresses, skirts, make up, doing her hair, and on and on. I have a plethora of pictures where the girl is walking around in her play high heels, playing. She is constantly asking if she looks pretty. Heaven forbid Brun should get the "prettier" dress first on Sunday mornings.

When the lobster left, my hilarious firecracker died inside. Her flame, her spark, her happiness disappeared in an instant. It took a while for it to hit her. She was actually quite normal until we came home from California. I remember, about half way through our trip, it started reaching her. She said to me "Mom, I want to go home. Daddy is there. I don't like it here." That was the first time I heard her say she didn't like something. The day we got on the airplane to go home, she told everyone in the airport that she was "going home to see her daddy." It didn't matter that I told her that wasn't the case. She would not be convinced. So when we walked into our house and daddy wasn't here....

She was so angry. She couldn't be consoled. I was panicked and lost. I tried talking to her, having her talk to other people, reaching out to her, nothing worked. There was a moment when it finally hit me: Charchee grieves like me. We both shut down. We both become irritable. We both have to process our grief in our own unique ways. We both can't talk about it until we're ready. We both lash out until that moment comes. We both are broken, intense individuals. That was the first moment I saw our similarities with such clarity. It also changed my perspective on her grief.

The biggest turning point in our relationship came when one night we went on an adventure. We ended up shopping (which is outside of my comfort zone), and she helped me pick out some new clothes. This four year old child lit up like a Christmas tree. You'd have thought I gave her the world. She was having the time of her life. It was rejuvenating for both of us. She helped me to remember what it means to value my appearance in a more modern way, and I helped her to not feel so alone.

The past couple of weeks with Charchee have been amazing. She is my little firecracker again. She is outgoing, bossy, helpful, charming, and silly all over again. She came up to me today and said "Mommy, will you hug me?" This is music to my ears!

Charchee is a force to be reckoned with. She is beautiful, smart, and determined. Look out world. This chick rocks!

sickness and all saints day

I have a "to do" list that seems to be growing longer by the second. Each minute I sit here, more and more things for me to do pile on. It's not that these things are overwhelming me. They're not. They are simple tasks that I can easily accomplish. It's just that I have been sick, I mean really sick for the past week and a half, and I am not getting any better. This morning, the lobster announced that it was "time" for me to "take it easy." It's nice when lobsters announce that! :) So, instead of tackling errands, cleaning and organizing, today I sat in my (also my grandfather's) red chair and vegged. I've tackled drinking hot tea every hour on the hour, hot soup for all meals, and approximately two gallons of water. I am determined to get better quickly! I must admit, the coughing spells are mellowing out, and my nose isn't running faster than the speed of sound (plus I'm not on any decongestants), which is positive. But my glands are still so swollen that it's difficult to swallow, I have a headache that still hasn't gone away, and my lungs hurt from the constant coughing.

Today is all saints day, and because I'm sick, we didn't go to church. However, I spent a large part of this day thinking of those people I've loved who have passed away. Here I sit in my grandfather's chair, mourning. I miss him. I wish he was near to me in more than just memories. I wish I had fought harder to show him Truth. I wish I had done more. I know that today is the day to honor those believers who have passed away, but for me, I feel consumed by thoughts of him. I loved him tremendously so. I love him so much more than I know how to say. I think about him constantly and I miss talking to him. I was so blessed to be able to bond with him throughout the lobster's deployments/training/nights away. I was blessed to have been able to share the experiences of war and the military with him. I am thankful for so much encouragement that he gave to me, especially because he is the only member of my family who has ever really been able to encourage me in living this lifestyle. Is that what made the connection so powerful? Was it because he is the only one who made me feel supported? It seems strange to recognize that. It also seems sad. I just miss him. I miss him so very much.

Stings

I stepped on something today that stung me. Literally. I have no idea what it was, but it sure was a stinger. The bottom of my foot instantly swelled up and I had a fever for about an hour and a half. Allergic reaction much? I guess so! It took me several hours of attempts (and then soaking my foot in epsom salt) to finally get the stinger out of my foot. I might add, that the sting sight wasn't really hurting all that much until the stinger itself was actually removed. Now the bottom of my foot is just swollen and hurting.

