“THE GO BAG”
This is going to be long, so I apologize in advance. The names have been changed, except mine, to protect the innocent/guilty.
Approximately 6 years ago I had what can only be described as a cataclysmic disaster of a relationship with T.A. Long story short, I finally got her out of my house and life the night *SHE* was arrested for Domestic Violence.
Military 1 Source hooked me up with 10 free visits with a therapist. I saw him and his partner (because on multiple occasions they would tag team me WWE style in sessions) three times a week for the first month, then once a week for the next three months, then once every three months, then once every six months.
I also at this time retreated to "my cave" (the garage actually) and built up walls to protect myself from ever getting hurt like this again. I built them high and thick, and thought that I was so smart. Once a week I would force myself out of the cave and go to my VFW and I was the 'anti-social butterfly'. I also continued my three and six month sessions.
In February of this year two things happened. First, I realized the walls I'd built for protection, had become my prison. Second, I met C.J., someone worth coming out of my cave for. She was smart, witty, and beautiful. She was challenging and intoxicating. But, mindful of the walls I was slowly dismantling I did and said nothing, she actually had to make the first move in establishing a friendship.
By mid March we were talking everyday, and I realized I was in love with this stunning, amazing woman. My roommate helped me plan our first date, 31 March. For the next 31 amazing days we were an actual loving, and in love couple, actually arguing about who "the lucky one" was. It was everything I ever dreamed about. I thought, all that hard work in therapy is finally paying off.
and then, it was over. . .
Why and how are no longer relevant, neither is what we have done since that night.
Devastated, I called my therapist, who said "Johnnie, your next check up is still three months away". I said, "yeah, about that, how soon can I come in?" Once again I found myself seeing these guys three times a week, and as of Thursday, they have decided to go back to once a week (progress, however slow, is still progress).
But, to finally get to the point of this story, and explain the title (I did warn you this would be long) . I'm going back to Fort Carson tomorrow (Monday) and will be returning Saturday. As I started packing for the trip this morning, I found my go bag. (an overnight bag for those who don't understand the reference). See, I had spent more time at her home then my house during April, so the go bag had become an essential piece of gear, and I found it this morning, still packed and ready to go.
So I unpacked it. Shoes, socks, shirts, pants, hygiene, meds, and memories. Beautiful memories, sad memories, painful memories. With all of this stacked neatly on my bed, I stared at that empty bag and felt. . .
Shame. Vulnerability. Fear. Remorse. *AND* Gratitude.
Unpacking that bag, and acknowledging everything it held, I found release and gratitude (and I cried, HARD).
I truly wish C.J. the very best in life, I love her (part of me always will). I hope someday she reaches a point where we can sit down, like the friends we once were, and we can talk everything out. More importantly I need to be able to tell her how grateful I am for her, and the time we shared.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Hopefully purging my scarred soul (now you know where ‘Skarsoul’ came from) hasn’t been a downer on your fathers day celebrations.
2021.06.20 @ 1530
