catching up

Sid came home on the 11th.

I wish it had actually been as simple as saying it makes it seem. The week leading up to that was filled with bitchwork, and the day before homecoming was insane. Insane. The cats picked up on that and vomited all over hell's half-acre as soon as I finished cleaning.

The morning of, we were expecting rain. When I woke up at 6, it was drizzling, and everything was wet. So instead of my white dress, I wore my black one. With that long black thing on, and my hair curled (THAT was interesting), I thought I bore more than a passing resemblance to Mrs Lovett from Sweeney Todd. Indeed, that night, Sid mentioned unprompted that I'd looked just like her. Minus the whole dark eye-makeup thing; that look has not been my thing for years now.

Cory came with, as it's not every day a friend of yours goes on deployment, and on the way to the base, we got stuck in traffic. A real gridlock. A car had broken down in the downtown tunnel, blocking all lanes of traffic. The cars were backed up for miles. And we sat with the car shut off for nearly half an hour, with me freaking out the whole time. I was convinced the Nassau would come in and the sailors disembark before we could get there.

I was wrong. By the time we got on base and found a place to park, the Nassau was pulling in. We were not as late as I'd imagined. For the next forty minutes, I stood in the baking sun...waiting. Did I mention I didn't wear sunscreen? Pasty-white starky, standing in the direct sunlight for a prolonged period of time? You know where this is going. I got good and fried.

Apparently new parents get to come off the boat first, and normally it wouldn't have bothered me, but for some reason, that day it really stuck in my craw. What a meager way of making amends for forcing these men away from the births of their children. "Oh, hey, we'll let you schmoes of the boat first, so you can finally see your new sons and daughters, and fuck the rest of the childless assholes." Yeah, that day it was really like a punch in the gut. Kick me while I'm down, why don't you.

It didn't matter, though, because Sid was right on the tails of those guys. As the crowd started to cheer, I turned to Cory and said, "we should get closer to them, Sid's expecting us to be over at the tent," and on the way over, I saw a bald guy, who could have been Sid from the back, but I wasn't sure, and I gave him a good look and noticed the blue platinum wedding band. It was Sid! Totally serendipitous, how that happened. We found each other right away in that big crowd.

Anyway, he's home. And while I'm happy to have him back, don't get me wrong, I wish that he'd stop spending so much time with his computer or his video games and do something with me. Anything. I helped him wax his car yesterday, just so I could spend time with him. Last night I broke down and told him how I felt, because it was obvious that he was not going to stop with the ignoring me unless I made him. And I didn't want to make him. But it's been almost a week. And I missed him. And I think that after five months apart, he can deign to put the controller down, shut off the computer, and spend some time with his wife.

Oh, and remember all that shit I wrote that I didn't want Sid to see? Stalking-ass motherfucker found and read this blog. Yes, that's right, Siddy, I called you a stalking-ass motherfucker. I only found this out because he teased me about my Brad Pitt dream.

AWKWARD.

searching for reason where there is none

A few months ago, a friend of Sid's was raped on the boat. I'm sure he spared me the full drama of the entire situation, but needless to say, there was a span of time where she didn't want to be around any men, and he called me asking for help.

Like I was supposed to know what to say and do for this woman. Because being raped suddenly gives you magic mind-reading powers, usable only on other rape victims or something.

News to me, I tell you. I wish I'd known about this sooner.

I told him to just be patient with her. After something like that, it's hard to know who to trust, and he should just chill out. If she wanted to talk to him, she'd come to him, but to just back the hell off in the meantime and give her some space.

Apparently she's talking to him again. He's told her a bit about my own experience, and asked if, when they get back, she would like to talk to me. From what I understand, she's open to the idea.

I don't know how I feel about that. On one hand, I wish someone had been there for me after what I went through, someone to tell me that it would get better, and listen if I wanted to talk about it, and not judge me and tell me that I should be feeling this way and not that way, and why didn't you press charges? I would like to be that person for her, if I can.

And on the other hand, I'm afraid that I may do more harm than good. After all, I'm not a psychologist. I'm just someone who's been there, in that spot where you don't know who to trust, or what to think, and nothing makes sense, and everyone is telling you how you should feel. What can I do for this woman? Who do I think I am?

Someone who hasn't been there just doesn't know what it's like. Sid surely doesn't. As sympathetic as he is, and as understanding as he tries to be, he just doesn't get it. It's been six and a half years; I've accepted what happened, made my peace with it and moved on as best I can. I can explain to him what occurred, I can tell him how I felt and how it affected me, but I will never be able to make him understand why I said and did and thought the things that I did. I have stopped trying. Things like that don't have to make sense to anyone. They don't have to make sense to you, the person who is going through it.

