It’s difficult to write sometimes. It isn’t because of writer’s block in the slightest. I have tons of stories and thoughts to share. No, it’s difficult to write because I am writing about my family, my friends, my lovers, and my lovers who eventually turned into enemies. I am writing stories about people, including myself, that aren’t flattering.
I have already been approached by people with whom I shared this blog with that what I’m writing about is deeply personal. Well, of course it is personal. It’s my personal blog, paid for through a personal plan with Word Press. And as I said in the featured post, it is deeply personal to write and share that writing.
When I write, I have to forget that I’m writing words that can be read by my husband, my best friend, and even my boss. I can’t tailor my writing to the audience. I am writing to help ME, not to inflate other’s egos. I might lose friends and respect. But I need to accept personal responsibility for the way I view people and things. I don’t write to hurt others, usually. I write to relieve the tension I feel when I experience something.
And with that, I’ll begin writing with the kid gloves off.
Why are people so lazy that they don’t do exactly what would make them happy? Why do people think there’s enough time for happiness to come to them? Look around! The time has come (the walrus said) and I’m so fucking tired of talking to miserable people. It seems like everyone I talk to is just waiting for happiness to drop into their laps. They have built up their lives and have settled so deeply into what they see as “their existence” that they refuse to move.
Look, I get it. Change is scary, and every step has the possibility of turning into a nightmare. But why sit there and be scared to move? You’re going to let fear dictate how you live your life? People are passing you by constantly when they take their leaps of faith and you’re sitting there wondering why their life looks so fun, or lucrative, or fulfilling.
I had a moment of clarity when I was in Afghanistan. I thought, “If I manage to make it out of this country without killing myself or being killed, I have to start living, and I mean truly living.” I realized how close I was to death on multiple occasions and I just needed to wake the fuck up and go live my life! Other people I knew wouldn’t be able to go back and enjoy life. I would have to do it for them. And I had said constantly, prior to Afghanistan, “Oh, I’m going to travel, I’m going to get into running, I’m going to go on adventures and fucking see the world that I was placed in.” And there I was, inches from death multiple times, and I had done none of it.
How often do we come close to dying? It happens to us all, sometimes without us knowing. I can remember four distinct times in Afghanistan that I thought, “This is it.” One of those times, I had the barrel of my rifle firmly placed at the bottom of my jaw. I admit, I flirted with death often, and I still do, but I do it to see if I can feel that fear again, because the fear makes me feel alive. How cliche is that?
When I look around, I see people either chasing that feeling of being alive or firmly placing themselves into a life stalemate. I would rather chase that feeling than be a fucking pussy about life. Those people are going to wake up one day and realize that they aren’t living their truth, and they are fat, married to the wrong person, and miserable. If you’re reading this and you think I’m talking about you, I am.
I got back from Afghanistan and I made the most of my life. And you know why? Because my husband (then boyfriend) broke my habit of feeling like I couldn’t do anything. Everything I wanted to do was filled with encouragement from him, with solutions, with adventures daily. We jumped from planes, we cliff jumped, we ran triathlons, we went to college, we traveled America and the world, we dreamed of all the things we could do and we fucking did them.
After four months of me crying and refusing to get out of bed after Afghanistan, my husband (then friend and eventually boyfriend) forced me to get up, took me to get clothes because I owned nothing, forced me to eat mounds of ice cream to regain my weight, and made me experience life for the first time. So when I see you miserable fucks in your shitty marriages, in jobs you hate, with a body that is failing, with bad sex lives, with dreams that are passing you by, I can only think of my husband and how he made me who I am today. I want to pass his way on thinking onto everyone else.
“I want to ________.”
“So go do it.”
“But there’s all of these issues.”
“And here are all of these solutions.”
Stop being a fucking pussy. Live your life happily, because no one else is going to live it for you and you’ll die eventually.
My ex-husband is insignificant in my life. Granted, we were married for two years and two things happened between us that changed the course of my life forever. However, he, as a person, is someone I could literally never think about ever again and I wouldn’t lose an iota of inspiration or passion.
We met when I was newly dropped into the United States Marine Corps fleet on Camp Pendleton in September of 2008. He was my Corporal, and I was a newly promoted 18 year old Lance Corporal. I checked into my unit, fresh from the schoolhouse, and promptly got so sick that I could barely move. I was trying to teach myself how to play chess in the barracks room as a group of Marines crowded into my room, carrying sushi and McDonalds.
“We heard you were sick and brought you food.”
I thought it was sweet at the time but I’m sure there were better food choices for a sickly kid.
We spent the next few months dating. He was my direct boss, and it was forbidden. We had to sneak around to have sex, and when the fires of Pendleton broke out in 2008, we were caught by the roving officer who was bursting into barracks rooms to “save people” from the fire.
Our command knew what was happening and they were not pleased. However, there was no proof of fraternization that they could find, so we couldn’t be charged.
He asked me to marry him next to a dumpster. Between the sushi and the dumpster, I’m not exactly sure what I thought I was getting into. We got married in December of 2008, after knowing each other for four months, and I was removed from the unit. The Gunnery Sergeant said he was glad I was gone because he didn’t want to have to deal with a girl on deployment.
The next two years of our marriage was terrible. The operational tempo of maintaining two wars meant that we never saw each other. If I wasn’t in the field, I was in a school and he was in the field or on the ship. If he wasn’t in the field or on the ship, I was in the field. Whenever we saw each other, we would fight. I had a terrible temper and didn’t know how to express myself, and he was a stupid man who couldn’t handle me. One argument ended with him holding a knife to my throat after I threatened him with it.
He was the one who told me what swinging was prior to our marriage. He told me of his time in Okinawa, Japan and how he was in a relationship with a Japanese woman who was married. He told me that lots of people swung. I, born a Southern Baptist, baptized a Methodist, and confirmed a Presbyterian, was dumbstruck. I had never heard of such a thing, and my Nana would be MORTIFIED. But I was so curious.
“You mean, you love this person with whom you’re in a relationship with, and YOU FUCK OTHER PEOPLE??? How do you maintain the jealousy? How are people okay with this? Isn’t this so wrong??”
He answered the questions the best he could, and we got married with the assumption we would try it out later. Again, the workups prevented us from seeing each other except for fighting.
My 18 year old eyes were opened to a new lifestyle and I couldn’t wait to try something that didn’t suffocate me.