Never Arrive: A Memoir

Everyone wants a success story. Celebrities publish memoirs every day, it seems, detailing some period of time in their lives when they worked hard and achieved something. They arrived.

I was enlisted in the U.S. Air Force, as any reader who has been with me over the life of my blog will know. When I think of success-story memoirs, and of success stories in general, the words of my Military Training Instructor (MTI) come back to me:

"Never arrive."

Staff Sergeant Massey imparted those words to us as bits of advice on our last day of Basic Military Training (BMT), as we boarded buses to go to our technical training locations. Mine was headed to Wichita Falls, Texas. Just a bus ride from where we were in San Antonio.

He had explained to us that many trainees, upon arriving at their tech school or even their permanent duty station, would feel as though they'd made it, as if they'd arrived. That feeling of arrival was their downfall - they got comfortable, and they made mistakes that proved fatal to their careers.

He told us to never arrive.

So, it never once occurred to me that I should write a memoir - least of all one that would focus on success and achievement. But now I'm in an upper-level English class and the assignment is exactly that.

And here's the thing:

I haven't arrived.

This upper-level English class is part of a program I'm in now to earn my Bachelor's Degree for Exercise, Fitness, and Nutrition Science. Still working, still studying, grinding through every obstacle in my way.

I'm forced to look back on my life. My brain is immediately flooded with the thought: "I'm not ready to write this story. I haven't reached success yet." Upon reflection, I have succeeded in multiple endeavors.

With each achievement, each accomplishment, each "success," I never once felt as though I'd reached the summit, so to speak.

For the purposes of this assignment, I'm looking back on BMT, with MTI Sgt Massey telling us never to arrive. That we should never feel as though we'd completed our journey, never get comfortable.

The advice came at the end of the most arduous and bewildering eight weeks of my life, which started late at night on December 28, 2010.

The first night, we were asked if we had ever played an instrument or had rhythm. Having played clarinet for five years, I naturally raised my hand - and, along with all others who did so, I was sorted into a band flight. There were two of us - a male flight and a female flight.

The first night, I cried when we went to bed, like so many others. I wondered what I'd really gotten myself into - if I could really handle what I'd signed up for.

Basic Military Training was an absolute nightmare in which we lived by the week - Sunday to Sunday. If you go into the military without religion, you find one to join while you're in BMT, just to get out of the barracks and be spoken to like a person rather than low-grade single-use plastic-mixed materials (garbage).

The only days in which I had any sense of bearing were Sundays. Sunday held the illusion of freedom - we had the choice to go to any religious service we wanted. Most weeks, I chose the Wiccan service, but there was one week I chose the Muslim service, and another week I added Bible Study to my week as an excuse to leave the dorm an extra time - only to be totally disappointed by it anyway.

Day-to-day operations were a mysterious fog. We marched from location to location. We went up and down the stairs as fast as possible while making sure to hold the handrail at all times, Trainee! We formed up at the bottom of the stairs outside, under an overhang large enough to conduct drill movements and PT and stay out of any rain.

We had band practice at least a couple times a week. I was assigned cymbals - an instrument I'd never played, but quickly got used to, and for which I credit my rapid improvements with push-ups. We had classes to attend and materials we needed to study.

We had time each week, if not each night, to write letters to people close to us. We had time each week to call someone close to us.

It never clicked to me what our schedule was. Hour to hour, I as clueless as to what the plan for the day was, and only knew the current activity, if not the next activity as well (if I were lucky).

Adding to my bewilderment, I was accused of having no integrity. I was accused of lying. I was berated for "having an attitude" when attempting to add input to a discussion among others in my flight.

When we met our MTI, Staff Sergeant Massey, I was petrified. The fear never went away - not even at the very end after we'd said our good-byes and gone on our ways.

He always said my name wrong. I'm not sure if he ever heard me correct him; he seemed unable to hear me any time I spoke to him, but at the time it felt as though he deliberately ignored what I tried to say - which added up in my mind as a typical experience of BMT that I should grit myself to endure.

Sgt Massey told us early on that his "worst trainees" would always write him letters to tell him how much they appreciated him, and so on.

I'm not sure how accurate my perception is, but I felt as though he disliked me the most in my flight.

Never in my life have I humiliated myself or been humiliated the way I was during BMT. These are details I won't share today because they are still humiliating to air.

Ultimately, I vowed never to be the kind of trainee to write back to my MTI. No, thank you.

I was fired from two important jobs I had been given - and these were humiliating revocations of responsibility. They were things that I had a knack for, and for which I did not fall in line enough when doing. I was even given an opportunity to use my greatest talent and skill - my art - and I fucked it up.

