Return to the Fuckening

I hate this place.

We spent only a few days of 2018 house hunting before Daan, wrought with PCS fatigue and

thinning patience for the Italian summer heat/humidity, demanded that we just give in to the first “modern” house we stumbled upon that wasn’t pre-furnished. He was done, and I felt like I was in no position to argue. I reasoned it with “well you’ll spend the majority of time in the house” when a part of me was sounding the alarm:

“You hated your first experience in Europe because of where you lived.”

“You still have to live there too.”

“Commutes matter. Umm…Scott AFB?”

“Remember how you told yourself you would never return to Europe. Weeeeak.”

“Your voice matters.”

But as quickly as these voices spoke up, others screamed loud enough to drown out what I perceived at the time to be self-serving thoughts. 

“He hated Scott…remember his parking lot breakdown in Barnes and Noble?”

“This assignment is for him, not you. People did you favors to get you guys here! You better show up!!”

“He has sacrificed…gave up everything he knew in the Netherlands to be with you.”

“Stop being selfish. You clearly aren’t doing enough to be grateful.”

Happy wife (or in this case, husband), happy life?

In any case, I acted and felt as if my voice never mattered because I believed that if he wasn’t happy, then my input or opinion wasn’t necessary. 

Or at least that is what I constantly told myself when I started to sense a voice that could contradict his.

For 2 years, I zipped one way every day for about 30 minutes through 5 miles of the Italian Countryside to Area F (F for Fun…Flightline…Fuckening). The commute would have been less annoying if it weren’t for all of the Italians, and Americans trying to drive like an Italian constantly passing you dangerously on these small and windy backroads meant for Fiat 500s, not Ford F-150s. For what seems to be a culture where nothing gets done quickly or with a sense of urgency, I never quite understood their need to be in a hurry on the road. Maybe the rush was to an inane requirement to get to do nothing quicker? If so, I probably could have gotten behind it like Ron Swanson who once said he would “work all night, if it meant nothing got done.” Perhaps I would have been less salty about this very irritating commute. Ahhhllorha.

On May 28, I arrived in Italy to help Daan sort through the litany of things we had acquired here to prepare for 2 household good shipments. One with a destination to Alabama. The other to the Netherlands.

From the moment I saw him exiting the terminal, I felt guarded and tense. Why? He was picking me up and taking me back to the place I hated most about my time in Italy…our house. Also, HE was picking me up. I didn’t know if I was in friendly company or would be held hostage to the situation that I created by initiating the divorce.

Pre-Incirlik Lisa would have mapped out a plan of action to include prepared thoughts and behaviors. I would have over-analyzed every step into a future I couldn’t possibly predict to help me cope with the fact that I had little to no control over what would happen. Also, loggies are planners, right? Ugh.

However, as I approached him stepping outside the terminal, I saw big tears pooling in his baby blue eyes and my body instinctively opened my arms for a full embrace. 

Good thing, this is the new Lisa. Didn’t have much of plan except to wing everything. So far, so good, right?

Side note: It’s not that I’m not a hugger. In fact, I have been starved for physical touch, but grew up in a culture (Korean) where you repressed those needs. Touch was behind closed doors, and done in the most private of settings. Anything in public was considered scandalous and subject to scrutiny; and in a society where you were constantly reminded that you represented something bigger than yourself as an individual, it felt like a big deal. It took me months to warm up to the idea of hand holding on campus in AMERICA with my first boyfriend (late bloomer…23). 

Let’s head back to Italy. Specifically, Campagna, which was this little hovel that was more farmland than town. If isolation was the objective, then we had found the perfect setting. At times it seemed peaceful, but that novelty wore off quickly as my duties in my Ops O job consumed me, but fueled my passion for the AF/job in this vicious cycle of take/take/take because the mission was a unrelenting and intoxicating bitch. It was at the end of some longer and less merciful days where it was really apparent to me that I didn’t feel like I had any place to call my own/escape. I realized I had traded one place that was sucking the life force out of me with the same environment at home. No space for me to recharge/regroup. You see, when you walked into the house, you would be greeted by a shrine of 1:72 scale diecast aircraft, action figurines and other interests of Daan. My belongings only occupied a few spaces in the 2nd floor and basement, but this entire house never felt like OUR home. During this time, being Lisa meant that I would always be supporting cast, even in my own life (#nevergoodenough). Soooo much to unpack and I would love to dig in/share, but again, nap is calling and we’re getting distracted.

Moving on and back to the part where I was leaving the airport.

No matter what, I felt committed to the separation and had one main mission here: divide our lives (I.e. stuff) into two separate moves. Yet, I still missed the comfort of his embrace and as soon as we touched, I think time literally slowed enough to help me savor it because I remember everything about that moment (touch, smell, look, etc). There’s something very comforting about feeling very small in someone else’s arms…it can feel protective..it can feel safe.

After what seemed like the longest hug ever (see how we got here?) we proceeded to head “home.”

Cue a long and awkward pause because according to my phone, I basically did just that for an entire week until the movers came to the house. I settled into

the lethargy like one would do with a broken in pair of soft sweatpants: permanently affixed to the couch and with extreme prejudice to anything requiring me to get out of said sweatpants. The week with Daan wasn’t without its challenges and lessons, but let’s keep this moving because I seriously want to take a nap: 

Lisa- 1 crate

Daan- 4 crates+ a moving van

My time at Incirlik and in command have revealed that I enjoy chaos/spontaneity way more than I’d like to honestly admit. Also, more importantly, I hated to waste energy/effort because time is finite. However, my commander’s badge often made me feel like I had to restrain my instincts and excitement. In some ways, I behaved and made decisions because of the underlying expectations about the commander position (not Lisa). I now realize that those expectations can shove it and towards the end, I still could be true to myself/own it and still be an effective commander. But reflecting back on my first 90 days in command does reveal some cringe inducing tingles to my spine (a tale for another time). *shudders*

At the advice of a friend/fellow peer, I had made one promise to myself: don’t have sex with him. It seemed to be a logical and easy

 (ha ha HA) rule to follow. In fact, Daan agreed to prepare the spare room into a makeshift bedroom where I could sleep on the futon. 

Annnnd then we had sex.

Just kidding.

The slide further back into abstinence that was originally due to isolation on a remote assignment and now, the end of a 6 year marriage has likely shriveled up what possibly remains of my libido. 

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say I’ve been missing it.”

• Peter Gibbons

Oy vey.

Fuck me.

But seriously…nah.

I’m all over the place. Time for a nap.