Thursday, August 4, 2011


Well I knew this day was eventually going to come.  I actually can't believe we have made it this far without getting the news sooner.  A couple weeks ago Scott gave me the news of our first deployment.  After being in the Army for over 4 years already and never having one, I feel guilty that I am sad he is going.  I have known many wives that have given up their husbands year after year.  We weren't trying to hide or anything, just got attached to a hospital that doesn't deploy for our first 3 years.  Can't say I hated it. However, the time has come to do what we have to do.  It is a very strange feeling knowing my best friend in the whole world will not be next to me for over a year.  And all that he'll be in your heart crap, or just a skype away just seems to me not good enough.  I want him, in the flesh, next to me.  I want to smell his bad breath, and stinky man smell, I want to kiss him and  hold his hand, I want to slap him when I get mad... Lord knows he would shoot me if I slapped the MAC when I got mad!  It is kind of funny from the girl who would have lived in the same house her whole life and would never have thought I missed out on anything, that my life would turn out like this.  So as it begins and I try to sort out what to do with the remainder of my family.  Do you go home?  Where is home?  Do you pack up your whole life in a cement box and pay someone to keep it?  Most of my friends have already left and the ones still there will be heading out.  Heck, I have already left, sorta!  I have been in Florida the whole summer while Scott has been away for training.  I thought I was going to be going home and settling my life back down just in time for the new school year.  Instead I will be going back to the great state of WA to pack a house, hop in a minivan and drive over 3,000 miles back to Florida.  Woosh, just the thought of it gives me complete exhaustion.  Lucky for me I have a large loving family here in Florida.  The saddest part is, without Scott I still feel lonely.

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