I find it funny how life situations can reflect our hearts sometimes. My heart feels swollen and sore. Quite frankly, a bee stung my heart yesterday, and now today I'm left licking the wound that's festering.

In the moment of the bee sting, I was so angry with the "bee". My heart was wholly focused on the ridiculous actions of the bee and how utterly inconsiderate it was. Don't get me wrong, the bee was being foolish. His actions were reprehensible. I make no excuses for his decisions.

Why are there almost always "buts" when stings arrive? This story would be no exception. I was not an innocent bystander. I fought with the bee, instigated it, prodded it, and punished it, and then I ran away to my corner to hide when the bee stung me. I hate when the blame goes in two directions...

So here I sit, being given the silent treatment (which is incredibly unfair, except that I know the bee always runs away to hide when he thinks I'm disappointed and enraged with him), with a stung and swollen heart, feeling sad. Here I sit, still angry, but much more hurt than anything by the actions of the other day. Here I sit wishing and wanting for things to be different than they are, but trapped in the actuality of what is. Here I sit, waiting for the stinger to be removed so the healing can begin. Here I sit hoping that the grief of the attack will overwhelm you to the point of needing to talk to me. Stupid girl, huh?

Yowza

For the past few days I have been working on completing a project that should have been finished a year ago. I am a procrastinator. I get involved in a project and then I get busy with life and the project goes to the back burner and activities come to the front. Before I know it, the project is packed away in a bag somewhere, and I'll "stumble" upon it while purging myself of stuffitis. I hate having stuff just to have it. If it isn't meaningful, useful, something I actually use, I don't want it. Call it the byproduct of your house burning down in front of you, or Army/college moves... Whatever it may be, it's how I am. I can't stand the idea of having stuff just to have it. 

So I've been working on this project and I looked down at my hands, which are bleeding (seriously... I've been working on it that much), which then caused me to look down at my shirt, and I burst out laughing. I am COVERED in string. Seriously! I don't know how/when it happened, but my pink shirt has become bedazzled with a gazillion little pieces of thread. So this is the image: hair in a pony tail (um, it is RARELY not in one. It's called kids...), hot pink tank top covered in tiny pieces of white thread, fingers covered in cuts, rug burns, and scabs, head phones on my ears (have to stay motivated!), and a smile on my face. 

PS. At church yesterday I wore one of my new outfits, can I just say that a bunch of people said how nice I looked. It made me feel rather lovely. :)

There are moments when I wonder what it must be like for you to be married to me. I wonder how many times you've swallowed your pride, and let my ego, my need for defeat, my overbearing personality crush you. I wonder how many times you've wanted to sucker punch me with words the way that I've done to you. I wonder how many times you've laid in bed wondering what the hell you were thinking when you married me. I wonder how many times you wished to get your freedom back and unchain yourself from this melody.

Does it bother you that I tell jokes all the time? Do you ever wish I was more quiet, less ridiculous, better and not asking questions? Do you ever wish I was someone else?

When I honestly assess things, I truthfully have no idea why this boy from BFE fell in love with a city girl from LA with nothing but attitude, a rebellious side, trapped in a deeply religious spirit. I was egotistical, self centered, hell bent on my own plans. What the hell did you see in me?

I have never been the pretty girl. That's not to say that I'm fugly, I don't think I am, I'm just saying, I've never been the girl that the fellas walk by, double take, and say "Oh my gosh I. must. have!" I just haven't been. I was the one that people sort of loved very gradually. I inched my way into people's hearts slowly. I never had anyone suddenly need me, throwing all caution to the wind. I knew I wasn't a 10, but I knew I was funny, and I knew I was smart.

The thing is, you didn't care. In your beautiful brain I was a 10. It didn't make any sense to me, and truthfully it still doesn't. What on earth do you see in me?

I think it's funny that when we got married, both of our families "warned" us about the other. I think it's sad, to be honest. I think it goes to show how little they know either of us. As if your temper, and my ego, were the front and center aspects of our personalities. They're so minor in regards to us. They are almost nothing on the scales of who we are. But yet so many people are blinded, overwhelmed and completely focused on them.

