I'm sure time has actually slowed down in the past month or so. Maybe
Gordon Brown has made it a new Party Initiative for Jenny to Be
Constantly Reminded of How Long It Really Is Until Karl Is Home. It
seems like all I've been saying for goodness knows how long is "He's
home in 3 weeks". This time of '3 Weeks' will haunt me for the rest of
my life, as it doesn't seem to be getting any shorter! When will it be
2 weeks? When was it 4 weeks? It's been 3 weeks for as long as I can
remember, and the days on my calendar stubbornly refuse to cross
themselves off. September is officially the longest month of my year.
I have aged about 50 years and my blood pressure could rival that of a
fat kid playing poker while eating cake. I'm sure I have been going to
sleep every night, therefore waking up to a new day, and yet the days
in my diary don't seem to agree. Have I been going to sleep 5 times a
day, waking up convinced I should cross another day off my calendar?
The laws of time and patience are wearing thin with me, and I shall be
glad when this is all over.
But will I really be that glad? After all, this period of the past 6
months has done more to define our relationship than anything else
we've gone through. Since we found out he was being posted, most of my
thoughts revolved around 'Afghan'. Like the word 'Iraq', it has come
to mean so much more than a place. It means a place of hopelessness
and dust, political ideologies gone wrong, and a vast expanse of time
to be filled with keeping busy. Since he left to go to this hot
wasteland, my time has been filled with trying to make this time
easier for him, and everyone it affects. So I write letters, I send
parcels, I leave messages on his phone, I wait for him to get home. I
buoy his parents with talk of counting down sleeps, of plans for when
he gets home, and in being upset and weak I give them a chance to take
care of their son through taking care of me. But what happens when he
really is home and all this really is over? What will we talk about?
Will our relationship have any definition anymore? How can we ever go
back to normal after going through this; even though right now all I
want to do is 'get back to normal'. But what does that mean? Nothing
about living this army life is normal, everything teeters on the edge
of plans that can't be finalised, dates that won't stay the same, and
a vast gap between what they do and what they tell us they do.
Obviously we can get back to our idea of what a normal life is,
however that compares to civvy life, but I worry that without the
boundaries of this terrible experience, we won't know what to say to
each other.
Within this scenario of Afghan, he has his role of the big brave
soldier who needs a cuddle and I'm the heroine penning letters with
heartfelt sincerity. We know what to say to each other on the phone,
we know how far we can go with talk of wanting to come home (I say I
want him to come home, he says he wants to come home, but I don't push
it any more because we both know he can't come home and to point this
out would only make him feel worse), I know what things to report from
home (enough parties and family events so he knows I'm getting on with
my life, but not too much so he thinks I'm out partying every night
and getting to know his family better than he does), he knows what to
report out there (enough talk of patrols so I know he's working hard,
not anything which will cause my legs to go numb and to demand he
stays away from those nasty bombs), and The Future. That dangerous
murky path which has often caused those of the male species to retreat
in a cold sweat, insisting they need to be somewhere else. But we talk
about the future enough to make him feel like he's wanted back home,
like he has something to look forward to, but not too far in the
future to make him think I have used my free time to plan out the
small print of our lives forthwith. Getting all these balances right
is like walking a tightrope of awkward silences and nervous laughter,
of course not helped by the previously mentioned comedy phone lines.
It's nice when we have enough time on the phone to be able to just
chat, to hear each others voices without worrying about saying
everything you can remember from the past week. It's also a relief to
be reminded of how real they still are, they aren't just a voice on
the end of a phone line, as I was reminded earlier this week. When he
rang, after a few minutes I asked him if he really was okay, because
he sounded so miserable. he replied he was fine, he had just woken up.
Something about this reassured me so much, just knowing he had been
asleep, and had woken up, like I do every day. I had to remember he
was still himself out there, not a blank faced soldier, which made it
easier to talk to him again. It's important to be careful in what you
say, but not so careful you're tiptoeing round each other without
saying anything. I know this will be easier when he's home and we can
talk in person, but we'll need to be careful of other things we say.
So having to adjust to new balances and rules when he's home will need
some practice, just as he will have to practice not hitting the deck
when he hears fireworks.
