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Do Not Get Walked On

Do Not Get Walked On

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I remember deciding it suddenly.  All at once, without a doubt in my mind.  I had determined that human beings in general do way too much apologizing in their life time. The human species in general, tends to feed the need to be compassionate.  The undying desire to please people, and respect opinions has led many beings on this earth with the sensation that if you don’t cater to another humans feelings, that you have been raised rude and disrespectful.

Around the age of 22, I remember being suddenly aware, that that just is not the case.  I had spent years, in many relationships that had left me bruised inside and out.  My desire to please the people around me had left me unable to be myself, and transformed into a mouse with no voice.  I had become shaken, with the feeling that no matter what, my opinion was wrong.

No one’s opinion is wrong.  Because it is just that, an opinion.

Around that the same time, I was hearing the words “I’m sorry” far too often, with no actions verifying the commitment that those words are supposed to stand for.  In order to sincere, an apology is just that.  A commitment saying to the individual that you are remorseful for you actions or words, and a promise that you are actively trying to change your behavior.  But in my experiences, I had witnessed just the opposite.  The phrase had become no more than a commonly used way to play nice.  To make sure that  the person you are uttering the words to still gives you the time of day, and to buy time until the next time you had to insincerely say that you are sorry.

I made the choice to stop apologizing.  I spent the next year, adjusting to the fact that I did not have to defend myself on my personal beliefs.  Sometimes, I clung to hard to adjusting my ways.  I said things, that I would not apologize for. I would commonly tell people I loved that if I said things, even if out of spite or anger, that I had meant them.  After all, if you think it, then you obviously had those feelings at one point. I felt as though some of my words had indeed hurt people, but why should I apologize for what I feel, when no one cared how their actions had affected me?

But then, it started to fade away.  I worried about losing people, about seeing people around leave me, because I didn’t bend my mind to their own belief.  I started apologizing for viewing things differently.  I shut my mouth when others had different opinions on politics, and world issues.  I would overlook how much something hurt me, just to apologize for speaking my own beliefs, hoping that the person still looked at me as if i was a pleasant person to be around.  I wouldn’t speak up for the people that I care about, when others degraded their way of life, on behalf of possibly losing new friendships.

I just wanted to fit in, in an unknown place.

Now, almost 8 years later, I’m realizing once again that we as people need to stop apologizing.  Stop letting others trample over your beliefs, just to appease them.  This does not mean that you need to force others to share your views.  Please, don’t take the stance of demanding people to feel the way you feel. I have once again discovered that I do not need to defend my views to anyone, fade into the background, or apologize for feeling differently than the person standing next to you.

Do not get walked on, just so people like you.

Stand up for yourself how you see fit, with the understanding that the person next to you is allowed to have their own beliefs.  Stop apologizing for liking certain clothes, music, or people.  Wear your opinions, and interests proudly.  Share your hurt, pain, love or pride without remorse for how you feel.  You feel these ways for a reason, because no human being is required to be wired the same, that’s the beauty of the human race.

You only have one life. You are unique, and amazing even if you do not share my  personal opinions.

An apology by definition means you express regret for something you have done wrong.

Don’t apologize for being yourself, because being yourself wrong is just someone else’s opinion.

Take it or leave it

Take it or leave it

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In the beginning, its thrilling. The idea that you may have just captured the heart of a man whose career is million women’s fantasies. The uniform, the authority, the ability to walk beside someone who has been a pillar of respect and honor for so many who have grown up with the common theory that an officer is someone to look up to. Some one that deserves respect and can hold his own.

