1. Me, the writer

I probably should have done this a long time ago.  I've always been a writer.  When something bad happens, I write about it.  When something good happens, I write about it.  It's what I do and it's arguably how I got to where I am doing what I do today.


Over the past five years, I've written a private journal off and on, most often through a blur of tears.  I've talked out all the emotions associated with being a member of this "club" to which no one wants to belong in both group and private therapy sessions.  I've buried myself in work and taken countless flights to locations all over the world in an attempt to  focus on something else and get away from it (as if there is anywhere I could really go to escape from my own mind full of all its persistent thoughts and memories...).  I've been to war in the same country where my husband lost his life, and I've investigated the entire incident that led to his death in all its gruesome, graphic detail.  I've made the mistake of trying to distract myself with bad, unhealthy relationships, made some piss poor decisions and pushed away some of the people in my life who've tried to reach out to me in times of dire need.  I'm the girl who said in high school that I'd never get a tattoo, but here I am with not one but two of them, both designed specifically to honor Jon's memory.  Some days I've woken up and told myself I need to focus on the all the wonderful things I still have to be thankful for in this world...other days, let's just say my attitude has been a little more on the "glass-half-empty" side of the spectrum.  I've probably single-handedly sustained the fine wine industry over the course of many lonely, sleepless nights, and I can tell you just about anything you want to know about all the theoretical benefits of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication.  There have been some very low moments at what I'd call "broken-heart rock bottom" and some very dark times that I'd prefer not to relive or even think about now.  Church and religion, self-help books, bouts of obsessive exercise, new hobbies - you name it and I've tried it.  After all of it, the giant, gaping hole is still there.  It's been like making my way through a box of assorted-sized band-aids and constantly trying to cover up that wound that just doesn't seem to want to heal.  I've even gone through phases when I throw myself into memorial projects and events, trying desperately to find some sort of purpose for the life left in me even though I often resent the fact that I have cause to be involved in such projects in the first place.  I've felt bitter, resentful, furious even, at how many times I've heard the phrases "you're so young, you'll move on" and "you have so much life left to live" because, believe me, I know (and can't stop thinking about) how much time I have left to live without him.  It's what I've been trying to distract myself from, apparently without great success, over the past five years.


So here I find myself.  Twenty-seven years old, a military widow, an Army Captain, madly in love with my beloved husband and soul mate...and facing a very long and arduous road ahead without him.  As we approach the 5-year anniversary of his passing, I feel in some ways like I am just beginning my journey; his palpable absence is literally a physical affliction for which there is, as I now know, no quick-fix painkiller and, quite possibly, no long-term cure.  There are many stories and thoughts that I will share over the next several blog entries to fill in the gaps of our story, but that's exactly what this is - it is our story.  It's a story about life, love, and what happens when you lose the love that makes life worth living.  Maybe the process of sharing my trials and tribulations with grief will help.  Maybe it will just be another thing I do in my attempts to make the pain a little more bearable.  But, at the very least, if it turns out to be a way for me to share with others what made him so irreplaceable, I will have done something worth doing.  I think - I hope - he would be proud of me for that.


Before I wrap up, I want to share one very specific memory of Jon that helps - well, to some extent - to keep me going.  Two years ago, my mom told me a story about a time of emotional turmoil when she was fighting, despite many obstacles, to hang onto the love of her life.  Jon, in his characteristically quiet way, did not discourage her.  He didn't tell her she was wrong to feel the way she did or try to "fix" the problem by advising her of what he thought she should do.  He simply said that he hoped one day someone would love him enough to fight for him in the way my mom was fighting for her love.  Jon, I'm here and I'm fighting for you, baby.  I always have and I always will.  You were my rock, my safe place, and although you may not be here with me physically anymore, you are more alive than ever in my heart and on my mind - 1 year, 5 years, or a lifetime won't ever change that.  Like we always used to say, I love you always...and forever.

"Love begins with a smile, grows with a kiss, and ends with a tear."
~Unknown