It's apparantly 3 weeks until he's home for good, and I must say it
can't come quickly enough. I know one thing for certain though, I
won't ever take for granted the beautiful miracle of being able to
push some buttons on my mobile and hear his voice at the other end.
Posted by Treacle at 06:47 0 comments
Thursday, 6 September 2007
I've become very aware, and careful, about letting my guard down.
Lowering my defences and placing myself in situations of extreme
danger and adrenaline. I'm reading a survival/self-defence guide, not
for mountain bears or falling into foaming, gushing rapids, but for
the urban warrior such as myself. I consider myself a fairly
confident, cautious girl, especially living in London for the past
three years. Of course we were going to go out clubbing and pubbing
late at night, and who hasn't looked mournfully up and down the road
at the complete abscence of taxis and said "Oh come on, we'll walk."
And so on your merry way you'll go, laughing at the antics of the
evening, swinging your high heels from one hand and blithely unaware
that you've painted 'Victim' on your backside in neon paint. The whole
point of the book I'm reading, as instructed by an ex-bouncer who
could obviously take me, is to not put yourself in those situations at
all to start with. But if you have to, you must be aware of what is
going on around you, you have to know what signs to look out for, to
sense danger before it happens and remove yourself before you get
yourself in too deep. Sound advice, I hear you say, yet I am inbibed
with generations of inner strength and fighting skills passed down
from yonks before. Watching Bruce Lee films does not make you a
Kung-Fu legend, just as buying skinny jeans does not make you Kate
Moss.
Although these survival tips are, strictly speaking, for the outside
world of muggers and thieves, the advice on adrenaline and how to cope
with it still apply in other situations. You should never let your
guard down when you have a boyfriend marching around with rocket
launchers in a far-off dusty land inhabited by lots of other people
with rocket launchers. It's important to always stay in Code Yellow, a
stage up from completely switched off (Code White), and one step away
from Code Red (tying a bandana round your head and assuming fighting
position). Code Yellow is a heightened awareness of the dangers around
you, enabling you to see what lies ahead and hopefully how to cope
with it. Let me show you how I carelessly fell into Code White, before
being plunged into a situation I wasn't equipped to deal with:
It happened just like this last time too, when it got to the Six Week
mark. I got excited at the thought of him coming home sooner than it
was last week or the week before, and mapped out all the coming
weekends with the events I knew were going to happen, so in my head he
was practically on his way home. I thought, "Well this weekend I've
got that party, and next weekend I'll be working, and then I have that
doctors appointment, and then it's our anniversary, and then it's only
two weeks until he's back!" Having convinced myself the time will fly
so fast I won't even notice it coming, I always forget that I still
have to get through the next six weeks. Then I remember you cannot
swim that easily through Time, it has to be struggled through and
bargained with, overcoming small targets with the relief of a marathon
runner reaching the end. So I had unwittingly slipped back into Code
White, convinced he was safe and sound and would be home in time for
tea. Then of course, I was caught 'on the hop', as it were, when I
learned of the deaths of 3 British Soldiers just that day, only a few
hours ago, and the families had not yet been informed. I couldn't
control the adrenaline surge that befell me, as I wasn't on alert for
danger, and so Panicked. Reason couldn't take hold, only a dread that
crept cold and shaky up my spine and down to my fingers. Having called
a number that apparantly was there to help, and talking to a girl who
couldn't help me even if she had wanted to, I called his parents who
assured me there were no officials there breaking any news. So once
again I had to talk myself down and tell myself that if the officials
were with the families 'right now', it was safe to say that as we were
alone, The Boy might be alright?
Stressful times. I think I might have aged about 30 years in the past
5 months, what with all these near-misses and phone calls, and
snatches of news heard or seen in passing, and worried relatives, it's
a wonder we haven't all checked into rehab just for a bit of a rest.
If that bloody Amy Whinehouse can check herself in on a whim because
the endless cancelling of gigs due to exhaustion is so exhausting,
then I have definitely earned myself some air miles as far as stress
goes. I wonder if The Boy will ever understand just how worried we
were about him, constantly without rest. If he knew, he would write
every day, phone home every day, and possibly just come home. My
fingers are starting to hurt from clicking onto the same websites
every day with worringly regularity. I can't even imagine a time when
all this will be over, it's been going on so long. It's been at the
front of my mind ever since I found out he was going, which was last
year sometime. It'll be a hard adjustment to make when he's home and
never going back there, even though I'll still worry about hime all
the time. With him, I don't think I'll ever be on Code White again.
