To say that I have cried about missing my husband only four or five times in the last four months sounds harsh - to say that those times that I have cried the tears lasted only a few minutes and were never a complete break down sounds even worse. But it's true. I have shed few tears over my husband's absence and those tears have been tightly controlled. Oh, I've cried a lot since he's been gone...usually in exhausted frustration dealing with the Li'l Diva. But when it comes to crying solely about how much I miss my husband, those times are few and far between.
Do I miss my husband? Absolutely. I miss him so much sometimes I feel as though I am breaking inside. And that? That is exactly the problem.
I feel a bit like Humpty Dumpty perched precariously on a rather high wall. If I fall I will shatter and not even the most ingenious or powerful will be able to put the pieces back into place. I wonder if, once I start breaking down, I'll ever be able to stop. If I'll be able to find the strength, the courage, to go on. Or will I just be a broken mess doing my best to find the pieces much less put them back together.
Last night was one of the few times I allowed myself to acknowledge the hurt. The pain of missing him. It was Friday which meant date night. Had my husband been home the children and I would have been dressed in our RED shirts, as we are every Friday, and we all would have gone out for dinner. Maybe to Taco Bell or McDonalds; we might have even splurged a little and dined at Panera Bread. Or possibly eaten at the mall. Then we would have done a little shopping. Mostly window shopping but also picking up a few necessities such as diapers and the like. Then we would have headed home making a quick stop by Redbox to pick up a movie that we had yet to see. Once we arrived home we would have played with the kiddos for a little bit then gotten them ready for bed, tucked them in, and settled on the couch to watch a movie.
Friday nights are very routine and yet very special. It is the one night that is set aside to just enjoy each other as a family. We value that. We might argue every other day of the week but almost never do we fight or bicker on a Friday. It's too sacred. Too special. It's our own mini holiday every week. A tradition we started when we married and have continued even with the changes that children and military have brought into our lives.
Which makes Friday the hardest day of the week for me. Especially when I see the status updates of my friends enjoying their date nights. I don't wish them any ill - I'm happy that there are those out there who are able to enjoy and strengthen their marriages - I just wish I could be a part of it.
Yesterday my children and I were dressed in our RED shirts and our remembrance included my husband. Still, despite feeling a little blue, I was ok. Until something came on the news about how the returning military was struggling with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) and Sean Hannity made the comment that not enough was done to honor the sacrifices of those that have served and their families.
A little bit of my protective shell cracked. And I hurt. I cried for the sacrifices we are making. The date nights that we have missed. The special occasions that my husband is unable to be here for; missing our son's first birthday, his first steps, his first words, our daughter moving to a big girl bed, the many ways she has grown up and changed. The hugs and kisses we are all missing out on. The family we will never be able to get back.
For a few minutes I allowed myself just to miss him.
And then I pulled myself back together, patched up the crack, and closed out the memories and the pain. Refusing to allow myself to fall, to break and shatter.
I don't know how much longer I will be able to remain on my perch. So many times the stress of this deployment has caused me to wobble. Only the miracle of God's grace and my stubborn determination coupled with my fear of the results has allowed me to stay strongly put together.
But, for as long as I am able, I will stay strong. I will not allow myself, my marriage, my family to become another casualty of war. Refusing to become just another Humpty Dumpty.
|One of our last date nights before my husband deployed.|