She Who Waits

My step-mom and I got into a conversation this weekend about the distance created by a deployment. I tried to explain but I'm not sure I did it very well, so I'm going to try it here.

Day to day, I just try to survive. I have to try and separate the ever present aching hole where my husband should be from my daily activities. We're leading entirely different lives right now, no matter how much I try to include him. Not knowing how he is from day to day is difficult, but I have to find a way to survive and that, for me, is blocking some of it out. This inevitably creates distance, but it is not entirely a bad thing and it is definitely not permanent.

The hardest parts of the day are first thing in the morning and as I'm going to bed alone for yet another night. I usually concede those times to the ache, but try to keep the rest of the day functional, at least for the most part. Most of the time I feel emotionally numb, a sort of non-feeling robot just getting through the days. Other times it's as if someone has taken sandpaper to my heart and it is completely raw, open to any emotional onslaught. It varies, but I do accept that I'm human and not a robot, so I acknowledge and deal with those days as they come.

Yes, there is a distance between us due to this robotic state, but it is a carefully planned distance. I will not let myself become numb to the emotions that correspond to my husband as my other half, lest I build a wall too high to climb. I only try to numb the emotions which are a result of his temporary absence. I still love him as much, if not more so than I did when he left. I still enjoy our conversations and hearing what is going through his head, however rare the opportunity to do so may be. I still revel in his presence, even if it is just a window on my computer screen or a static and delay ridden voice on the line. I still smile at the little things around the house that bring up memories, no matter how minute. I still love talking about him to those who don't know him as well as I. I simply try to shut out the rest of it so I don't have perpetual mascara streaks on my face for the length of the deployment. That wouldn't work so well when he constantly wants new photos.

The beauty of these walls we build is that they are fragile. They last only as long as we need them to last and are only as strong as we need them to be. They flex and change with the days because a deployment is anything but constant. The best part is that as soon as the glorious homecoming date arrives, they are forcefully and gleefully toppled. The sense of being half a person is gone the very moment you are together again. You are whole. The walls are scattered into a million pieces, only to be rebuilt when another deployment demands their use.

The distance I create to survive isn't a complete separation. It is merely a retaining wall to hold back the flood of emotion which threatens to bring me down if I let it. I refuse to let it. I also refuse to allow a deployment to drive us any further apart than we need to be for any longer than we must be, so I only build my walls as high as I need them that day.

I'm anxiously awaiting the day when I can break out my sledge hammer instead of my trowel and mortar.