Today would have been our anniversary.
Twenty-four years ago, we made our vows in front of a couple of friends and our seven-month-old daughter. We stood in the Justice of the Peace’s office on the second floor of a bank. I wasn’t even old enough to buy a drink. We used to joke that, in Texas, if we were out together, he could buy me one. I’d forgotten about that until today.
I’ve been thinking about him a lot, lately. Thinking about our beginning, about how confident I was in our future. Or rather, how confident I wanted to be. I loved him more than I loved myself, more than I’d love anyone, except our children.
When we met, we were barely more than kids. We did everything backwards. We started with our daughter, then figured out how to be partners. We barely knew each other when we found out we were going to be parents. Not the most ideal start to a relationship but not uncommon in the military.
I was four months pregnant before I had the courage to take a test. I think I believed that if I didn’t know for certain, I could pretend it wasn’t real. Naïve, I know. But I was 19 and terrified. I visited my sister in California and told her about my fears, about my worries. She told him I was pregnant and forgot to tell me that she’d told him. I guess that was one way to force me to confront the problem head on. And it was a confrontation when I returned from California. He was angry and hurt.
My first instinct was to end things with him. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to trap him. I wasn’t. I was just uneducated. I’d grown up in a house of shame and silence. We didn’t talk about things like birth control, and I was woefully unprepared for life as a 19-year-old girl on a military post.
As my belly grew, he’d ask what we were going to do. I always answered, “It’s not my decision. It’s yours.” I wanted him to marry me for me, not for the baby. I could raise a child on my own, but I couldn’t live with the weight of resentment if he felt forced. Looking back, I’m not sure that worked out in my favor but we tried.
I told him about the baby in July. He left for Iraq in September. Before he deployed, he gave me a ring and asked me to marry him. He’d made up his mind. In March, he came home to a ready-made family.
When he passed, we’d been married 18 and a half years. Our marriage was far from perfect. How could it be when we started out so young and scared.
I’m pretty sure he married me for the wrong reasons. But he was my husband. And I loved him, even when it was hard, even when I hated him. And I’m pretty sure he loved me, too.
It’s been sixteen years without him. I still hold onto his memory. Still consider myself married. And still, from time to time, struggle with life without him.
I wrote Bent but Not Broken to tell our story.
The story of a soldier with PTSD.
The story of the family that loved him completely. Even when it was hard.
Even when it hurt.
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