Sid keeps asking me, "Why does she still have feelings for the guy?"

I don't know, any more than I know why I still had feelings for my boyfriend when he raped me. It just is. Fuck the reasons why. Sometimes there isn't a reason for things.

sick to death of talking about my thyroid

With less than a month (OMG!) left in this deployment, the home stretch seems to be an eternity. And I am tired of talking to Sid about my medication, my bloodwork, my symptoms, my side effects... I'm just tired of it. He's not here to see the changes that have taken place, and he asks about it constantly. He's operating under the misguided impression that I am not the same person I was before, which is not something I ever actually said. I had made a blog post about it, and (stupidly) cross-posted it to a site I frequent and that he sometimes checks out, and he blew it all out of proportion and now, to his mind, he's coming home to a Pod Person or something.

The post in question was made in the depths of absolute alienation and discovery. I wrote about what I was feeling at the time, and it was by no means an objective look at my situation. Cory, who has been around to witness my subtle metamorphosis, assured me one day, unprompted, that I have not changed so terribly much. I relayed his words to Sid, who apparently never heard a word of what I said, because he's still convinced I've been replaced by a perky, cheerleader-type version of Starky.

I made the mistake of telling a few relatives, with the stipulation they never tell my mother, because she would blow it out of proportion to the point where, if I didn't get hold of the rest of the family before Mom did, she'd have everyone under the impression I have a goiter the size of a baby's head or something. Gory, false details are very important to my mother. The truth? Not so much.

Anyway, so now I've got a handful of people inquiring after my health, not including Sid, who asks nearly every day. And it's getting old. I know...everyone means well, and they are trying to understand what I'm dealing with. I understand. And I appreciate that I have people who care about me. But I am sick to death of talking about my thyroid.

something so simple, something so symbolic

I'm ready to cut my hair. My ponytail is 10 inches, long enough to be of use to Locks of Love, which is the only reason I have let my mop reach this length.

It drives me crazy. The longer my hair gets, the more temperamental my scalp gets. While I do think my hair is beautiful, and I love the way it looks when I wear it down, it's just not for me. It gets to tickling my face, and the skin on the back of my neck breaks out, and when I try to sleep at night, the fan kicks up stray hairs to tickle at me and make me think there's a spider in my bed.

This has been quite an experience for me, letting my hair grow long for the express purpose of giving it to someone in need. I always regarded my natural hair color as boring. And I find that it isn't! I stopped dyeing it so that it would be all one color when it grew out, and I see now that it's natural color isn't a mousey and drab brown, but a beautiful shiny deep brownish red.

Through something so simple, appreciating my natural hair color, I've actually come to appreciate myself a lot more. Instead of wishing for some aspect of my body to be different, it's easier now to focus on the good things about myself.

And of course, there is a deeper reason why I have decided that now is the time to cut my hair. It wouldn't be Starky's Emo Moment of the Day otherwise! This is my way of letting go of that "baby dream". I'm tired of hanging on to the hope. I'm tired of feeling as though it should happen to me and feeling pissed off and sad when Sid changes his mind or something. Because in all my pregnancy dreams, I've had long hair. And so cutting it short is like cutting loose the dream, you see?

I am so ready to take this step. Growing my hair out has been so symbolic of my journey of self-acceptance and healing, and cutting it feels like the next step down the path of accepting what is, rather than longing for what what should be or could be.

when diarrhea is the lesser evil

Levothyroxine causes insomnia in some people. Apparently, I am one of them. It was headaches for a few weeks. Then diarrhea. Now insomnia.

I'd really, truly, rather have diarrhea.

A few nights ago, I reached the end of my rope. I was exhausted, and had not heard another human voice in almost a week, and I was seriously reaching my breaking point. And the little water fountain for the cats decided to crap out and stop working. It was the THE LAST FUCKING STRAW. I put a bowl of water out for them and went to bed, because I couldn't handle anymore bullshit. It was 11 pm. 4 am rolled around, and I was still awake.

Yeah, I'd rather have diarrhea.

Add to that these anxiety attacks or whatever the hell they are, I'm really reaching the end of my endurance. I could be doing anything; walking down the street in broad daylight, lying bed in the dark, sitting at my computer, doing housework, ANYTHING... and suddenly it's like someone's tightened a belt around my ribs and I feel like I can't breathe. I can, it's not that I can't draw breath, but it feels like I can't. And I know it's all in my head, because it never happens when I'm with someone else.

