You know what? I wonder sometimes if I have made a mistake. I mean—of course I’ve made dozens, but have I made one here?
Truth: I don’t want this “Army Wife” thing, with its stigmas and stereotypes, trials and tribulations. I don’t want to spend every other year in mourning, becoming intimately familiar with grief as it chews through the marrow in my bones, or nestles perversely in the pit of my stomach.
I don’t want to smile bravely, or feign gratitude when someone thanks me for my husband’s service. I don’t want to appear supportive of blind patriotism, or religious wars, or spending hundreds of billions of dollars on research that will cause further devastation. And I don’t think that all soldiers are good people, and I won’t be made to feel personally indebted to each and every one, when enlistment was a personal choice with calculated risks.
And—in my opinion—it was a foolish choice; because he who once was an individual is now a piece of property, a tool, a means to achieve an end. The loss of control was absolute and impartial, and…not at all what I ever wanted for myself, however indirectly. It was not what I ever wanted for either of us.
I feel the need for some decisive action, but all I can do is sit and wait.