Posted by Treacle at 03:20 0 comments
Saturday, 1 September 2007
Helpless? Or Helpful?
I find it hard enough, as I'm sure most girls do, to know what A Man
Is Thinking At Any Given Time. As we sit on the sofa, having lapsed
into a comfortable silence, suddenly I start to wonder What He Is
Thinking. My brain whirrs and ticks, reaching no conclusions. Should
be be this quiet, is he sad or worried about something? Would he tell
me if he wanted to talk, or would he bottle it up and wait for me to
thrash it out of him? Maybe if I turn my head, very casually, I might
be able to see a well of emotion threatening to burst forth from his
somewhat casual position. I'd feel awful if he was struggling to form
sentences more meaningful than I could ever understand, while I remain
engrossed in Hollyoaks. And yet, could it be.....? Surely it isn't
possible....he's not thinking......anything? Sadly girls, this is
true. I'll let you into the secret that The Boy once told me quite
confidently: most of the time, he's not thinking of anything. Not a
sausage. And in all that time I've been working myself up into a
frenzy of sympathetic, hopeful silence, he really has been watching
Hollyoaks.
My point is, it's hard to know what another person is thinking. So in
the past week, having said goodbye to a good mate forever, and watched
his body take off into the sky to be flown home, no wonder he's a
little quiter than normal on the phone. I have never worried so much
about one human person in my whole life, than I have about him in one
week. It's been a constant, low-level nausea which remains present
night and day. I've been crying about anything, even catching sight of
the picture of us together on my table next to my bed every morning. I
want to make everything all better for him and I can't. I want to give
him a hug, and tell him I'm sorry his friend died, and that I'll
always be here for him. I want to make him a cup of tea in his special
mug, and toast just the way he likes it. I want to do all the things
that don't need words, because words are clumpy and awkward and can
get in the way. Coupled with a very bad phone line with a comical time
delay, it hasn't been the best time to make him feel better.
So what do girls do when they feel like this? I found support sites,
for Army Girlfriends where other girls share everything they're going
through, and Lordy, would I recommend it. (UkForcesGirls.co.uk) Girls
also shop. But not for me, for him. Wandering round Tesco's with a
trolley, throwing in everything I can fit in a parcel that isn't me.
(I tried once, but they said I was over the weight limit. I did
explain it had been Shephard's Pie night, so there might be some
discrepancies with my true weight, but they took a firm line) So we
had sweeties, chocolate, socks, baby wipes, DVD's, more sweeties,
photos, cards, more socks and a letter. I toyed with pants (Not
have to throw me out for that again), but dismissed them because there
was a scarily large amount of choice. I wrapped it all up in a big
box, wrote his address, my address, This Way Up signs, swirls and
stars and smiley faces, and marched it down to the Post Office. On
Pension Day. Whatever training The Boy has had, I want some before I
tackle that lot of ruthless pensioners again. Anyone would think I'd
taken all their Sanatogen. After moving very slowly up and down an
endless maze of barriers, I heaved the box onto the counter and asked
the bored, spotty young girl to send it to Afghan please. I definitely
said please, and continued to be as polite as possible, even when it
transpired I had to pay extra just to get it to London. Anything for
my man, I said, and handed over a twenty. I wasn't so impressed when
she, just as politely, gave me a five pence piece change.
Having poured my helpless, useless heart into that package, I searched
for other things to do, and I found there was nothing. I hated not
being able to do anything positive, except write e-bluey after
e-bluey, always telling him how strong he is, and how much I love him,
and it's going to be so soon until he's home with me again. I hated
that he might think I wasn't doing anything, and I couldn't even talk
to him to tell him how I felt. Until during a particularly bad phone
call, I made out through the muffles and pauses that every time he
thinks of me it helps him. Just knowing I'm waiting for him. And as a
smile spread over my face, I realised just how helpful I can be
without doing anything but waiting for him. It's that patience and
strength in my waiting that keeps him going, not anything else. Me
feeling helpless isn't necessary anymore, because every day that
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