Deployments

Before the letters. Before basic. Before he became a soldier — there was this.

Feb 19, 2026

This pairs well with Some Nights by fun.

I forgot these existed.

I found them the way you find old photographs in a coat pocket — not looking, not ready. And suddenly she was right there. Twenty-something, standing postured and loud and strong, holding her unit together while her soul shook like a loose window in a storm.

She didn’t write these for anyone. There was no audience, no craft, no intention. Just a woman trying to bleed out enough feeling to function the next day. To put on the uniform. To not cry in the dayroom.

She almost never cried in the dayroom.

I read her words now and I feel something fiercer than nostalgia. Something closer to grief. Not for the deployments, not for the years — but for her. For how hard she was working just to stay intact. For how little anyone saw it. For how little she let them.

I wish I could find her. Sit down next to her on that plane, or in that dayroom, or on the kitchen floor she probably never let herself fall onto yet.

I’d tell her: you are not performing strength. You are made of it. But even things made of fire need tending.

She wouldn’t have believed me.

She wasn’t ready to.

These writings precede something I’ll share soon — letters between my son and me while he was in basic training. But before those, you needed to meet her. The woman who raised him. The one who deployed twice, who counted down days, who hugged strangers because she needed it as much as they did.

She was already Persephone. She just didn’t have the name yet.

Countdown

As the days keep moving forward, there is one sure thing — time keeps going. With or without you.

I genuinely thought that by joining the military I would be helping. Making a difference. 9 years later and I feel like my existence in the military is actually counter-productive to what I believe in. The waste of money alone sickens me. The obesity in the military is an overwhelming reminder that those people take 0 pride in the uniform they wear, and it is simply a formality.

My first deployment I begged and pleaded to go. I wanted my time there to mean something. I wanted to protect something or someone.

I got a gun, some Amn, and we watched people work all day. That was it. For 6 months.

That 6 months away I couldn’t even look at pics of my beautiful boys. It hurt too much. It hurt even more that they believed I am a hero when I know I am not.

How can I make them understand why I am leaving when I don’t even understand it?

I want to protect and defend my country. Now it is my turn to go again and this is not what I want.

My sons just turned 5 and 6. When I get back I will be back in time for them to turn 6 and 7. Every day is one day closer.

I will never get used to this.

22 Feb — Rain vs Sun

Time is ticking faster and so is my heart. I leave 7 March and every moment of every day I am at my breaking point and on the verge of tears. I wonder all the time whether I am doing this right. I walk alone in my own thoughts a lot. I want to drink up every last drop that life has to offer.

My boys have developed into young men with robust personalities. Their minds are capable of so much. I just hope they understand.

At every moment I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs and then curling up into the fetal position to cry until I had nothing left.

But then what? I’d still be leaving in 13 days.

The sun and my mood are usually in direct correlation with each other.

What I need to get better at is learning to appreciate the rain as much as the sun. The rain has a purpose. It’s JUST as needed as the sun. Once the rain goes away, the sun is appreciated all that much more.

But to love the rain...I don’t know if I could ever do this.

I will learn to appreciate the rain for all its purposes, but I will NEVER love it. I will take more time to love the sun.

13 days of sun left. 8 months of rain.

“you are my sunshine, my only sunshine. you make me happy when skies are gray. you’ll never know dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away”

7 Mar

I am sitting on the first plane to take me away.

There has been so much to write about, but not enough time to write about them — which is a good thing. I can honestly say that while the clock ticking over my head has been ticking louder and louder, I have not only counted the seconds, but made the seconds count.

I spent a whole special day with my Goatie Bell and a special day with Bobus. A day where I just said yes to whatever they wanted and I just enjoyed my kids.

I am leaving for 8 god damned months.

I am not ok. I am ok with this. Anyone who has ever truly loved understands this concept.

Tomorrow I will wake up to a bunch of no one and nothing. No fat little marshmallow cheeks, no warm clammy hands to hold, no sunshine.

There is a huge hole in my heart that cannot be filled.

I worry what will happen to me as a person if I choose to numb myself to these things. These things that SHOULD elicit emotional response. I refuse to do it.

I just want to hurt somehow other than this. Feel anything other than this.

7 May

God it hurts so bad...to talk to my sons and hear how time is aging them in ways I don’t even get to see.

Hearing their voice again awakens a slumbering sadness that is only awakened by their voices. I can see pictures of them and somehow it doesn’t register as harshly. To hear their personalities developed in their voices, and the change from babies to young men — that is something I think always breaks a mother’s heart.

The only thing that can heal these wounds is the kisses and random hugs these young men give.

I miss them...

?? — Numb

A door with hundreds of keys. I shake it to hear the keys rattle in unison. I keep shaking it for — I don’t even know how long.

The sound drowns out all other chaos, sound and thought, as I think about the purpose of all these keys. Half of which probably have none.

No one likes to throw away a key. What if it unlocks something. Something that needed to be secured.

And then I think of the symbolism behind locks and keys.

And then I am snapped out of my reverie.

“Why are you doing that?” someone asks.

Good question.

16 September 2013

I had just finished my workout after a really shitty day. I grab my dinner and head to the dayroom to eat in solitude.

Then I see her.

A young blonde girl in uniform trying to hide her tears as she hastily grabs her stuff to leave. Something that is sadly refreshing in this town of emotionless drones.

I asked her if she was ok. She said she was fine, as she tried to hide the fact that she had been crying.

Being here, there really is no place to cry in private — with dignity. You have work, your room shared with 2-3 other girls who would inevitably ask questions, a bathroom stall which kind of takes the dignity part out, or the shower which is efficient, but it’s hard to plan out an emotional outburst.

I don’t know this girl. Never met her. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she wasn’t ok.

I put my dinner down and I hugged her.

Without asking what was wrong, I told her all problems are temporary and that everything would be ok.

I don’t know whose day had been made more — mine or hers. I think I might have needed that hug. A real hug from someone who needed it as much as I did. It’s been a while since I’ve felt that.

I know that I am getting old when I start to find philosophical meaning in every damn thing that happens, but they say things happen for a reason.

I am thankful for that girl, that hug, and the courage to hug a stranger.