Friends, I am at the end of my deployment story. No happy ending here, although not as tragic as some. Our relationship has ended with a whimper, not a bang. I suppose I can be grateful for that.
I wanted to write one last post, partially to publish a tidy "wrap-up," which seems much more considerate to a reader than simply abandoning the blog. But I feel I have something to add to what I've already said about the nature of a deployment, and the feelings that go along with it.
In an earlier post I wrote about the distance I was feeling, how the lack of communication made it feel as if the relationship did not exist in a present sense - like a movie left on pause, eventually the machine gets tired of waiting and shuts itself off to save energy. I always felt that when Adam came home I would be able to push that power button, and we would remember exactly where we left off (give or take some adjustment).
Before he left home, Adam and I had discussed marriage. We went so far as to pick out a ring together. But he was very insistent that we wait until after the deployment even for an engagement - apparently there is rampant post-nuptial regret among newly deployed soldiers and their brides, and divorce is common.
That's a lot of pressure to think about coming home to, the expectation of a proposal, when you've been gone over half a year. When you can't remember exactly how your girlfriend looks, or what she smells like. Growth and change, distorted memories, enormous pressure, the feeling of distance and alienation... I think I understand perfectly why this happened. I was committed to allowing space for Adam to operate as necessary to get through the deployment, and the space he needed could not get big enough as long as I was waiting at home.
So I'm moving out. Probably away from this city, perhaps back home for a while. I have never been though a breakup like this before, long distance, when he has already been gone for months. I have gotten used to being alone, used to not getting letters every day, and used to rarely hearing his voice. Now that it suddenly seems that this will be a permanent separation, things feel oddly the same in many ways. I am still in the apartment, everything looks the same. My time is spent in mostly the same activities. But there are moments when my heart suddenly tightens, and feels as if one chamber suddenly contained too much blood.
I was drinking a bottle of particular brand of tea today, where on the inside of the label the manufacturers like to print words of wisdom. Mine said: "We must be willing to let go of the life we've planned to have the life that is waiting for us." (E.M. Forster). I suppose, not knowing what is waiting for us, that can go either way, but it feels hopeful to me.
I hope you all have enjoyed reading my blog as much as I have enjoyed writing for you.
