Post-Military Life

                When I initially decided to separate from the Air Force under the pregnancy clause, I decided it would be a brilliant idea to turn around and enlist in the Air Force Reserves. That way, I could retain TriCare for my family and only work part-time, which would be phenomenal with a new baby. After arriving in Washington and speaking with the in-service recruiter at Joint Base Lewis-McChord, however, the reserves unit here decided they wouldn’t take me because my last official physical fitness test was a failure. They didn’t want to set me up to fail again after joining, since I was pregnant at the time—it made sense, so I decided I’d try again a few months after having my baby.

                I stand by my decision to separate. As a breastfeeding mother, I rest easily in the knowledge that I can provide for my daughter better as a civilian than I could have as an Airman—regardless of whether or not my husband had been able to remain enlisted. At the time of my decision to separate, I didn’t know how much longer Randy would be in the military; the mental health clinic was working on the paperwork to have him go through the Medical Evaluation Board (MEB) for separation, which can take up to a year to fully process. He would have been stuck in place at Spangdahlem while I was scheduled to PCS (change bases) in August, 2014 (I would have moved right after Persephone was born). The last thing I wanted to do was get to my next base and have to worry about finding child care; I refused to take my baby to the on-base Child Development Center (CDC) with what I knew about Spangdahlem’s CDC and I sure as hell didn’t want to start screening babysitters. I generally don’t trust people.

                It has taken me some time after separating—and upon deciding to separate and getting the ball rolling to do so, it was decided that Randy’s separation would be much, much faster than an MEB because his would be an administrative discharge instead—but I have finally realized something very important about myself.

                Everything I had done with my life up to that point—short of the decisions to get married and separate from the military—I had done to impress my family and make them proud of me. Joining the military—I wanted my grandparents, particularly my grandma, to be pleased with the decision I’d made post-high-school to move forward in my life and become independent, as I’m a fiercely independent person anyway but hadn’t decided what I wanted to do, really. After joining the military, getting a bit out of shape, and deciding to get back into shape for my own happiness (it was working), I was looking at new clothes in a completely different style from what I really like. I was beginning to replace my wardrobe with jeans, scarves, nice coats (oh, they’re nice and I’m keeping them, but my intentions for how to wear them have changed), and… well, white and generally much less black. In addition to the lightening of my wardrobe, I’d grown my hair out just past my shoulders, which was, suffice to say, very much not me. I really prefer my hair short and ready to spike up at will.

This is an acceptable outfit—would be more so if the undershirt were black.

This is where my wardrobe was going—maroon and white—and the skirt is acceptable but there simply isn’t enough black, here.

                I like having a dark wardrobe. I like having black as my primary color and I like wearing dark makeup. I like looking intimidating and formidable, strong and confident. Since being denied entry to the reserve unit here at JBLM, I’ve realized I don’t particularly want to join the Reserves at all, particularly since my only real reason for doing so is for the insurance—something that we can get with the VA anyway. I’ve begun revamping my wardrobe again—this time, it should be permanent. I’ve bought some long skirts, mostly black but one brown and one green. I’ve decided I want to wear primarily black with some earthy colors as well. I want to look witchy. I want to look like I can walk into the room and cast a spell on you with a look, and I think that look is partially accomplished with long, floor-length gypsy skirts that flow nicely and drag when I go down stairs. I like looking like I could be dressed for Halloween on any day of the year, whether it’s Christmas, my birthday, or actually Halloween (although, naturally, I like to go all out with a costume for Halloween).

                Recently, I used my husband’s detail trimmers on my eyebrows without the guard. I had no idea there was a guard to prevent cutting hairs too short, and ended up nearly shaving my eyebrows off completely. The very next day, I bought an eyebrow pencil and some red lip color since I didn’t have a good one. The eyebrow pencil is dark brown but looks black, and I drew my eyebrows on and took a selfie, which I uploaded to Facebook and subsequently received more likes than I’ve ever received on any of my posts! I also got multiple comments from my guy-friends to the tune of “Wow”, like I’m really sexy and they never noticed, and the way I had my makeup that day really accentuated my look. I looked like a freaking vamp. It was amazing.

                Naturally, because I was truly pleased with it for myself, Mema simply couldn’t approve. She thought my brows were too dark with the pencil, that I’d pressed down too hard or something. The only problem I had with my drawn-on brows was that I’d drawn my right brow thicker than my left. I did much better the next day.

                So, now is the time for the ultimate point of this post.

                I have realized that I no longer care what my family thinks. I don’t give a shit if they’re impressed by what I’m doing or if they approve of my decisions, I’m going to live my life the way I want to so that I’m happy. I married a man who wants nothing more than to make me happy the way I want to be—not in a way that he approves of—because he loves me for who I am and nothing less. So, Mema thinks my brows were too dark and unnatural? Great! I’ll draw them darker and less natural next time! I’ll keep my brows nearly-completely-shaved so that I keep drawing my brows on and I might just wax them off completely to experiment with brow looks! Who knows? It’ll be fun! So, Mema doesn’t like corsets or doesn’t approve of me wearing them? I don’t care! I’ve always wanted to wear corsets and I finally have a couple of them! I’m going to wear them until they freaking break! So, my dad thinks it’s unwise of me to move into an apartment with my best friend? I don’t really care, because I’ve given it an awful lot of thought, talked a lot about it with her, her boyfriend, and my husband, and we’ve decided that it is the best decision for where we currently are in our lives.

                I’m done trying to mold myself into someone or something I’m not just to please my family. I am who I am and if they really can’t accept that, then they can see a lot less of me in the years to come. I’m grateful for everything they have done for me that has helped me in my life—I truly am—but I will no longer lie down and try changing myself to be who they want me to be, nor will I continue living so cautiously that I never take a chance to do what I’m really interested in. I’m going to leap into real estate investment while taking my medical billing specialist course and everything is going to be fucking fantastic, even if it takes a couple of years to get there.