The truth is, I didn't believe you were possible. I didn't believe a person who loved me like you do, existed. I didn't believe there was someone strong enough to be my man. I didn't believe that a man existed who was capable of turning my crazy into something normal, or at least sticking around for long enough for God to do it. I didn't believe that someone existed who was capable of loving me at all. Love was something I was created to give and never to get in return.

When you showed up on my radar I was literally thrust into a movement that was going faster than I knew how to process. I had always been the one in control. I had always been the one pulling the puppet strings. I had always had an escape clause. I had always been capable of quitting, if I wanted to. But with you, everything clicked. It was perfect, weird, chaotic, uncomfortable, and lovely all at the same time. You were so easy. You were too easy. I suppose when you left and I had all the time in the world to process and psychoanalyze, I jumped ship. I still remember that conversation like it was yesterday. I was scared. Not of you leaving me, or not loving me, but rather I was scared of me not being able to function in your love. I was scared that I couldn't live in anything normal, since it was nothing I had ever known before.

Somehow your love was bigger than my insanity. Somehow it still is. Somehow we ended up married, years later, with four kids, two dogs, a minivan... Somehow, this crazy chick from LA ended up with the greatest experience in the world. Somehow this girl, who never loved anything more than her ability to ditch it, ended up loving someone she had to face the possibility of losing, for the majority of her marriage. Maybe that's the extra special beauty here... We have to keep choosing each other over and over again.

The crazy thing is that I still feel like a girl who just got engaged. I still feel like everything is right before us and my life is about to begin. I still feel excited about every second, every touch, every experience. I still feel like I just met you and the high of knowing you exist is pumping through my veins.

You and I became we. And "we" then became four people, walking around in four little bodies, with "us" in them. Look what our love has done? We produced people! Wow. I mean, wow. I'm literally the luckiest girl in the world.

I love you Chief. Bigger than the whole universe.

Adventures of a Mrs.

The lobster was in a fowl mood today. He was irritated and frustrated and upset with himself. I knew immediately that he was not a happy kitty in the sandbox when he said hello. Actually he didn't even say hello I just looked at his face and say 'uh oh'. Okay, I didn't really say uh oh out loud, but I thought it in my head. Sort of.

The lobster and I are incredibly rarely both in a bad mood. When he is in one, there's this aspect of myself that immediately starts trying to make him laugh. I can't really control it. It happens subconsciously. He's just so cute when he's angry, and my heart just loves him so much that I don't want a single second wasted on upset feelings.

I have to admit there are times when I can't get him to snap out of it. Those moments don't come all that often, but they do occasionally happen. Sometimes he'll only switch back to happy when I become angry. It's like he's wearing a "I'm upset" suit and he's only no longer upset when he takes it off and I put it on. Today was looking like it might turn into one those days, until I pointed out that he will only be satisfied when I become angry. I said Why can't we just skip all this crap!? He started to crack... His tense jaw line and stern expression softened, ever so slightly, and I knew I had him. Once the concrete wall behind the dam starts to crack, it's only a matter of seconds before the whole thing comes crashing down. I'm too perceptive to let his half smile go ignored. I love his laughter too much to not chase after it.

Truth be told, I love laughter in general, not just the lobster's. Laughing is my most favorite thing to do, and I want to do it almost constantly. There are very rare periods (what I call, "dark" days) when I don't feel like laughing.

Anyway, the funny part of this entire diatribe between me and the lobster is that towards the end of his frustration, he said Ugh! You are NOT letting me be irritated and I want to be! By this point he was laughing, and his irritation was gone (so he was ever so slightly irritated by the fact that he was no longer irritated), so I said Do you want me to interrupt you? (This irritates him) Say something and I'll interrupt you! He said No! I said How about some chips? Do you want me to get some chips and chew into the microphone? (like nails on a chalkboard to this man) He said You know? You are really ruining this for me! And the laughter began...

This is the beautiful side of love. This is my favorite part of loving him and being a part of his life. I love laughing with him. I love turning moments that completely suck and are frustrating, into moments where grumpiness can't take root and irritability can't seem to stick around. I love being the person that keeps his jawline from being stern, and his heart from being too self deprecating. I love being his girlfriend.

