I am not a logical person. I am an emotional person. The decisions I make are based off what I’m feeling, based on what my heart, not my lacking sense of logic, tells me is right. I feel first, throw myself wholeheartedly into my personal relationships and feel my way through obstacles. I focus on the emotions of events in my life, not necessarily the events themselves.
I am a fierce friend because of this, feeling my way through things with my friends and lending compassion and empathy easily. I would rather hurt myself into oblivion than watch a friend suffer through any pain, physical or emotional. I am protective to a fault, the first one to stand and defend my loved ones, the first one to volunteer as the designated driver because I can’t loose myself in alcohol when I know someone might need their hair held back later. I am somewhat of a mother hen.
Three things have happened on this deployment that have brought out the fierce, over-protective, clucking mother hen part of me. The first was when my roommate and close friend got in an accident very early in the deployment. I got the news at 1:30 in the morning and I was freaked. I held back my own tears, rushed to the hospital to find my friend a little banged up, but conscious. The days that followed consisted of me making frequent stops by our room to check on her as she slept, leaving her notes to let her know we missed her at work and demanding that she not lift anything. The second thing was when Andrew fell off the wash-rack and I had to take him to the hospital. I refused to let him lift anything or move unless it was absolutely necessary. He’s stubborn though, so my attempts at locking him in his room to sleep and recover were mostly useless.
The third thing happened today:
(Smiling through the pain right after leaving the hospital)
Andrew, being the graceful man that he is, fell/rolled down a hill and broke his damn arm. And hurt his knee. And scraped his right hand. And generally made me feel like an over-protective mother hen as I offered no less than seven times to drive him to Taco Bell (he wanted to walk), gave him sad looks of dismay as he limped all the way there, lectured him when he said he might show up at the office tomorrow and said, repeatedly, that I can’t believe he broke his arm.
And so, once again, I’m stuck worrying about him, and about all my friends because that’s apparently what I do now. Worry. No wonder I get headaches and wrinkles are appearing on my forehead. It’s the worrying.
To my friends who are reading this back home: Don’t get hurt. It freaks me out. It gives me wrinkles. It gives me headaches and it hurts me too.
So just don’t. Okay?