The jokes will be fun. Like myself, you will set your ringtone to fun songs like “bad boys” or “F* the police” because you are not only proud, but can see the humor in dating the ever elusive officer. Somehow, you managed to break the emotional barrier and place yourself inside of this steel cage he surrounds himself in. And, its a thrill to know the man beside you will protect you to no end.
You will share a million support pictures and videos showing hilarious criminals who thought they could get away with the stupid crimes they got caught doing. You will become part of Facebook groups you had never heard of. You will buy t-shirts, and jewelry, and want to meet on shift. While doing so, you will become achingly aware of the fact that majority of the people do not feel the same way about your hero as you do.
You will realize that your officer does not want you to place that decal on your car. Your shirt that you probably just spent a fortune to personalize with his number, may not be worn in public, if your spouse is part of the majority of officers that disapproves of you doing anything to id yourself. Every move you make must first be evaluated for how it makes him look, because politics plays a huge role in his career, and you will start to resent him for it. Yes, you are an individual, but you are an individual who is now tied to an elite group of men and women that put their careers first. Your friends will start to disappear slowly. You will never see the front of a restaurant, or be able to relieve your brain from the sound of Velcro connecting and disconnecting from its other side. You will need to be silent. Silent when others hate your husband on your news feed, and when strangers speak ill of your family as you walk by.
You slowly realize this is your life now. You are a Law Enforcement Spouse. You will either step up to the challenge of spending holidays and nights alone, or you step out of the life unable to deal with the fact that this life is not fun and games. It is not cops and robbers played by kids. It is a blessing and a curse. The uniform you first thought of as a perk, and something to flaunt to your friends has become the same uniform that you must wash blood stains from when he returns home. It will be the same uniform that teaches you trust isn’t handed out, and biological family now disowns you for the actions taken by a LEO half way across the nation. His distant emotions will be something you live with, the pain in his eyes from his last call ever present on your mind. You will be his rock, out of necessity. You will live each day knowing he may not come home.
If you persist, and love the being that puts everyone else before himself and his family (yes, everyone.. including spending holidays saving strangers instead of eating dinner with your children), but does so because it’s his calling. You will be cherished, because you are his constant. You will realize you have a new family now. A family that is quiet, but ever present. A family that has their own distinct way of living, and celebrating. A family that is bound by the understanding that only the strong survive. A family that is willing to take you in, as long as you earn it. When it happens; take it, respect it, earn it. Not many people make it in this life. So cherish it. Hold on to it.
And if you don’t think you can handle it.. leave before it handles you.
It’s just my old age.

It’s just my old age.

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13502757_10155038964629358_4800946349102576447_oMaybe it’s just my old age, I mean I am almost thirty.  Or, maybe it’t just the fact that the whole parenting thing does not come natural to me.  I have never been the mother that just fell right into the groove of showing a young mind how to progress in this world.  However, lately, something just doesn’t feel as it should.  A bit more off than usual you could say.

We, as parents, should not have to feel like the bad guy.  Yes, there will be occasions where the child that you have given your life for will tell you how mean you are.  They will say you are unfair and make you want an early night.  They will make you yell unexpectedly, and want to pull your hair out at the sound of the same song over and over.  That precious little life that you created, will having you running for the wine bottle after a holiday weekend.

But this shouldn’t be an every day thing.

We shouldn’t have to worry about our every move being compared to the parent who walks away.  We shouldn’t have to be skeptical of how we manage our household, knowing that we are always going to be that bad guy.  Yes, we as parents, should be able to make rules and boundaries without fear of our child never wanting anything to do with us after they hit the age of 18.

I should not have to feel the obligation to explain, in detail every five minutes, why I make the choices that I do.  I should not feel that if I make a rule or discipline this tiny body, that it needs to be explained in such detail to my child just to try and “make amends”.  I should not, under any circumstance, feel as though my way of handling things will make my child not want to come back from their weekends away.

When this adolescent being of mine is in a foul mood from coming back from said time away why should I, the  parent, feel the need to walk on tiptoes, and try not to make things worse? I should not have to feel discouraged when I have spoken my mind, and told the truth as to how this world works and why we can’t have some things that other people do.  I should not have to sensor myself, from explaining to my child that their other parent is not doing their part.

I’m all for the single parent life. I understand that a child can turn out perfect with just one parent, or even separated parents.  However, I also believe that if both parents want to be involved, as active parts in these children’s lives, then both parents need to get along.

Parenting should not be an uphill battle.

 We, as parents, should not have to worry about being the bad parent.  We shouldn’t have to worry that our kid will come back and not speak to us for days, because they can’t watch a show at our house that they can at the other household.  We should not feel slighted, by the fact that every bit of information we receive is processed through mind that can’t yet process simple subtraction.

Maybe it is just my old age, but the children we create, should not dictate our life to the degree that we let them, just to keep peace.

Maybe it’s my old age, but my child should not be burdened with being the middle man.

Maybe its just my old age, but I miss parenting being a positive experience.

 

This too shall pass

This too shall pass

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I know I seem flighty, and a bit stand-offish at times.

I know my temper flairs, and the room around me and the souls held inside of it feel my heartache by the means of my words.  I spew them, flawlessly and effortlessly while my voice rises and falls with emotion I am unable to contain.  The words escape, quickly and brutally just loud enough so your beautiful mind can process the damage.

I know by the look on your face as I turn my back and walk away that I have done it again.  My emotions have gotten the best of me, the feelings pouring out from every pore placed sporadically on my skin.

I know that I’m over reacting, and you are tired of it.  It has become routine to see your eyes this way.  The sad emotion trapped, holding on to the good times that seem to come less and less as the days go on.  Our good times are excellent, and our bad times are daggers that stay in place through it all, never letting up.

