When Half Your Heart Isn’t Home
I used to be an independent person. I went out of state for college. I moved across the country by myself to start a career in a town and state I had never before visited. I once even checked into the hospital for surgery alone. Though I griped and groaned along the way, I faced each challenge head-on. I took a great deal of pride in embodying what I thought to be a strong, independent woman. After all, the only person I really had to worry about was me. Then I fell in love with an active duty service member of the United States Marine Corps, and life changed.
I swore to my family that I knew what I was getting into when he asked me to marry him. I promised my friends that I would be okay, that I would be able to handle the military life. I thanked them for their concern because I knew it came from a place of love, and then reminded them of my strength. Oh, if only I could sit down with my naïve self and a cup of coffee. Or maybe wine — and some tissues.
Because here is the key: I used to be an independent person.
I never imagined that I would be giving away a huge chunk of myself. And that chunk is gone for days, weeks, months at a time. That chunk travels across the country, and even halfway around the world. In our three and a half years of marriage, my husband has been on three deployments and multiple trainings. We’ve spent almost half of our marriage apart. Does your brain swirl at that statement? Mine does.
I am fortunate to have a man whom is both spouse and best friend, whom has taken my heart and promised to care for it for all of my days. I know this. Deep in the root of my soul, I understand that by finding this one person I have something many people may never have. I am not complaining; but I am also not predisposed to this new normal. I used to be an independent person. It is challenging to frequently have a piece of my life — a piece of myself — missing.
How do you do it? It’s the question I am most often asked when people first learn that my husband is in the military. I usually smile and say that I’m still learning, all the while wondering if people can see through the façade. The truth is I have no idea — not a single clue. I have no modicum of knowledge of how to navigate this lifestyle. Because I used to be an independent person — and I’m not that person anymore.
I have taken half of my being and willingly handed it to someone whom can leave at a moment’s notice. I have signed on to spending significant moments of my life — our life together — apart from my husband. I am hopeful that we will be able to spend most holidays and birthdays together during his time in the service. Two years ago, we decided we wanted a family. I am hopeful that we will be blessed with a child. Will those things actually happen?
Maybe… maybe not.
But though those hopes are important, they cannot compare to the one hope that I live every single day: that he will come home safely. I always hope he will come home alive. When I took my vows, though I told myself it would be hard — though I promised my family and friends I was prepared to handle this lifestyle — the one thing I didn’t allow myself to absorb was the possibility that being a U.S. Marine could claim his life.
That is now something which hovers at the back of my mind. It is the small voice that whispers, will he be coming home? It’s the momentary twinge when I see an elderly couple still together, still in love. It’s the swell of affection when I see my husband light up around kids because I know he will be a good father. It is the cringe I feel at wondering if our future kids will grow up with a father. It is the black hole in the pit of my stomach when I have to first ask myself, will we even have a chance to start that family which we want so much? It’s been two years since we started trying; so far, we haven’t had any luck.
My husband’s military service is the driving urge to always tell him that I love him, and never let him leave without kissing me goodbye. It’s the little voice that reminds me, you never know which kiss will be the last one. And it is constant.
Oh, if I could have that cup of coffee with my naïve self, or a glass of wine. I would definitely need the tissues. I would tell myself that though I think I’m strong, I’m going to need help. I would urge myself to remember I’m going to need friends, family, coworkers, and other military spouses. I would remind myself to keep faith. And I would tell myself to not kick myself in the pants when I make mistakes. (I am quite proficient at mistakes.) After all, I did claim I was prepared to be a military spouse. At least, I thought I was. But would I tell myself that I would be giving up my independence? Never. Because that is a truly terrifying thing.
Wise advice says that your happiness should never depend upon another person. In many ways, I agree. It is impossible to be satisfied with a relationship if you are not content with yourself. I had a career, a dog, and a life. I was okay. The thing that I was missing, and the thing I desired most, was a companion for that life. I got what I wanted — I just didn’t realize I would have to give up part of me to have it.
Should I have prepared myself better? Should I have somehow known what I was getting myself into when I agreed to marry a U.S. Marine? I once was privy to a wise tidbit from another military spouse: do we ever really know what we are getting into when we get married, military or otherwise? Marriage itself is a challenging thing — for all couples. Despite my fondness for research, I didn’t bother to hunt down military spouses and ask them what this life is like. If I had, I am not sure it would have helped. It can be hard to understand something without living it; it is my personal opinion that the military lifestyle is one of those things.
I used to be an independent person, and then I fell in love with a U.S. Marine. Now part of me wears a uniform. I, alone, will never be whole again; my happy place is in my husband’s arms. The most comforting sound to me is my husband’s heartbeat. When he is gone, the silence is deafening.
To live the life of a military spouse is to know I have to live with the understanding that if I lose him, I will irrevocably lose a part of me. I have been able to shove that fear into a dark corner of my mind and erect a wall so it doesn’t overtake me, but it’s always there. It seems unfair until I remind myself of one thing: my husband used to be an independent person, too. I hold part of him, just as he holds part of me. These small pieces of each other are our most treasured possessions — and I would not have it any other way.
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