My Fucking Hole

So... a hole. I've found, in recent weeks, I can dig a big ass hole. I can throw myself straight into this hole (I keep wanting to type "whole"... what am I, an idiot?), make a bed, and maybe work a bit of a pillow into the dirt that I affectionately call "my fucking hole". Ahh yes... My Fucking Hole... I must use the proper capitalization. My Hole deserves it. So... back to the point... if I ever get there... I sat in my hole, watching Without a Trace, eating Lean Cuisine and Peanut Butter on a spoon (I fell off the wagon), working out (only thing that kept me from sleeping all day), and feeling sorry for myself in between. But, I started weaving a rope. This rope would later help me escape my Hole, but it broke a few times first (it was made from my hair... it's not that strong.. and from the many words of encouragement I am afforded). So, after a few failures, one nasty bump on my ass, and premature balding on one side of my head, I made it out of said Hole. It still follows me around, though... This Fucking Hole probably follows behind many of you. So, I'm armed with a "sexy set of collar bones", and a good feeling I'll be seeing Matthew in about 3 months... give or take a week.
Anyway, it feels good... to be back to the numbness that is this life. Yes, the numbness is comfortable... lonely, yes, but familiar.

My Mama helps a ton... and I thank her a trillion tons. So, here's to my Mama... isn't she gorgeous?

Support: a one-way street?

Support: a one-way street? Current mood: silent
I want to blog. I need to blog... but a good blog escapes my mind.
Support... is hard to ask for... I refuse to beg.
Support is easy to accept.
Support shouldn't be so hard to offer.
It is easy to give... it is so fucking simple.
I'm missing things... numerous things. Aside from the obvious, I'm missing certain company I used to be afforded. It's just gone. I am at a loss at how to get it back... you see, I'm not sure how I lost it. It claims to still be there, but it's obviously different. It's forced... it's there out of obligation, not desire.
I miss it terribly.
I miss Matt, also. So bad my eyes burn, but do not tear, thinking of his hand. The tears well up, and recede. They wait for another day. Another day when I'm not so exhausted from other (more stressful and confusing) delimas. So emotionally drained I don't even want to cry.... for fear I might not stop.
Not having the answer.. fucking sucks.

Silence can be fucking deafening. It's worse when no one hears you screaming.

life's little quirks

I've fallen into a particularly disturbing pattern. A pattern of self-pity. I hate it. I really can't even describe it on paper... which is just as disturbing. I don't even want to; it would make it real. It would make this last week real... but this isn't real life. I don't live a "real person's" life. I live a life most don't know about... they hear about it, but don't talk about it. They make their "contributions"... little yellow magnets tacked on their cars... Red Fridays... "thank your husband for his service" comments. I'm still wondering if anyone thinks about those left behind, and their "service". I can see it... the look I get from people who live outside of this war. It's a look full of disbelief, and pity. They don't believe this is actually happening. I remember, I was one of those people. It wasn't "real", then. Now, it's just a nightmare. It's a nightmare that's got 4 months left... it's a nightmare where I can't freaking sleep if not just to dream. It's a fucking nightmare. I just want to dream for a while.

my review of Pirates, Dead Man's Chest, movie

I'll let this guy say it for me... speak Ninja! (it's long, but funny)
..>

too little too late

What's the appropriate wallowing time? one week? a few days? I hope I don't exceed some set standard. I feel like the "Wild Nights" marathon (on Discovery you freaks) was far too much wallowing yesterday. The 15 days before he got home... a freaking eternity... the 15 days he was home... never long enough... 15 days feels like a small appetizer when you're starving for a 15oz. Ribeye because you haven't eaten all day... or in 8 months. Although, it was grand... let it not be overshadowed by one wife's whining. It was grand. It was nice to jump right back into our "tease/love each other constantly" routine. I can't believe I've lived this long without him... I can't believe I must live longer, without him. I can't believe a lot of things. Most of all... I can't believe myself sometimes.
This is my life, and I live for this life (obviously). I wonder sometimes if he got out of the Army... how I wouldn't be an "Army Wife" anymore... a fact many t-shirts I have shout to any passer-by. What t-shirts am I going to get now?? Crap.
Deployment... so many stages of it. It's impossible to relate if you've never experienced it. Now, thinking about each moment without him, is too impossible... too impossible. Too surreal... Now, I know. Now, I know what every moment feels like when he is away. There are no "good" byes... it was a long, hard, "bad" bye... harder than the first. The reality was there, and now it is here, eating a hole in my stomach lining. It fucking hurts.

Pictures: www.dropshots.com/vmcgraw