Fashion Forward, or is it fasting forward? :)

Last night, at about six o'clock, I believe I hit my wall. I think I finally reached the point where I was so tired of talking on the phone, having the same conversation eighteen thousand times (slight exaggeration, but whatever), that I said to the kids "Want to go on an adventure?" Now, adventures in my book are awesome possum. They only come when I have the inspiration to do so, but they are the moments when we get in the car, see where our curiosities take us, and revel in the excitement of the moment. "Adventures" are one of my most favorite experiences.

So at the time of day when I'm usually winding down and preparing the kiddos for sleep, we piled into our minivan and drove. We listened to music and sang our hearts out. Lolli finally popped up and said, "Hey guys! Why don't we talk about Daddy?" Now, I am a sucker for any sort of conversation that involved the lobster, so we turned the music off, and started talking. I said, "Lolli, how do you want to talk about Daddy?" She said, "Why don't you tell us things about him?" This then was proceeded by a half an hour of our four children asking me all sorts of things about the lobster, and me answering them. It was incredibly uplifting. Talking about him lifts my spirits, it takes me to a completely different mental plane. He is just that good.

We inevitably ended up shopping. I realize this is a complete female stereotype, however, if you know me you realize that I fall in to almost none of the female typical stereotypes. I hate shopping. I knew the situation was about to be forced upon me, when my last pair of jeans finally gave under the thread barren pressure of having been worn for a lot of years and tore. I needed some new clothes. We saw a sale sign and headed in. Walked out with two new pairs of pants for me and some tops that are not, wait for it.... polo shirts. I went through a weird polo shirt addiction phase. I despise shopping so much that when I find something that semi looks decent on me, I go crazy with it and get it in every single color.  This is how I have avoided stores for long periods of time.

This morning I woke up and decided that FRGness was going to wait. I just wasn't feeling it. So the phone calls were sent to voicemail, and the emails were not answered. What did I do instead? Make a rug! Seriously. Instead of FRGing, I literally made a rug. Pretty cool, if you ask me. It just goes to show how much of my "happy" time FRGing takes up, and how much I need to learn to say "no, I'm not doing this today." My problem is that I am a workaholic to the core. I think I developed that aspect of myself when medical school was my central focus. It's virtually impossible to be a surgeon without a workaholic mentality. You just won't be able to cut it (yes, pun intended...lol).

Tonight we had a meeting and I wore my new clothes. I kid you not, eight people came up to me and said, "Look at you! You look nice!" I was like, WUH! Do I normally look hideous!? Okay people. I get it. Yes, yes I did. Way too many polo shirts. Way too little focus on appearance. Not that one must be vain, but I want the lobster to know that he is married to a woman who values his opinion of her. I know the lobster thinks I'm gorgeous. I know he is crazy about me. I guess I've allowed myself to be too lazy for too long. So, I'm trying to get some outfits together, make myself more comfortable with this fashion stuff. I want the lobster to come home to a woman who looks put together, not awkwardly dressed up.

Can you dig it? :)

The journey

Today has been a roller coaster of a day. I got to talk to one of my best friends, who despite the fact that it had been approximately a year and a half since the last time we'd spoken, she still falls in the category. Call me loyal, call me sappy, call me completely over attached to people...whatever. It's a title that takes an enormous amount of insanity, hilarious moments, worrying about my out of control decisions (like disappearing from college for over a week.... true story! Another day another dollar...), but once it's earned it probably takes just as long to lose. Things are different now. I'm so different. So is she. It's amazing to hear her little chicken nugget making noises in the background. She probably has no idea how that warms my heart. How much that little boy brightens up my face because I imagine what he does to hers. I imagine her face as he's laughing hysterically and it just brings me to a completely difference place mentally. It makes my spirit smile.

On the flip side of that, I've been diving into the ridiculous emotional game of what if. What if is a dirty word to a spouse with a deployed husband. It brings hope, devastation, worry, anxiety, excitement, and defeat all in one complete present. It's a crazy ride this lifestyle. Here I am at the beginning of a new day with fear settling into my heart and I just want to be near him. I just want to look at him, and keep looking at him until I fall asleep. I just want to touch him and feel him. I want to go to sleep knowing that he is right next to me. I want the what ifs to go the freak away and the for certains to arrive. It's such a silly notion since nothing in life is for certain, ever.

