How I Met Your Mother

   I figured I would use the popular TV show title as a catchy title for what I am about to write. I decided to "put pen to paper" as they say, and write down the story of how my wife and I came to be together. I am going to leave out some events, as my perspective of them is different than others, and could cause some strife with people I don't want strife. Everything that I am going to keep in is accurate, though. And the story won't be diminished.

   My wife and I met a long, long time before we ever thought about getting together. Back when I was in first or second grade. She and another girl came and stayed with us for a week when my Dad was in college in Oklahoma. Her church sent two girls down to our state to attend a Youth Rally that our church was holding. Rather than stay in a classroom with about 10-15 other girls, sleeping in sleeping bags on a hard floor, my family opened our home to the girls so they would be more comfortable in their sleeping arrangements and have easier access to a bathroom.

   It was love at first sight! ... Not really. I was about seven or eight years old. I barely noticed her, because she was too busy to play Nintendo with me. In fact, I thought she had a boy's name. Charlie. Turns out it wasn't her name, but what some people called her, because her unique name Chaille' was hard for some people to remember. It's pronounce Shaw-lee.

  She was there or a total of five days, four nights. That's how we met. Now, it shouldn't need to be said, but I'll say it anyway. My wife is several years older than I am. That will make this next part make more sense. Also, my family used to call me "Bobby". In fact, even though I've gone by "Bob" for nearly 15 years, my immediate family still calls me "Bobby".

   Fast forward a bit. We used to see each other every now and again. Once I got old enough to join our church's youth group, my youth group used to attend her church's youth rally. In what later would be recognized as irony, my Dad used to ask Chaille' if she had a boyfriend yet. Or whatever word you want to use. I know that some people in the church world are sensitive about that. Some prefer to call it courtship, some betrothal (though not in the sense that just went through your mind). Either way, when she responded in the negative, he used to tease her, "Well, you can always wait for Bobby to grow up." Like I said. Ironic.

   Fast forward several years. She has taken some college courses. I have been to a couple different Bible colleges, for a total of three semesters. I get the offer to become an apprentice to a pastor whom I admired. It was at the church that she attended, where she helped in the home-school center. Basically, her job was to record grades, send out books, and generally keep the records straight so that home-schooling families had proof of their children's schooling.

   She was on the tail-end of a failed relationship. It's her story to tell, not mine, so I'll just give the relevant details. She and this guy had planned on getting married at some time in the future. He had to leave, and he told her that one day he would come back for her. (Spoiler: He never did.) I, on the other hand, was in what I thought at the time was a happy relationship.

   She and I got to know each other pretty well. I was told by the pastor that I worked for that I would be seeing her a lot, and so I should keep my relationship with her "just business". I had no intentions of  ever forming a relationship with her at that point. As fate would have it, however, we became pretty good friends. We worked together in a play for the upcoming youth conference that the church still held every year. So we would meet (always in a group) to practice lines. Also, one of my best friends at the time was dating her younger sister. Since I hung out with him, and he'd go over to her house, I would also go over there. We became pretty good friends.

   One day, I thought I found a parking ticket on the windshield of my car. I got angry, and looked at it closer, to see why I had gotten a ticket. Turns out it was a fake ticket, with joking things on it. I knew who it was from by my superior powers of deduction (also, she was the only other person where my car was). So, in response, I put a 3x5 card on her windshield that said, "Just Business".

   My relationship started taking a turn for the worse. Things seemed like they weren't going to work out. I talked to Chaille' about it. I was thinking of ending the relationship. She talked me into putting more work into it, and so I drove the eight or so hours down to where my then girlfriend was attending college.

   It was the perfect night for what happened. I couldn't have scripted it better had I written a screen-play. It was dark, and it was raining. I met my girlfriend on a park bench next to a single streetlight. Long story short, she broke up with me. Leaving me on a park bench in the rain, alone underneath a streetlamp. Had I not felt so bad, it would have been poetic.

   I then went to my car, unsure of what to do next. I called the person I knew would listen. Chaille'. I don't remember how long we talked. It could have been a long time, or only a few minutes. I honestly don't remember.

   I drove back to Illinois, where I picked up my job as apprentice. Chaille' and I got to be even closer friends, and I learned the story of her failed relationship. She still had hope that he was going to come back. She was also telling me to not give up on my failed relationship. Meanwhile, my relationship with the pastor I worked for began to become strained. We didn't exactly see some things eye to eye.

