94. Still

"Imagine everything you ever wanted shows up one day and calls itself your life. And then, just when you start to believe in it - gone. And suddenly it gets very hard to imagine a future." 
~Side Effects

For some people, death is the scariest thing on their list of fears. For others, forgetting those who have died or failing to find some meaning in their deaths is far scarier. Those of us who are left behind are already serving a proverbial life sentence - why fear the very thing that set them free? I work long hours over here in Afghanistan, but I still have too much time to think about these things. When I hear about Soldiers dying, my heart breaks for their families. The truth is (and I don't say this to be morbid, nor do I have a death wish), I would much rather it were me than someone with a wife and kids waiting for them at home. And yes, in case there was any doubt, after six long years, I still feel that way. It may not be quite so prevalent in everything I do and say as in the past, but it's still the truth.

"Still." How I hate that word. It seems to suggest there will come a time when this won't be my reality. As time continues to pass, I become more and more certain that that day will ever come. I think I've gotten pretty good at putting on an exterior show of the fact that "I'm fine." It's a necessity in my line of work. Maybe I'm wrong about that - maybe people see right through my act to the heart on my sleeve and the guarded defensiveness in my eyes. For now, though, I'm going to tell myself that I'm doing a decent job of masking what I can't ever really hide.

It's funny, you know. It used to be that when I looked at people, especially men, I noticed hands and eyes. Now I notice wedding rings, and I think about what that ring says about the person. Maybe they're married to the love of their life, and maybe they'd feel the same way I do if they ever lost that person. Maybe their marriage isn't great, but they remain faithful and committed because they took an oath to do so and refuse to go back on their word. Or maybe they're like the man in my last attempted relationship: They wear the ring when they feel like it to pretend that they're living the picture-perfect, happy American life, but, in reality, the words fidelity and commitment mean nothing to them. Am I still bitter about that? You would think so, right? But, honestly, no. I no longer dwell on the pain he caused or the lies that constituted the basis of our entire relationship. But I don't doubt that I'll never quite be the same when it comes to my ability to trust in people or believe in the inherent goodness of mankind. As a good friend of mine pointed out, there's a reason they say you can never get rid of the weeds. I'll try to remember that more often when I ask myself the dreaded question: Why do bad people get to live while good people have to die? And yes, I still ask it. And no, there's still no answer. I wonder what people think when they see the two rings on my right hand...

As one might guess, I have a love-hate relationship with the Army. Still. There are so many bittersweet moments that cause me to take pause and imagine what could have been and should have been. Since Jon died, it's always been the little things - the day-to-day things - that strike hardest where it hurts most. Initially, I looked for him in everyone, everywhere, hoping he'd somehow magically turn up where I needed him. I'd see him in other Soldiers - the way they walked or the way they laughed. I've stopped looking for him in those places; now it's all about those little things. Just the other day, for example, I decided to recycle a couple of pairs of Army PT shorts that were well past their prime. You'd think this would be a relatively simple and emotionless activity, right? Wrong. I suddenly remembered that Jon had taken these shorts with him to Iraq and, as he always did, he wrote his name on the labels so they wouldn't get mixed in with someone else's things. They were really too small for him - he wore large shorts and I wear mediums - but the thought of him squeezing into my too-small-for-him shorts always made me laugh. This revelation changed my decision-making process completely. Could I bring myself to throw away something he'd worn, that had physically touched his skin?

At this point, I've gotten used to look on the faces of the Army movers when they come to pack up my household goods for one of my many moves to a new duty location - they seem surprised (and perhaps even a little annoyed) that one person could own such a vast quantity of stuff. That's because I really have enough stuff for two people - myself and Jon. Many of the things I continue to hold onto that belonged to him are trivial, silly even, but I can't bring myself to get rid of them because they were his. He was a real person, a living and breathing person, and he had things that reflected what he liked and who he was. So who am I to decide that it's time for these things to go? I can't just discard them like they meant nothing to him. The fact that that they meant something to him means that they continue to mean something to me. His all-too-familiar handwriting is proof of the fact that he was once here by my side - he put pen to paper, and he wrote things like "I love you and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you." He wasn't just a figment of my imagination or a fantasy of a life I wished were mine. He was real. We were real.

So, to return to the PT shorts, my solution to my dilemma was to remove the faded, discolored labels with his handwriting and store them safely in a zip-lock bag until I return home to the United States. I don't know what I'll do with them when I get there - probably add them to the box of cards, pieces of scrap paper, and post-its I've kept over the years that bear the evidence of the person I love. My point is, though, that the simplest of things continue to add fuel to the fire of my post-Jon existence. In many ways, I still feel stuck, like I'm just treading water and waiting for the nightmare to finally end. Still. "Still" almost feels like it's becoming my new version of "forever." The word itself is short and simple, but the meaning it carries is heavy and, at times, unforgiving.

In 1998, Canadian country music singer Shania Twain co-wrote and recorded a song titled "You're Still the One." Although Twain and co-writer Mutt Lange divorced in 2008 after 14 years of marriage, the words of that song continue to hold great meaning for me. I'd like to be able to tell Jon that he's still the one - still the one I run to, the one that I belong to, still the one I want for life. He's still the one that I love, the only one I dream of, and still the one I kiss good night. Still. Always. Forever.