I have so many things to look forward to in the future. I have so many experiences to be incredibly excited about. I almost feel like I felt right before the lobster and I got married. I almost feel like our whole lives are laid out before us and all we have to do is begin step one.

Except that step one is a big one. What if step one is the final step? What if step one is nothing like what I've been hoping or imagining? What if step one is goodbye? What if...


A friend of mine put my anxious thoughts in perspective today. I'm thankful because it was exactly what I needed. I had been reeling off of so many unknowns and so many changes that I was nearly crazy this afternoon. My dear friend, who is in so many ways a part of my family, reminded me that all of this is a process of steps. I need to stop thinking in the terms of big picture and refocus to each moment, each aspect of the journey. This moment, for this day, I know what to expect. It was actually an incredibly monumental moment, because there is something spiritually beautiful when a friend can climb into your mountain of crazy, pull you off the cliff, and set you right back down in reality when they have no idea that they're doing it. This kind of crap makes my friend incredibly uncomfortable, but I figure God stuck me on 'em for a purpose, and maybe it's for my emotional crap! :)

So here's a toast, at the end of my day, to a thousand things chiseled down to one step at a time. Here's a toast to die-hard old friends, surprise heroes, the world's greatest husband (seriously.... he really is the greatest. You can argue all you want, but you aren't married to him...), and the excitement of coming to terms with having no idea about what's around the bend. Here's a toast to raising our feet up for step one.

Reflections

Today me and the firecracker of my children had some words. She was acting out ridiculously, and my reaction to her was completely inappropriate. I screamed. To be honest, I think my reaction startled her just as much as it startled me. We both sort of looked at each other in shock. Then the words of Rosa popped in to my brain: When talking to our children, we often forget to ask them to help us. Help us by making good choices. Help us by speaking kindly. Help us by controlling ourselves. We often command them to obey instead of asking them to.


Her words shot through my like the explosion of a M1Abrams. It knocked me back. I was embarrassed. I was ashamed.

I called my little firecracker over, who was back to screaming at me, and I laughed in my brain about the horrible example I was. How could I "command" her to obey me, when I was displaying the very behavior she was!? So I said Listen. I think we both struggle with self control, don't we? She got silent. I think we both scream sometimes when we're angry. Do you think we should do that? She said No. I continued So I want to tell you that I am very sorry for screaming at you. I was not being a good role model. We all make bad choices sometimes, and I made a bad one. Will you forgive me? She said Of course I forgive you. I said Thanks. Now, since we both have this problem, do you think that maybe we could encourage, pray for, and help remind each other to be self controlled? She said Well I just can't think of how to do that! I said Me neither. How about if we just say 'Remember we need to be self controlled' when we're feeling out of control?


The kid who usually screams and sasses me and won't calm down for eighteen hundred thousand hours, immediately switched from angry to crying. I think in so many ways she and I are remarkably similar. A couple of weeks ago I felt like I didn't relate to her at all. I suppose I don't remember being four and not able to communicate the anger and abandonment I felt. We are both control freaks. We both feel much safer being angry than being hurt. We both hate crying. I don't mean that in the general girly way of saying that we don't like to cry, she and I will avoid it at all costs, and do almost anything to prevent the real emotions from being displayed: withdraw, be angry, act silly, deflect, change the subject...

Today I recognized myself in my youngest. It gave me a completely different viewpoint. She and I are both struggling with our lack of control. We would both rather be angry and distracted than hurt. We both love a human being that compels us, and forces us, to experience these periods of circumstantial devastation. Maybe this is part of our life journey: to learn to live in sadness. Not avoiding it, ignoring it, or translating it into anger, but to dwell within the moments of pain and to be okay with that.

Maybe she and I need to learn to turn our eggshells into feathers.