This happened the last time Sid was gone, too. And my dad wanted to come and visit, and I wondered to myself how I was going to hide the fact that I couldn't function. But I was fine for his whole visit. I had someone to talk to, something to distract me, and I was fine. And as soon as he left, it started up again.

I don't know why this happens, I just know that it does.

Now, I'm not a very social person. I don't know many people in this town, and I'm not so close with my family I can just call them up for a chat any old time. I used to be friends with the neighbors, but I guess they thought I was too...needy or something. Jesus christ, I was lonely, Sid was away for six months, and they were the only people I could talk to, and they basically said, "you need to find something else to do, because we don't want you coming over here."

There is no one to talk to. No one to turn to. If I didn't talk to my cats, the silence would be deafening. And I have brought this on myself.

america, fuck yeah

There's only a month or so left in this deployment. The dates could change, and I'm not supposed to share them anyway. "A month or so" will suffice. Because THE TERRISTS might be reading! Not to poke fun at what some might find a sensitive issue, but I don't hold such a high opinion of myself that I think anyone, much a "terrist", is reading this. But I'll keep my mouth shut just the same. My husband is already unpopular among his peers and superiors for not believing in The Christian God (or any god, what a dirty atheist) that I don't want to make things worse by COMPROMISING SECURITY. (AMERICA, FUCK YEAH, guys. Kiss the fattest part of my ass and smile while you do it, because freedom of religion also means freedom from religion. Just because you believe in the Judeo-Christian sky-daddy doesn't mean you're any better than the godless heathen you serve with. I suggest you get the fuck over yourselves.)

Sid's emails have been getting progressively more emo as the days go by, and while I truly do appreciate that he feels he can tell me these things without fearing ridicule, I have to admit, it has pretty well established itself as something that IS SURE TO RUIN MY GOOD MOOD, SHOULD I HAVE ONE. I don't send him morose emails about all the shit that goes wrong in my day, or how depressed I am, or how I WISH HE WAS HOME. I could, but I don't. What purpose would it serve? I know he feels bad enough without me making it worse. So I keep it to myself.

I'm not saying this to be a bitch, though it's inevitable that's how it will come off, but I'm doing my best to shield him, and I wish he would do the same for me. I know it's got to suck being out there. I know. But does he know it sucks being here all alone? I don't think he does. By the tone of some of his emails, he seems to be laboring under the impression that it's all sunshine and roses and laughter over here, and all I do is sit around with my multitude of friends, eat ice cream and talk about sex.

What friends? What ice cream? For heaven's sake, what sex? Where was I when this all went down?

This entire deployment has brought out the angst and the emo in both of us.

dreaming: better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, but only barely

First and foremost, Sid, if by some strange chance you have found this blog, for the love of cheese, look away now. Just stop reading and go find something else to do. Please.

I had some weird dreams last night, and they weren't your standard "oh, how STRANGE" kind of dreams, oh no, that would be too simple. In the first, I had sex with Brad Pitt. And I don't even find Brad Pitt to be attractive. If it had been a lucid dream, I assure you it would have been Alan Rickman as Severus Snape. Most assuredly, it would have been.

But yeah. A sex dream. A STARKY FIRST. The worst part is, in the dream, I was still married to Sid. Fuckin' A, I cheated on my husband in a dream. If it's any consolation, which it isn't, Brad Pitt was cheating on Angelina Jolie, so it kind of evened out.

I woke up feeling awful. Because I cheated on my husband in a dream.

Believe me, I know it makes no sense.

So when I feel back asleep, I dreamed I was pregnant (ooh boy, that can of worms again). I'm not going to get into specifics, because it's really unimportant, but goddamn it, I was so happy. That's what sticks out to me. I remember telling someone that I was having twins, a boy and a girl (which is another can of worms, believe me). And I was happy, did I mention that? Truly, genuinely happy. Despite all the problems that were happening in the dream, which very closely mirrored my real life worries, I was smiling and not faking it. I was hopeful in a way that I have not been in a very long time, and that I fear I will never again experience in this life.

When I woke up, I seriously thought I might be sick. I felt like such utter shit, it seemed like vomiting was the only way to express it besides tears. And I am done with crying over stupid shit like this. Done, I tell you. There is no use crying over something so idiotic. There is no use dwelling on it. There is no use in even thinking about it for another second.

So I move on. To what, I have no idea. I'm still searching for that.