It's amazing I made it through at all.

It's a goddamn miracle I didn't get recycled.

Recycling happened when someone was held back for a week. Essentially, while the rest of their flight would move on to the next week of studies, practices, etc., a trainee would be held back in the same week, if not a previous week, and join another flight at that week's level of training. Some people were recycled two weeks back or more.

I held on. That's it. I held on, and I did my best to keep up and stay on track.

Through sheer grit and perseverance, I made it through. I earned my Airman's coin.

Prior to enlisting in the Air Force, and in fact, prior to high school, I practiced mixed martial arts. It was there that I learned about perseverance and the indomitable spirit. That was what I carried with me to sustain me in BMT. My MTI review at the end was upsetting to me, but I never got sent backwards in training.

My MTI's words stuck with me in tech school and even when I went to my permanent duty station in Germany. "Never arrive." Never get comfortable. It's what had me hitting the ground running, ready to move forward and excel as an Airman.

It's what has me continuing my education and continuing to seek a meaningful and impactful career that will bring me joy as well as enough wealth to thrive.

There is no arrival. There are only stepping stones.

Epiphany

I went through my file, Wednesday.

Now, you might be asking, “What file?” to which I respond, “The file of my life.”

It is exactly what it sounds like. It is a file, the kind you find in a file cabinet, filled to bursting with records and rewards, documenting my life.

I was looking for my immunization records because the Evergreen State College requires them. While digging through my file in my search, I found many other things that tell an interesting story about me—more interesting than I’ve ever given myself credit for.

There’s something about seeing an accomplishment written on paper—by someone else—that finally made it click in my mind that maybe, just maybe, I actually had accomplished something in my life. Maybe—just fucking maybe—I wasn’t a complete piece of shit, after all.

Ever since my diagnosis from the VA of “major depressive disorder,” it’s been a far more real and difficult battle than I’ve previously encountered. Fresh out of the military—thrown into adult life as a civilian with absolutely nothing—in addition to a brand-new baby and post-partum depression, along with the feeling that waiting simply wasn’t an option…

I’ve felt like a fuck-up since the day I set foot into the operational Air Force, but that feeling was the feeling of success compared to the feeling of utter failure I’ve felt since the day I separated.

But, then, I went through my file and found certificates of achievement, one after another.

Bethel High School Cultural Fair, Most Informative Booth: GSA Booth, Aleashia DeLaVergne.

Bethel High School Cultural Fair, Best Visual Display: GSA Booth, Aleashia DeLaVergne

Bethel High School Cultural Fair…

I think I have 5 different awards for “best booth” in one form or another from my sophomore year in the GSA club. My booth was about equal rights for the LGBT community and it displayed the violence perpetrated against gay people, particularly gay men and even more particularly, Matthew Shepard, whose story was the most detailed one I could find.

Lenderman’s Academy of Martial Arts… awards Aleashia DeLaVergne… yellow belt… orange belt… purple belt… green belt… first blue belt… second blue belt… first red belt.

Each belt is an accomplishment. I completed the requirements as a white belt to earn my yellow belt. I completed the requirements as a yellow belt to earn my orange belt. I completed the requirements as an orange belt to earn my purple belt, and so on until I earned my first red belt.

All this time, I’ve focused on how I hurt myself because of how badly Sifu had pressured me. I’ve focused on how hurting myself caused me to quit martial arts before I could earn my second red belt. Before I could earn my first or second brown belt; before I could earn my black belt. I wanted my black belt… I still do.

Then, finally…

I saw my reviews from National History Day, written by the judges of my performance, which I had the opportunity to perform twice at the regional competition. They all say such positive things—“Well done.” “Voicing the American People was a brave choice.” “Smooth character transitions.” “Well done.” “Good voice.” “I learned a lot from your performance.”

All this time, I’ve focused so hard on how I didn’t make it to the state competition. I was so focused on getting all the way to State—hopefully even Nationals—that when I didn’t make it past Regionals, I broke down. I remember—and now, when I remember the event, I am filled with humiliation, but at the time, I couldn’t have been bothered with embarrassment—exactly how I practically hyperventilated, I was crying so hard and so insistently. I remember distinctly how concerned Joey was—my classmate; my friend.

All this time, I’ve had six—at least SIX—positive reviews from the judges at that competition. And I burned my fucking script because I threw a fit and destroyed everything I’d worked so hard to achieve. I burned the papers, deleted the files.

If I still had my script, I would take on those roles once more, to perform as my final project in my Acting & Movement class. As it is, I’ll have to settle with singing the German National Anthem, and simply remember the competition more fondly by looking at my reviews every so often.