Coins

A moment passed this evening that struck me. I was standing at the refrigerator and I felt you there behind me. I felt you almost move through me, as if the ghost of your memory was kissing me on the neck as I pulled the milk carton off the shelf. I got goosebumps, just like I normally do, and I felt my brain wanting to turn around to kiss you back. In the split second of the beautiful scenario, my mind remembered that it wasn't real and I continued on with my milk carton.

I believe that at that moment, your spirit left you, perhaps momentarily, perhaps hallucinatingly, perhaps however, and came to visit me at the refrigerator. Maybe you were day dreaming, maybe you were sleep dreaming, or maybe our love is just that strong so as to cross barriers of space and time.

The nay sayers are reading this email saying I'm ridiculous. They're saying to themselves That poor girl. She just can't accept that he isn't there. Maybe they're right. Maybe I can't. Maybe I'm lost in illusions and fantasies. If that is the case, I am quite happily so. Who says reality can't include fantasy? Who says they are mutually exclusive?

On the flip side of that coin, I can still say maybe they're wrong. Maybe the human spirit is more powerful than we give it credit for. Maybe we really do have the ability to peak in the windows of the human soul, when two are merged together as one. Maybe he and I truly are enmeshed, entangled, mixed up, and so completely jumbled together like a bowl of cooked spaghetti that him being in Iraq and me being in the US have truly become irrelevant. Maybe we get to be the exception to the rules of separation. Maybe I am wandering around all day long in his dreams, and maybe he is in mine. Maybe my day plays out, spiritually connected, as if he was here the whole time. Maybe our hands get to touch, our faces get to press, our lips get to meet, and our bodies get to relax.

Maybe fantasy is so much better than reality. Maybe illusion keeps us from being lost in this dust storm.

Delicious

We live our lives focused on letting go. We let go of our hurts, our childhoods, our parents' failures, our past loves, sometimes our current ones... We live our lives acting on the belief of life's series of farewells. We grow up and say adieu. We get married and say goodbye to our singlehood. We give birth and close the book on selfishness...

I have spent a hundred million hours on trying to let go. I have pondered a world without you. I've lived with your ghost. As I sit here writing this, I am wrapped up in your uniform, your smell, your presence, trying to absorb the lesson.

I think the purpose of life isn't really about letting go, but rather about holding on. Life is about discovering what really matters. Is it love? Is it faith? Is it children and plans? It is a Norman Rockwell picture? Is it the "American dream"? What is it that we're holding on to and why?

For some people, what they hold on to is acceptance. For others it's being loved. For some it's chasing the unobtainable. For some it's conquering, leading, or destroying. For some it's searching through the rubble and finding one person who seeks them out. For some it's being the seeker. For some it's feeding the homeless, fighting for the unborn, playing games in politics.

When I look quietly and calmly at what really matters to me, what matters deep down in the quiet of my screaming, in the depth of my soul, in the beat of my heart, it's you. Everything else is an extension off of that. It isn't the symbol of you, or the idea of you. It isn't the picture that we have painted together, or the wonderful things that you have given to me. It is the beauty of molding myself, bending my will, breaking my barriers down, so that I can more fully and freely love you.

We waste so much time trying to "let go" of hurt. We try to let go of our pasts as if they're some anchor that keep us locked in place. I think we're trapped by our unwillingness to honestly, genuinely, and passionately hold on to what matters. I think we're consumed by keeping our hands filled to the brim with everything else under the sun, instead of the precious gold that we need. I think we waste our time, our energy, our hearts, our experiences on things of little relevance.

I am learning that while letting go is messy and awkward and painful, holding on is where all the good stuff is at. Holding on is yummy.

Lobster

I fall more and more in love with you every second. I swear that every moment I think I can not possibly love you more, something happens that I fall more and more and more. You are the most courageous, beautiful, humble, honorable, supportive, wise man I have ever laid eyes on. You are filled with wisdom from God alone in how to lead me. I am humbled that you would care so deeply for me. I am madly in love with you. There are no words to express how lost I would be without you.

Thank you for being strong enough to be my man. I am always and forever, yours.