   She had a Camaro. A 1994 blue Camaro. She loved that thing. I rode with her to her house one day, and simply said, "You know what? I'm going to forget about <girl>, and you're going to forget about <boy>, and we're going to get married." She laughed it off. Said it would never happen. (Spoiler again: It did).

   I am going to interject a story here that has nothing to do with our relationship, but is hilarious. Two brothers (one who was dating Chaille's sister) and I took Chaille's Camaro to pick up some props for our play. One prop we picked up was a giant yellow shark. We couldn't put it into the car, so we put it on top, planning to reach out the window and hold it down. Well, the driver was able to do so. But me being on the passenger side, I had to open the door slightly as the window wouldn't roll down. I had a plastic Irish bowler hat on as a prop as well.

   So, we're driving down the road, with the driver having one hand out the window holding the shark and one on the wheel. I had one hand out the door holding the shark, and the other holding the door as closed as I could. The wind began to blow my plastic hat off, so the guy in the back reached up and held it on my head for me.

   The driver got a phone call. He said, "grab the wheel". So, I let go of the door to grab the wheel. The guy behind me reached up and held the door. So, there we were. The driver with one hand out the window holding the shark, and a cell phone in one hand. I had one hand on the wheel, and the other out my door to hold the shark. The guy in back had one hand holding my hat, and the other holding my door. We went down the road this way for a bit.

   And passed a police officer...

  Hilariously, the police officer didn't even pull us over! Looking back, he was probably too dumbfounded at the sight. Either that, or he had to open up his book of codes to know what in the world to call in. But back to the main story.

   I went to an awesome place with my buddy's family, and with Chaille's family. It was for Chaille's sister's birthday, and my buddy was planning on proposing to her. The place was called "Starved Rock", and has a lot of history behind it. I didn't care about the history so much as the fact that there was a lot of rocks and cliffs to climb. We had a good time, and my buddy ended up proposing.

   Chaille and I had a long talk that day. We both were falling in love with each other, though neither of us realized it. We decided that the feelings we were having for each other were actually the feelings that we were feeling for our failed relationships, and that we were channeling them towards each other vicariously. Yes. We used the word "vicarious".

   We performed the play. Shortly after that, the pastor I was working for and I decided to part ways. Well, he decided that we should part ways. I wasn't so sure. But I didn't have any say in the matter. I moved back to Kansas, where my family was. Before I moved back, I asked Chaille' about being in a relationship with me. She turned me down.

   I had Thanksgiving in Kansas, and borrowed my cousin's cell phone to talk to Chaille for several hours. I again tried to talk her into a relationship, and was again denied.

   I had no money and no job. I decided to pack up all my things in my tiny pickup and move back to Illinois. So I did. I stayed in my truck for a night in the cold, stayed with my cousin for a night, and then stayed with my buddy who had proposed to Chaille's sister. His parents didn't want me staying there, though, and told me to move back to Kansas.

   I got a job making pizza at a Casey's gas station. I worked there for 4 hours. I talked to Chaille', and again she rejected my attempts at forming a relationship. I decided to move back to Kansas after all. But the day I was going to leave, I got sick. So I stayed one more day with my buddy, much to his parents' chagrin.

   The next morning, my buddy asked if I wanted to go to Chaille's house to help him cut some firewood. He told me that the girls wouldn't be there. I decided to help him and then head out.

   Chaille' had earlier introduced me into the neat little symbolism of the numbers "143" meaning "I Love You". There's one letter in "I", four in "Love", and three in "You". You get the idea.

   I always wore a boot knife back then. Chaille' had once asked me what it was for. I told her that it was for protection, and without it I felt vulnerable.

   So, I decided to go all out and try one last-ditch effort on Chaille. I took my boot knife and a marker and wrote "143" on the blade. My plan was to leave it where she would find it.

   I rode with my buddy to her house, and to my joy, I saw that her car was in the driveway. I knocked on her door, and she answered the door. I didn't say a thing. I just handed her the boot knife. She opened it, and saw the numbers written on the blade. She moved forward and immediately gave me a hug and whispered, "I love you, too."

   51 weeks later we were married. We wanted to make it an exact year, but that was December 17th. The church where we were married said that it was too close to Christmas for a wedding. So we were married on December 9th, 2005.

   And that kids, is how I met your mother... or whatever.

