Day 354

This is going to be such a depressing post. Be forewarned.

Last night I dreamed that Zee had died. I didn't see it happen. I was dealing with the aftermath. Pleading in vain for her to come back to me.

I woke up in a sweat at 6:15 a.m. and slowly came to realize that it was just a nightmare.

Regardless, I sent Zee an email, begging her to be safe. I know I won't hear back from her for a couple days - she's having computer problems - and that makes the dream even more terrifying.

I went back to sleep, curled around her hoodie, and had more nightmares of war. I woke up and turned on NPR, just to make sure there haven't been any changes.

I would like to say that I take comfort in the fact that Zee is female and therefore won't be on the front-lines. But are there any front-lines in Afghanistan? I don't believe so. These aren't the days of British warfare. We've left "civil" wars behind.

In the news, I read and hear about women soldiers. They speak about the double-standard in the United States. When someone sees the women's medals or plaques, they assume that it was the husband, brother, or son that served. And the feminist in me roars on their behalf.

But then I also hear about how many women have died or been injured in service during the last ten years, and I suddenly want the double-standard to be justified. The girlfriend in me wants to take full advantage of the "she's a girl!" approach and keep her out of harms way.

That's not fair to her and her desire to serve, I know. I will fully support her right and the rights of all women to fight alongside their countrymen.

I just can't help but be frightened.

Day 4: Something You Have to Forgive Someone For

My father. I don't want to go into detail here, but he has more than once selfishly betrayed and harmed my family. He will never admit to any of it, however. He will never own up to his mistakes in an honest way. According to him, nothing is ever his fault. Life is to blame. Everything else is to blame.

There are so many things I don't know how to forgive him for. I have never confronted him, because it hurts too much. And it hurts because, even if I can't forgive him, I still love him. Or at least I love the idea of the father I had as a child.

It's complicated. And that's all I want to say about that.