I'll be seeing you.
Me

Memories at Dinner

The kids have begun this tradition at the dinner table just recently. They thought it up all on their own and I have enjoyed it the past few days, if I'm completely honest. They have these neat ways of holding up beautiful memories and lighting up the room with them and it makes me smile. Anyway, the tradition that they've begun is that at dinner, we go around the table, and we say things that we miss about daddy. It's a time in our day where we stop and focus on the fact that we wish he was here with us, but we also remind ourselves about how amazing he is. I love the way their faces light up as they recall the things about him that they love. I love the way that they each make sure that their things are never duplicated. I love that the memories that pop up end up bringing up stories, which then have us all laughing.

One story tonight was Char's. She shared that one things she loves about daddy is how he has pillow fights with them. This then led into a lengthy discussion about the last pillow fight they had with him, and how he won, even though it was four against one.

Some occasional things that are loved about daddy have surprised me. For example, "I love when daddy plays games on his cell phone" or "when daddy wears pajamas." Those certainly cracked me up, but those are aspects of him that are so beautiful and special to who he is. It isn't difficult to conjure up the memory of him in his blue pajama bottoms, wearing a white t shirt (or an army company shirt), sitting on the sofa playing a game on his phone. The thought makes me smile.

I love this new tradition. I love that our four beautiful children thought to do it all on their own.

Standards of Grief

Over two months ago, my little Charchee's world was shattered: her daddy left for Iraq. Since then, she has refused to talk about him, has been overwhelmingly angry, and screams almost constantly. Her behavior has perplexed me, frustrated me, angered me, hurt me, and brought me to tears in helplessness. It didn't seem like it mattered what I did. No amount of time outs, removal of toys, or any other consequences was changing the way she behaved. She was angry and out of control. 

A few days ago, in a moment of complete exasperation, I started talking to her about how illogically she was behaving. 

Char, why are you so angry?

Because.

Because why?

I just AM!

Do you feel better when you scream and hit yourself? Does it make you less angry.

No.

So why do it? Does it make sense to do something that only makes you feel worse?

I don't know if she had thought about it that way. I also don't know if saying that to her changed anything in her. That was a particularly difficult day. She had been breaking things, throwing and screaming for hours. I was emotionally exhausted and I just didn't know what to do. So I told her to keep screaming. Maybe the child just needed to scream. Why are we so eager to prevent our children from venting their emotions? Why do we have these standards of how they are and are not allowed to feel? I do agree that there are times and places to scream, but if I'm honest, there are moments when I need to scream too. Why should we expect our children to be any different, especially when it's so clear that they are struggling with a elephant sized emotional set of circumstances.

So for two days I let her scream. I didn't let her hit, or throw, or break things, but I did let her scream. By the second day, the screaming was radically reduced in length. Instead of screaming for hours, she was screaming for five seconds. So why am I telling you all of this? Because last night, in a random moment, my little Charchee started to whimper. I asked her what was wrong and she said I just miss my daddy... There it was, ladies and gentlemen, the statement I know that my little four year old has been needing to say for months. This morning, it was followed up by a statement about how she misses having pillow fights with him, again unprovoked, while we were eating breakfast. I can't be certain that her rage is gone. I don't know if it is. I understand her anger. I have it myself. I can say though, that my child who has been having the most difficult of times, is finally talking about her daddy. She's finally in the mourning portion of her grief. 

I miss her. I miss who she is when he's not deployed.

Sometimes you get locked out of your house, because you need to sit in the breeze and soak up the outside air. Sometimes no one will answer their phones, because you need to experience the silence, and the experiences that come with it. Sometimes you're sitting in a crowded room feeling completely alone, because alone is exactly where you need to be in that moment. Sometimes a calm comes while your child screams at you for three hours, because you just don't have any fight left in you anymore. Sometimes you keep yourself so busy that you can hardly remember the last time you sat down, because you need to be outside of your house as much as possible. Sometimes you're so busy doing everything else but what you probably should be doing, because should is a quarter too short of a dollar and you just can't.

Sometimes you're screaming as loud as you can, because you have the strength to. Sometimes you should be screaming but are silent, because you don't have any willpower left. Sometimes you are more depressed than depressed can even describe, because you just need to be. Sometimes you need to grieve, because your heart has some unspoken that it needs to ache over. Sometimes you don't know what that is, because you aren't supposed to at this particular time.