30 May 2017

I feel like writing. I don't know about what yet. I guess I'll find out as I write.

Yesterday went decently. Went to the national cemetery and walked around with my wife and daughters. Then went to my parents' house for a cookout. The whole family was there besides my youngest sister, who was ... somewhere else. Some other state, visiting her boyfriend and his parents. I know he's from Maine, but I don't know if that's where she went.

Today has been ok, so far. It's one of my daughters' birthday. So we went and watched the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. Dead Men Tell No Tales. It was ok. I won't spoil anything here.

I've got an appointment with audiology in the morning. Going to be evaluated for hearing aids. A part of me wonders that if I could hear better, if I would be less anxious in crowds. On that note, I need to go to the DMV. My doctor filled out a paper allowing me to get handicapped something. I'm not sure if it's a hangar or plates. I don't need to use handicapped parking always, though. My knee only hurts bad enough to use the handicapped parking about two or three times a month.

I won't feel bad when I do have to use it, though. I generally park at least halfway down a parking lot at the store. It's been a habit for me for a long time. My sister once asked me why I did so. I responded with, "I have two good legs, and can walk. Some people aren't so lucky."

I'm in kind of a weird mood tonight. I'm not happy. But I'm not sad, anxious, or depressed either. Could be my meds. I took my Mirtazapine last night. Probably having an effect on me.

I've been thinking of this blog, and its purpose. While this blog is for me, with the attention that my last post received, I've realized that other people will likely be looking through it, too. And as I believe I said in my first post, maybe one day this will be a triumphant story of an overcomer.

I was speaking to someone on Skype. They said that the blog would be good for people trying to overcome things of their own. The reason is, you look at someone who overcame. And it's hard to relate to them. Because they're writing a book, or a motivational speech, or whatever; but they're writing it after the fact. They are writing what they went through from the perspective of someone on the other side.

This blog is different. It's being written in the moment. Not from someone who has overcome. But from someone who is living it. Someone who is going through it right now.

So, when someone is going through something, and they read my blog, they'll see the pain and suffering as I live it. Not as I lived it before.

The biggest problem I have with a blog though, is that people will land on the last post if they visit the site. I wish they could be immediately directed to the first post, to read through and see the changes as they happen. It's kind of like my above rant. If they see only the last post, they might think the whole thing is written from the perspective of however I am in that post.

Well. I think I'm done rambling. I have another thing to talk about, but it'll likely be a whole post on its own. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe five minutes from now. Who knows.

 - Sapper Woody

...his wife.

29 May 217

Today is Memorial Day. It's roughly 0200 as I'm typing this words, and watching them appear on my screen.

I once talked to a 1SG of mine whose name I won't mention because I don't have his permission to. He suffered from PTSD. He told me how when he came back from a deployment, he was torn up. He was drunk almost every night and almost lost his marriage. I asked him how he managed things, and he gave me some interesting advice.

He told me that he allowed himself a couple of "bad" days a year. Days where he would take a six pack to the grave of his lost soldiers and just cry. Get it all out at once. Then, when he starts to break down, he just looks forward to and reminds himself that there's a day coming when he will let it all out again.

I've tried to do that myself. It hasn't had as much success for me as it has him. Different people respond to different things. But, in an attempt, I've allowed myself three "bad" days in the year. Memorial Day, Veteran's Day, and October 15th. I won't go into why October 15th here. That's not the purpose of this post.

I was thinking of shaving my beard and trimming my hair to acceptable AR 670-1 standards, wearing my dress blues, and going to the local national cemetery tomorrow. And that got me thinking of another time I visited a national cemetery. And I want this blog post to be a happy one. So we're going to talk about that visit.

The tombstones at this cemetery had the usual markings. Rank, name, DOB and DOD. But in this cemetery the wives of the veterans were buried on the other side of the tombstone. And the inscription over the wife was, "his wife".

At first I was appalled by it. That the wife would get just those two words. His wife. Then I started thinking, and I pointed it out to my wife. Those two words, to some may not mean anything. But, to those who know, it means so much more.