I also came across an essay I wrote for my AP Junior English class, my grade for which was above A+. I also found my report card for 9^th grade geometry—a solid, resounding “A” grade. Both of these things were great accomplishments for me; I felt so proud of them that I wanted to save them in my file.

In the very back of my file, there were two folders. One had my grandmother’s name on it, but the one with my name on it included my medical files from the years 1999 and 2000. In this stapled stack of papers were my immunization records, somewhere near the back.

My medical records taught me some things about my child self, at ages 7 and 8—the ages during which I lived with my mother. I have always remembered those years as the worst of my life and my medical records did little to disperse such reverie.

It was written in my medical records that we had 5 paper routes beginning at 03:00—that’s 3:00am for those of you who don’t deal with a 24-hour clock. It was written that my teachers reported my having “lots of attitude” and being “bored in class.” It even said, “Smartest kid in class.” It said I was doing 4^th grade work in the 3^rd grade because I was bored with the 3^rd-grade work.

I remember this. I don’t remember being the smartest kid in class, though; because I remember the test I took to skip the 3^rd grade. That’s right—I took a test to skip the 3^rd grade and I could have passed it. But, I didn’t. It’s probably better that I didn’t; I was always the youngest in my class, anyway.

But now I see, my entire life, I’ve only focused on how I failed the test—not on how few other children were testing to skip grades. Not on how none of the kids I wanted to be friends with had the opportunity to skip a grade. Not on the fact that the very fact that I was taking the test meant that I was extremely intelligent. No. Instead, I focused on how I failed. Suddenly, failing that test meant that I wasn’t smart at all. In fact, it meant I was stupid. I didn’t know anything.

I feel as if my life has been completely turned around. Looking through my file, reading my certificates and accomplishments, has done a great deal to go to my ego and boost me. Looking through my file has made me think to myself, “I am smart and capable.” I don’t remember the last time I thought something like that.

Looking through my file made me realize just how self-deprecating I’ve been in my life, and for how long. I’m so glad I have this organized collection of significance in my life—my SAT and ASVAB scores; my AFJROTC awards; my birth certificates. Those things are my life. My file doesn’t have an ounce of failure in it, but it does demonstrate some ways my mother failed me. It also demonstrates that I have been sick for a very long time and nobody had been able to notice it because of how bright and highly functioning I was. Not even I was able to see how bad it was because I believed that it was all in my head; I believed that I was just “feeling sorry for myself” for no reason, every time I cried over the petty losses and the small setbacks—tears I shed because I believed that they were colossal failures in my life.

Molehills were mountains. Mountains were insurmountable. I didn’t encounter a mountain until I separated from the military.

The thing is, when you come to a mountain, you have three choices. You can try to walk around it and probably spend your entire life figuring out directions; you can climb over it; or you can stay on your side of the mountain, unmoving and helpless.

My depression wants to hold me back from climbing the mountain, because the gods know that I do not have the patience to walk around. After all, what I want is on the other side, and I will do everything in my power to take the most direct path to get it. The most direct path from point A to point B is a straight line; a straight line goes right over that fucking mountain. I’m a monkey; I’ll manage. My depression tells me I’m a failure, that I can’t climb the mountain because I didn’t skip 3^rd grade, I didn’t get my black belt, I didn’t make it to State, I didn’t complete my enlistment in the Air Force. My depression told me that I couldn’t take care of my daughter because I don’t have patience, I raise my voice when I’m upset, I’m not capable of handling my emotions. My depression tells me I’m stupid and helpless.

Helplessness has never set well with me. It’s time to climb the mountain.

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.

The Happiest Baby

                I’d have titled this entry, “The Happiest Baby on the Block,” but that’s probably a registered trademark, as it’s a DVD of tips and tricks to calm a fussy baby. I gave birth to my daughter, Persephone Anne, on August 11^th—about a month ago, now—and from the very start she has been an absolutely wonderful baby. She doesn’t fuss much, and when she does, she’s very easy to soothe. This entry is the story of having the baby and how I’m doing a month later with her.

                I was worried from the moment I found out I was pregnant and it was too late to terminate that I would end up with postpartum depression after birth. Deep down inside, I knew with a morbid certainty that the mental illness would rear its ugly, tar-black face and there would be no avoiding it. What I didn’t know was how soon it would show up. After all, baby blues are normal and postpartum depression usually kicks in a little later, right? That’s what I’d heard and gathered from all the research I’d done prior to having my baby.

