You know that supergirl act I've been pulling for the past, oh, 32 years? I think I just got over it. I've been an absolute wreck for the past few weeks, and quite frankly, I'm tired of pretending like everything is fine when it absolutely is not.
War is hell. And the reason it's such hell for me is that war, this war in particular, has been the first real evidence of my own mortality, and a time to parse truth from fiction. The appearance of my own good fortune until this point is not lost on me. I have a wonderful husband, the best friends I could ever dream of, a very comfortable life, a dependable job, and the amazing freedoms that come with American citizenship.
Or do I really have those things? And if I do have them, are they alone enough to look back and say that I feel a sense of satisfaction for what I have accomplished? Do they matter? I can't answer any of that, perhaps because pessimism leaks from my pores and chokes me mid-sentence. My pessimism always seems to be introspection on my own life and my own set of circumstances...don't be fooled - it's about me, not about anyone else. If I met someone else who appeared to me to be living under a four-leaf clover, I would be impressed. For me, the chronic perfectionist, it (whatever it is at the moment) just never seems to be good enough, and I hate that about myself sometimes. Being out here has been a wonderful experience because external circumstances have provided me with real reminders of all the things I can do. And even still, all it takes is one person who I trust to second-guess one of my decisions and I shatter like a mirror. There went my cape.
Maybe it happens because I have such unreasonably high standards for myself, but other people are sometimes afraid to tell me bad news because I think they fear my emotional sledgehammer. Valid fear. So instead, and especially when I'm out here, I find only the care-free news (rainbows and butterflies, anyone?) makes its way to Afghanistan in a timely manner.
One week ago I found out my little sister is pregnant. Thirty weeks pregnant, in fact, with twins, and under a complex set of circumstances. Again, see above. Any news that might be considered either bad or emotionally difficult is shielded from me. I don't have the emotional energy for secrets out here, or really anywhere, but especially not here. I found out by email, after directly asking the question (call it intuition) for several months with no response. Perhaps the more appalling thing was that everyone in my family (and extended family) knew...except for me. I was apparently too fragile. There might be some truth there.
So today's reflection is on versions of the truth. Out here, there aren't versions of truth. There's either a threat, or there isn't. You either fired your weapon, or you didn't. You are either alive, or you aren't. And there's something mesmerizing about the black and whiteness of it all.
Real life isn't black and white like our lives are at war, and in my mind I'm struggling to shed that monochromatic filter of the warzone to appreciate the vibrant experiences of everyday life. For someone who appears on the outside to ooze with self confidence, I sure can manage to get under my own skin. And writing about it, well, that's my way of losing these walking blues.
War is hell. And the reason it's such hell for me is that war, this war in particular, has been the first real evidence of my own mortality, and a time to parse truth from fiction. The appearance of my own good fortune until this point is not lost on me. I have a wonderful husband, the best friends I could ever dream of, a very comfortable life, a dependable job, and the amazing freedoms that come with American citizenship.
Or do I really have those things? And if I do have them, are they alone enough to look back and say that I feel a sense of satisfaction for what I have accomplished? Do they matter? I can't answer any of that, perhaps because pessimism leaks from my pores and chokes me mid-sentence. My pessimism always seems to be introspection on my own life and my own set of circumstances...don't be fooled - it's about me, not about anyone else. If I met someone else who appeared to me to be living under a four-leaf clover, I would be impressed. For me, the chronic perfectionist, it (whatever it is at the moment) just never seems to be good enough, and I hate that about myself sometimes. Being out here has been a wonderful experience because external circumstances have provided me with real reminders of all the things I can do. And even still, all it takes is one person who I trust to second-guess one of my decisions and I shatter like a mirror. There went my cape.
Maybe it happens because I have such unreasonably high standards for myself, but other people are sometimes afraid to tell me bad news because I think they fear my emotional sledgehammer. Valid fear. So instead, and especially when I'm out here, I find only the care-free news (rainbows and butterflies, anyone?) makes its way to Afghanistan in a timely manner.
One week ago I found out my little sister is pregnant. Thirty weeks pregnant, in fact, with twins, and under a complex set of circumstances. Again, see above. Any news that might be considered either bad or emotionally difficult is shielded from me. I don't have the emotional energy for secrets out here, or really anywhere, but especially not here. I found out by email, after directly asking the question (call it intuition) for several months with no response. Perhaps the more appalling thing was that everyone in my family (and extended family) knew...except for me. I was apparently too fragile. There might be some truth there.
So today's reflection is on versions of the truth. Out here, there aren't versions of truth. There's either a threat, or there isn't. You either fired your weapon, or you didn't. You are either alive, or you aren't. And there's something mesmerizing about the black and whiteness of it all.
Real life isn't black and white like our lives are at war, and in my mind I'm struggling to shed that monochromatic filter of the warzone to appreciate the vibrant experiences of everyday life. For someone who appears on the outside to ooze with self confidence, I sure can manage to get under my own skin. And writing about it, well, that's my way of losing these walking blues.
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