If they were to attempt to put a description of who that person was, it would take up three or four tombstones. Supporter. Lover. Mother of his children. Financial Planner. Caregiver. Listening Ear. Patient. Someone who could hold a house together while he was away for six, nine, twelve, fifteen months, or more. Someone who didn't kick him when he was down. Someone who shared his darkest secrets that he couldn't tell anyone else. Someone who loved the person he was, yet pushed him to be the person he could be. Someone who stayed with him, despite all the troubles of a normal household, much less a military household. The woman who had to keep it all together when he was either absent, or couldn't keep it together himself. Someone who welcomed him home, and helped him through the transition from deployment to garrison life. Someone who held him when the nightmares started. Someone who calmed him when the thunder woke him up. Someone who understood when he was startled and acted out of training. Someone who acted as a liaison to help him reconnect with his children, who didn't know him when he returned from deployment. Someone who loved him, despite the changes that occurred while he was away. Someone who kept their marriage vows to him despite the hardships. Someone who showed him the good side of life when he could only see the bad.

So, yeah. "His Wife". Two simple words, that mean so much more. Those two words are the simplest, yet most profound things to read on a tombstone.

23 April 2017

   Exactly a month since my last post. I know you've been waiting with baited breath, checking my site every day to see if I had posted again. But I warned you in the beginning. I will post when I feel like it. And I haven't felt like it.

   Truth is, I've been taking my meds. Yay! Right? No. My meds have been having me sleep for literally about fourteen hours a day. I haven't been to school in weeks. It's safe to assume I've failed all my classes this semester.

   Except I do feel the need to point out that one of my professors has called me to check up on me. She's awesome. She even offered me a way to pass the class. I'm hoping to take her up on it, though I honestly don't know if I'll be able to.

   I'm trying to figure out how to finish school, as I'll likely be dropped out of the program I was using for funding. I'm hoping that I can use my GI Bill. I've been on a chapter 31 vocational rehab up until now.

   And I don't feel like writing any more. So, guess you'll have to wait until I do.

- Sapper Woody

23 March 2017

   So, I've failed again. Or, most likely I have. It's almost 100% for sure. I'll find out tomorrow for sure. It's very likely that when I wake up in the morning (wake up? yeah right. I'm not sleeping tonight) that I'll have no job. Again. For the ... sixth? time since I left the Army in late 2014.

   Let's see. The hydraulic pump factory, the cable place, taco bell, refereeing basketball, the lawn mower shop the first time, and then the lawn mower shop again. Yep. Six jobs I couldn't keep. 28 months, 6 jobs I've lost. That's an average of 4.67 months per job. And that's not counting the time spent on unemployment. Take out those months, and we're looking at right around 4 months per job.

   Yeah. There's a winner.

   On Tuesday, my boss told me that he understands that I'm going through issues. Side bar rant here: No. You don't. Unless you've lived with it, felt its effects, seen or lived the issues firsthand, you have no stinking clue.

   Unless you've been there for the sleepless nights, the accidentally sleeping all day, the panic when you hear a loud noise, the anxiety of being in a crowd, the depression of knowing that you can't do normal things, the looking over your shoulder and completely missing your daughter's birthday party at the restaurant, the having your kids know that they have to ask you if they can hug you because they know you can't be touched by surprise, the guilt at accidentally punching a co-worker because he placed his hand on your shoulder when you were having flashbacks, the screaming in the night in terror at nightmares...

   You know what? I don't feel like posting anymore.

   - Sapper Woody

18 March 2017

    So, it's been about two weeks since my last post. That's been due to many reasons. Mostly because I didn't feel like it. After all, this is for me.

    I should have posted, though. Maybe I would have felt better. It's not a long story, but it's a dark one. But, I feel like telling it. So here goes.

   I had my deal with my fugue state that I talked about before, and then I just spiraled down from there. Things got bad. Nightly bad. I won't go into the details, but more than once I thought about surrendering my firearms to my dad.

   I have to interject here. Some people would immediately think, "Why the heck do you have firearms in your state?!". Screw you, first off. That's my business. Secondly, since I feel like explaining, when I think I need to surrender my firearms is way before I would actually do something to end my life. I think of giving them up when I think there's even a remote possibility I may have the thought to harm myself.

    Thirdly, do you honestly think not having firearms would stop me? I literally laugh out loud at the thought that it would. If I were to kill myself, I wouldn't choose a gun to do so. Too messy and traumatic for my family. Besides, without the guns, there's still pills, drowning, strangulation, car wrecks, falls, and this new thing called veins in your wrist. So, getting rid of guns to stop someone is laughably stupid.