                The afternoon I broke my ankle, I went to the hospital and was in the ER for many hours before moving up to the Labor & Delivery Triage to be monitored. Ultimately, the hospital staff decided to induce my labor and it was decided that I would have my baby. I mentioned this in my last entry, which detailed how I broke my ankle. I was given an epidural and labor didn’t last too long, really. I’d say it didn’t last more than twelve hours, but I don’t think that’s quite accurate, so I’ll say it didn’t last longer than six hours after the nurse broke my water. I didn’t feel it until the baby started moving out—and then she was pressing hard against my right hip and it felt like the hip would split open!

                It was a smooth delivery. My baby was, and still is, completely beautiful and I received a few stitches to aid recovery from a small tear the baby caused. We were later moved, a few hours later, to a different room, where we were to stay for about 48 hours while they monitored the baby and me. Everything was going well…until maybe 24 hours later.

                From the moment I started actively pushing the baby out of my body (a little before that, actually), up to the next night, I got no sleep at all. I might have napped a couple of hours, but it was certainly nothing significant. On top of that, I was beginning to have difficulties breastfeeding. Persephone, my new daughter, wouldn’t take enough of my nipple into her mouth for a proper latch, which left both of my nipples blistered and feeling pinched. Come Tuesday night, I couldn’t latch her on for the pain and I couldn’t manage to make the nipple guard stay on a nipple for her to eat that way.

                With my broken and sprained ankles inhibiting my movement, the pain from childbirth, and the pain in my nipples all piled on top of a baby screaming from hunger, I couldn’t handle it anymore and I was sobbing along with my newborn. Words came out of my mouth and I don’t remember all of them, but among them were things like, “I’m sorry, but you’re hurting me!” and “Why are you crying?!” Looking back, the second quote looks completely wrong; I knew exactly why she was crying and I was feeling completely inadequate and useless with the pain in my nipples rendering feeding her impossible.

                Multiple nurses came in during this episode and tried talking to me. Randy took the baby to another room and a nurse tried talking to me—continuously saying my name wrong, pronouncing it like uh-leash-uh instead of the correct uh-leash-ee-uh. I couldn’t handle it the third time she said it and I yelled at her, “It’s Aleashia!” She promptly got up and walked out of the room. I was later given a breast pump to express enough milk for Randy to feed the baby while I got some sleep; then, I was provided some Benadryl to assist with the actual sleeping.

                When I woke up, I didn’t feel much better, but I’d gotten a few hours of sleep. I immediately wondered where my baby was and pressed the nurse call button to ask. A few minutes later, Randy came in with her and said that all was well. I was still relatively miserable, but it was good to know the baby was doing well.

                It wasn’t long after that—the next day, maybe—that I was getting everything situated to feed Persephone. I moved to get my blanket out of the way so that I could position her properly to feed when all of a sudden she flipped over and off the bed—landing on the floor. It was so sudden, I immediately had Randy call the nurses in. The baby hadn’t landed on her head; she’d landed on her side, maybe her shoulder, but I was worried that she might have hit her head.

                The next thing I knew, we were still in the hospital long after we should have gone home and when we asked what was going on, we found out that the pediatrician had called Child Protective Services.

                Ultimately—long story short—CPS closed our case the day we went in to talk to them. The baby is safe.

                Now, for the best part of this entry: The fact that I have the happiest baby I’ve ever known. Persephone isn’t particularly fussy, but when she fusses, it’s usually really easy to find the problem and fix it. Most of the time, she wants my nipple; popping one in her mouth will calm her down immediately. Every parent knows the checklist: Is the baby hungry? Does the baby need a diaper change? Is the baby hot or cold? Is the baby bored? Does the baby just need to cry for a while? Does the baby need to burp? There’s more to it, though. If you go through the entire checklist and the baby is neither hot nor cold, nor bored, nor hungry, nor dirty, nor gassy, and the baby continues to cry, there are ways to easily calm the baby.

                In the film, The Happiest Baby on the Block, the man I will call the Baby Whisperer has what he calls the five S’s: Swaddle, Side/Stomach, Swing, Shushing, and Sucking. When Persephone continues crying for no reason, I swaddle her. It almost never works by itself, so I put her on her side and begin swinging her. Usually, this is enough to calm her down; other times, I have to shush her on top of it. Other times, I have to pop a pacifier in her mouth on top of it all and simply work with her for a few minutes, but ultimately, the five S’s work wonders. I have an extremely happy baby, ultimately, even though these past couple of days have been a bit more difficult than usual.

                I love my daughter so much more than I thought possible.

The Other Side of the Planet

                For the past (nearly) three years, I’ve lived in Germany, working with and for Americans yet alongside Germans. The extremely limited amount of German I learned in high school prior to being stationed in Germany helped in the beginning, but didn’t have much chance to expand a whole lot during my stay, as I was surrounded almost constantly by Americans, many of whom couldn’t care less about learning the native language and conversing with the local nationals.

