On growing up...

Somewhere in the midst of completing my bachelors degree and planning my future with the peace corps I landed on him. The antithesis of everything I knew and loved, the strong to my soft, the solid to my wild. I was the sequins and glitter to his blood covered army uniform.

Our love was passionate, reckless, unimaginable... our love was.. young. We met the same night I had my first legal drink. I had experienced much more than one drink that night; one hit, one hookup with an ex, one long puking session because I was an immature yuppie on a juice cleanse and thought I could handle a party. But as I sat propped up in bed that night, my room spinning yet only illuminated by the light of my phone, I responded to an unassuming POF message.

To this stranger I showed my world, and in turn he showed me his. From demure local art shows, to the walk of shame after being escorted from military barracks. From salmon fishing, shooting guns, and shot gunning beers to pedicures, plush massages, and passing love notes via text.

The "I will", "I do", and "I still do" came in alarming succession.. but I was happy as a clam to be the sidekick to my best friend.

As a college aged student I never considered myself to be an army wife. I had bigger fish to fry; such as how to pass a class I forgot I was in, how to cram eight hours of studying into thirty minutes, and how many more ice creams I could eat from the dining hall until I turned into one. I was a typical student with a guilty little secret... I was married.

What were classified as carefree days blended into gut wrenching nights of discussing funeral plans, life insurance information, and dividing up assets as we prepared for his impending deployment. In my darkest days I lasted one week as a metriculated military wife before I dropped out of school, it was the easiest, and most regrettable, decision I have ever made. As I slunk deeper into my pit of despair, losing every friend I had made in my life, I clung to the notion that he would come home. And that we would live happily ever after.

He did come home. Safe... but not sound. At a rapid pace the next seven years were a roller coaster. Medical retirement from the military for him, lackluster entry level employment for me. Undiagnosed (at the time) severe PTSD for him, diagnosed depression for me. We had the highest of highs, blazing through the dunes of Sedona; to the lowest of lows, passionate screaming of how different we expected our lives to be. We fought tooth and nail to stay together despite the odds. Moving cross country to start over together, a vastly romanticized idea.

But sometimes we don't win. Sometimes it's easier to tell your sidekick that you need to be a solo act; despite your eyes welling up and throat swelling shut.

When there's no more slamming of doors, only gentle compassionate voices sorting through a life together, I knew it was time.

So I lost my best friend. I lost my only friend. And I started to become myself again

Submitted June 03, 2018 at 08:01PM by SidekickToSavage https://ift.tt/2JpT0uX