   I think if I ever surrender my weapons to someone else, that'll be my cry for help. Kind of like, "I'm getting serious about this. Get me some help" kind of thing. So, if I do surrender my weapons, you can bet it's serious; but not that I was thinking of using them. Too messy.

   Anyway, I was depressed. Still am, actually. Trying to recover. But I listened to myself singing "American Soldier" on YouTube, and that didn't help. Just reminded me of what I've lost. I loved being a soldier.

   I'm still a soldier. That's the problem. I can't stop being a soldier. If I could, maybe I could be 'regular'. Maybe I could look at a woman in a hijab and not be reminded of the wars. Maybe I could see some wires across a sidewalk and not think that I need to cordon off the area. Maybe I could sit with my back to a door. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

   But, imagine a doctor, if you will. He spends years training to diagnose people. He practices medicine. Then he retires. Now, if that doctor sees a man limping down the street, his mind will diagnose that man. Or if he sees a person bleeding, he will help. He can't help but be a doctor.

   Now, imagine a soldier. Spending the hourly equivalent of a bachelor's degree in training for his job, crammed into a few months. Real immersion training. He's trained to spot threats. He's trained that a person wearing certain types of clothing may be hiding a bomb. He's trained to notice if a cargo truck is riding low on it's springs. He's trained to watch all avenues of an approaching threat. He's trained to keep an eye out for snipers. He's trained to look for disturbed earth.

   Now, take that soldier, trained in that fashion, and throw him into a warzone. For however long, I don't care. 6 months, 12 months, 15 months. (In my case, I did 12 months in Iraq, and 13 in Afghanistan.) Where every day, he has to use that training to keep himself alive. Where he has to sometimes sleep outside with his gear on for fear of attack. Where there has to be someone on watch at all times. Where one false step on the ground can be your last. Where stepping on a crack or not stepping on a crack could mean the difference between seeing your family again or going home in a body bag.

   Let him retire. Suddenly, he's expected to not be what he is, but it's ok for the doctor!? Double standard much?! People EXPECT the doctor to retain his hard taught skills, but they expect the EXACT SAME OPPOSITE of a soldier?! How does that make sense?

   I'll tell you: It doesn't. But that's the reality I face. But yet no one thinks anything of it. "Oh, you used to be a plumber, could you look at my toilet?" "Oh, you used to be an electrician, can you take a look at my stove?" "Oh, you used to be a lawyer, could you give me legal advice?" BUT "Oh, you used to be a soldier. Stop it."

   Now I've gotten all worked up and sidetracked. You'll have to wait to hear about the rest of my two weeks, dangit.

   - Sapper Woody

04 March 2017

   Nothing hurts quite as bad as when someone kicks you while you're down, thinking that they're helping you. And the people closest to you have the greatest potential to hurt you. Combine the two and that is a recipe for disaster.

   Today, I went into a fugue state. As near as I can tell, while in this state I left for work, but instead of going to work I pulled off into a parking lot and slept. I awoke to someone pounding on my window.

   It was my father, and he was pretty mad with me. I could easily tell, because he said the word "crap". While I was still trying to get my bearings, he began yelling at me. He had the audacity to remind me that I was hurting him. He said that there was no excuse, and the only answer he would accept was that I was too lazy to go to work and provide for my family.

   I'm not sure how, but somehow he had gotten my keys from my car, and I couldn't just drive away. I told him to give them back. He didn't, and it was probably a good thing, as I was still out of it and trying to get my bearings. I even had the thought of forcefully taking my keys from him. He is a former prison guard, and probably sensed this, because he got real close to my door where I couldn't easily take any action.

   ---

   I stopped typing there for about an hour. I was going to call the crisis hotline, but called a friend instead. One who knew my wife was looking for me. I found out from him that my wife had received word this morning that her grandma had died. I'm not good at consolation, but I tried anyway. It's hard to be good at consoling people when you're a non-empathetic robot. Hopefully I helped. I held her while she cried for a bit. I think that helps people.

   I also called my dad. As much as I want to avoid him, I'm going to face this thing head on. My family is leaving soon to go over to my parent's house, where I'll help my dad do some work. Then he and I will go to practice. We sing in a quartet together. We're both tenors, but I'm a higher tenor. It works out since our lead is a baritone. So we pitch the music lower, and then my dad sings the tenor, while I sing the baritone part an octave higher.

   Keep your fingers crossed...

   - Sapper Woody