                This past Saturday, 28 June 2014, I flew from Frankfurt, Germany, to Seattle, Washington. I extremely underestimated the kind of culture shock I would experience in returning to America. Everything is so spaced out, so vast, in this country, compared to Europe—and yet, Europe is by far a prettier country than the United States. Where I would see brown, dead grass—where it has clearly been landscaped and the grass should be green—in the US, I know that if I saw such a thing in Europe, that grass would be green. It’s true that the grass is greener in Europe than the USA.

                I live currently with my grandparents…again. I didn’t want to come back. I wanted to serve a full career with the U.S. Air Force, a whole 20 years, and then retire and do something else. I had big plans and big dreams. My time in Germany served to crush every plan and dream I had—not because of the country or the area; as a matter of fact, it was wonderful to be in Europe—but rather because of the kind of people with whom I had to work. I didn’t want to separate from the military…but I found out I’m pregnant.

                My grandma asked me just the other night why it was that I separated early rather than sticking it out to the end of my enlistment. At the time that I discovered I was pregnant, I thought my husband would be placed before the Medical Evaluation Board for medical retirement from the military. It was coming up on the time that we would be PCSing—moving to a new base—and an MEB could take up to a year to complete. I was afraid that if I didn’t separate, or at least transfer out of active duty into the guard or reserve, that I would PCS without my husband and end up in a new place with a brand-new baby. If that happened, I would have had to find childcare for my new baby while I went to work, and this was absolutely not something I wanted to do! I don’t trust people and I sure as hell wouldn’t trust the Child Development Center on base to take care of her! So, I made the decision to separate. I figured I should have enough time then that if Randy goes before the MEB, I wouldn’t have to worry about anything. I would become his dependent and all would be well.

                Randy’s MEB was turned down. Suddenly, he was going to have an administrative discharge instead of a medical retirement. It was still honorable, but it didn’t provide benefits post-separation. His separation date ended up being effective the day before we were to fly out of Germany—the 27^th of June, when our flights were supposedly scheduled for the 28^th.

                My flight had no issues. I flew with both of our cats, arrived safely, met up with my dad and grandma (and baby brother), and proceeded to my grandparents’ house—only to find out that Randy had been stuck at Frankfurt overnight because SATO, the place on base that schedules the flights, completely fucked him over! They had scheduled his flight for the 27^th, like a bunch of idiots, when we had specifically asked for the 28^th multiple times!

                He made it safely in Indiana…luckily. His mother insisted on keeping him for two goddamned weeks, while I’m in Washington having to hurry up and figure a whole bunch of stuff out. My husband gets to meet up with his friends and have a good old time while I’m trying to get shit done in Washington. I can’t really complain about his mother—she’s doing wonderful things for us, buying us things we’ll need for the baby. It’s just that I want him here sooner than July 11^th and I don’t see why she couldn’t have had him for one week and been happy with it. The only friend I’ve managed to spend time with since I’ve been here is Mary, my best friend. I feel like I have other people who want to see me, whom I haven’t been able to see yet.

                Some good news is, today, I managed to finish my first list of reviews for porn websites. It might not be the most honorable job—at least, it isn’t if you’re some kind of stuck-up prick who’s too good to look at porn—but it will ultimately pay me $245.00. The list I finished today will get me $50 of that and then I’ll have a new list of sites to review. I haven’t gotten back to work with my other client, yet, but I did message him to say that I want to begin work on the company review he wants, come this Friday.

                My cats were traumatized for the first couple of days after getting to the house. I have them in my little brother’s old room—it used to be mine, before I left and my grandma switched all the furniture. The beds are gone, now, and I put in a couple of litter boxes with food, water, a couple toys, and a scratcher. The cats mostly hide in the closet, but they’ve reached the point that when I go into the room to visit them, they come out and give me love. It fills me with a warm and fuzzy kind of joy when they come out for me and start purring, rubbing their adorable faces against my legs and hands and chasing the laser I point around for them. I’ve discovered that Ajani, my male cat, is a catnip addict. I bought a little thing of catnip spray and I use it on the scratcher when I visit the cats, so that they know that’s a good thing to scratch. Ajani goes nuts and smashes his face against the thing, scratches the hell out of it, and even licks it, getting himself high as a kite! Liliana is a little less affected, but she enjoys it as well. I can’t wait to have my own place with Randy, our cats, and our baby—as I don’t expect to move out from my grandparents’ house until after the baby is born.

                It’s weird, extremely surreal, being in the United States again.