Not the Rookie Anymore

Every tomorrow has two handles.  We can take hold of it by the handle of anxiety, or by the handle of faith. 

~Author Unknown

I have a confession to make… I am not always the Fiercely Independent Hooah Army Wife that I seem to be.  I break, quite often, and it seems I fall into a million pieces in the face of life. 

One of those breaking moments came a few weeks ago.  The gear for Afghanistan (which has become a dirty word) arrived, and Carl sat in the living room, opening packages, putting stuff into pockets, trying on boots, looking at new uniforms, and putting everything together for when he needs it. 

Well over two years ago, I had this moment, staring at his gear, where everything that was coming, where the hazy bad dream of deployment, crystallized, and seemed to arrow right through my heart.  It sent me into near hysterics, and the shirt I smeared mascara all over crying has not been the same since.  That same moment, where the ugly truth of what is coming focuses into reality, hit me again, with all the force of a fully loaded train.

And I broke.  I cried and sobbed and clung to his shirt, telling him that I could not do this, that another deployment would destroy me, that I did not have it in me to tell the center of my known universe, Layla, what was going on.  All of my carefully laid plans to be the strong one, to be tough and to handle it, fell apart, and I was back in that uncertain place, where I had no footing, no hand hold, nothing to cling to.

I fully expected to be too tormented to sleep; to find myself staring at the ceiling until dawn finally broke through the night.  It didn’t happen.  I fell into that exhausted sleep of emotional overload.  The next day, I was not myself still.  Propped up by friends (you know who you are, and I love you all), and unwilling to let my child see me fall apart, I fell into the routines of life.  Coloring, long walks outside, singing ABCs, changing diapers and cutting food into toddler –safe bites.  

And a few days later, I was brushing my teeth, and regarding myself in the mirror.  I found myself searching out the differences between before Iraq, and after.  Crow’s feet, laugh lines when I smile, a deeper concentration wrinkle in my forehead, more gray hair.  With the same impact as what was coming, I realized something else, something more important; I had survived my first deployment. 

I am not the same rookie, the same brand new Army wife, with no knowledge of what is fixing to come.  I know what is coming.  I know the shadowy season of deployment; I have walked through it before.  I have earned my combat patch, and I will earn another one.

The knowledge of what is coming is not a bad thing.  Yes, deployment is difficult, it is a struggle, and it is lonely and sometimes exhausting.  It is also a crucible, I emerged from Iraq a fiercer, tougher, stronger version of myself, hammered and fired and tempered in the forges of deployment. 

As I have said before, only the hottest fires make the finest steel.

I am not welcoming the next deployment, I am not throwing open the door and inviting it to prop its feet up on my couch, and asking to be friends.  I am not looking forward to it. 

But I am also not going to run from it. 

If our first deployment forged me into what I am now, the next deployment will turn me into something better, stronger, than I am now.  I will face down Afghanistan like I faced down Iraq, day by day, basking in my victories, and taking time to heal from my defeats. 

I will right where I was last time, at the end, on the far side of deployment, lessons learned, probably sporting a few more wrinkles and gray hairs, but still standing.  My head may be battered and bruised, but it will still be unbowed. 

I am conquering my nightmares, one bad dream at a time.

~Jennifer