Fences

Last night I couldn’t sleep. I did all the usual tricks that my Army-Wife-Therapist recommended—sniffed lavender before bed, drank a glass of warm milk, and put down the smut book (reluctantly). Finally, after much tossing and turning I decided to throw in the towel. I gave up, got up, and decided I would do something productive with my extra three hours of wretched wakefulness. In fact, I decided that 2:00AM would be the perfect time to start staining the fence.

Yes, I am aware that probably only crazy people don a headlamp in the middle of the night, plop down on a kitchen stool, and start slapping stain onto a fence. It was muggy, dark, and I probably encountered at least seven different species of lizards. But the fence seemed to be calling me, and somewhere in my obsessive-stuck-in-overdrive brain I knew that I had to work on the tangible fence around my yard before I could ever tackle the one that I had unintentionally erected around my heart. I knew that I had constructed a fortress around myself—a barrier of strength, humor, and a breakneck pace of life-- just so that I could keep from completely falling apart. The walls I surrounded myself whispered a false sense of security to me—offering only sanctuary and isolation from what I really feared the most: the Army Wife’s worst nightmare, having life spiral out of control.

As I sat there in the dark, feeding half of the mosquito population of S. Texas, I realized that I was probably towing the line of the inevitable army-wife-nervous-breakdown. In my experience, Army Wives tend to crack in two directions: 1. Those that never can get out of bed, gain 20 lbs, and feed their sorrow with tacos, chocolate, and wine. OR 2. Those that can’t sit still, workout like the devil on speed, and are angry enough to take on a Mexican drug lord without so much as batting an eyelash. I am of the second subset. Feisty- yes. Sarcastic-yes. Likely to be assassinated for telling a ghetto-gold toothed-potential-pimp-daddy that his driving sucks—unfortunately, yes. I am half Irish/ half Russian, and was raised by a Texas- cattle-rancher-gone-New Yorker. Heck, just last weekend I found myself narrowing my eyes at a friend and proclaiming in my iciest voice, “There are those who were dropped on their heads at birth, and then there are those who were probably thrown…” Thankfully, he understood Army Wives well enough to forgive, forget…. and duck.

Anyway, as I made my way board by board around the yard, it slowly dawned on me that fences—although strong and resilient—take a lot of upkeep and energy to maintain. You can only shut the world out for so long before the foundation begins to crumble—and if that shielding damn breaks, the flooding of emotions will drown you. Who could ever possibly swim against a current of fear, anger, loneliness, and bitterness? No Army Wife—not even the ones who are viewed as the strong—can tread water for twelve continuous months. So, I made a promise to myself that night, with the crickets as my only vocal witness, to start shedding the armor that I had so carefully constructed to keep the grief at bay. Karma whispered and nudged me that night to set down the paintbrush and stain, and to allow the pain home—because only when it enters can it ever fully be overcome. Darkness comes before light; fear before bravery; pain ahead of healing. Hugging my knees into my chest, I closed my eyes, and granted myself that solitary moment of weakness. For twenty minutes I allowed my soul to splinter, and I cried my heart out under the spring stars.

When I was done, I carefully rose and closed the lid to the stain. I tossed the brush into the trash and made my way back towards my bed. Speckled and spotted, I crawled in between the sheets, and closed my heavy eyes. The ache was still there—and probably would be for a long while, but with the pain came hope and a glimmer of optimism. Karma was right. The dismantling of walls brought overwhelming grief, but also allowed the warmth of faith to penetrate my spirit. Yes, life was out of control— but no matter how much I shut out the world, it could still not offer any guarantee that my soldier would come home unharmed. All I could do was hope, pray, raise my kids, love unconditionally, and live each day likes it is our last. Unbelievably, I knew that Karma, for once, was on my side. In my weakest moment, she led me outside, reminded me that I was still alive, and urged me to fight for my dreams. On the whisper of the wind and in the simple task of staining a fence, she taught me that one day—whether on a battlefield or in a hospital bed-- we would all lose the final battle against Control and our lives would go flashing before our eyes. It is up to each of us to make sure it’s damn-well worth watching.