I know that the tears will fall, but I hope that they are not seen.  I hope the quiver in my voice is not discovered, and my tears will fall silently to my pillow as I realize my actions have become out of hand again.  I know that I am wrong, that I place blame on you, when there is no blame to be placed.  I feel stupid, knowing that once again I have caved under this pressure.

I signed up for this pressure.

I signed up for the news broadcasts, and the last calls. The public humiliation that comes along with this life were part of the unwritten agreement. I signed up to sit at home and worry, and listen to this scanner each day just to hear your voice.  I signed up for the days where you come home just to remain quiet, decompressing from the events that have taken place on your watch as the world moves around you.

I signed up for the midnight calls, and the dreams that lead you to anger.  I signed up to hear your voice as you scream at night, pushing away air and showing the emotions that are withheld from the world’s view.

I signed up to sit at this console, and worry about all of our friends.  I wrote my name in ink, giving my dedication to worry and care as a full time job.  I signed up to never be home, just as you were signing up for a family life, I left. I left the normal, the routine and the secure. I signed up to leave you at home, and protect the others that serve.

I signed up to be ridiculed, and have people abandon me because of my lifestyle.  I signed up for this life, the good and the bad.  It’s not easy, and my angst falls in your lap.

It’s not your fault, although these words would seem to place all blame on you.  You make me happy, you really do.  You see, this world is just so cruel.  I hurt not only for myself, but for you.  You don’t show me your pain, as you have become cold to the world around you.  It’s not your fault, its just part of the job. I cry for you, and these screams show what I wish you would let out.  I wish you would show me that it hurts, that the world is painful, and this life is hard.  Show me that I’m not crazy, or weak when the voices in my head silently fill my thoughts with pain.

At the end of the day, I have your back.  My emotions will cease to exist in the powerful way they have been displayed, and you are all I need. These walls will contain my contempt, the drywall soaking up each octave of these hurtful lyrics escaping my being.  At the end of the day, I have bared my soul to the only existence in my world that truly understands this life and all of the heartache held within it, and tomorrow will begin.

Tomorrow will bring new hope.  Tomorrow, I will be here. Wait for me, as these times will pass.  Show me your love, and forgive my displeasure.  Let me bury my heartache and stand with me through the rain. Show me this line does not waiver, and that tomorrow we can try again. We will not become a statistic, because tomorrow love will conquer all.

This too shall pass.

Photo Credit: Miranda Young Photography

Elastic Nightmare

Elastic Nightmare

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I walk into the dark, cold room.  Its 0645, and the early Sunday morning is as gloomy inside as it is outside.   In a moment, I will put on my headset.  I will say a silent prayer as I plug in the thin black ear piece connecting me to the world outside of these thick walls.  I will pray that my 8 hour shift is full of laughter.  I pray that the silence is a good thing, and the sounds of 911 calls all start with the infamous words, “well this isn’t an emergency, but…”.

When I log into the currently blank dark screen I will see names.  Names representing the officers lives that I protect today.  Those small, uniformly typed names constitute the few but precious people that depend on me today.

Two of our officers walk in, their presence both a blessing and a curse.  You see, when this particular duo of men are on duty, together, you know that you can expect laughs and taunting.  It’s all in good fun, really.  But when the phone rings, and I try to tune every one of my overwhelmed senses into that desperate community member, these two hooligans sometimes keep going.  It’s not just these two, that have this habit.  Most of the officers in the department routinely come in to talk and have a good time. Distracting, yes.  But, having it any other way means spending most of the day in my own thoughts.  I can hear one ask the other “Good lord, who are we mourning now?”.

He’s joking, but serious all in one sentence.  Its a daunting question, one that stops all 4 people in the room cold in their tracks.  The words lingering over our heads like a black cloud that just wont go away.

The response: “Dude, there were like 3 officers killed in the last 3 days.”

That’s it. That’s the response.

Immediately I hear my heart break a little more than it was before. Although I had known of these murders, it has become a sad reality that every time I turn around I learn of another officer down.  Another family that has lost a member.   I see more wives, crying the most ugly cries they have ever cried, as they are handed that flag folded into a triangle. I become aware of the child, that won’t let go of the casket, or the K9 paying it’s respects.

That thin black line of elastic used to be so rare no one really knew what it meant.  I used to just stare, wondering why it was placed so strangely around the points of the badge.  When my husband and I went to that funeral only a few short years ago, you know the one where the masses of departments showed up, we couldn’t even find a tie let alone that 2 inch piece of elastic.

But now, it is common.  And the names of the mourned, are rarely rambled off when asked.  It has become routine to say, “the 3 officers” or “the officer ambushed in this town”.

It has become a regimen to put on that elastic, and never have to answer the question as to whom was killed.

That, is a tragedy.

I am thrown into the fact that those strategically placed names on my screen are in danger.  For no reason other than what the media, and the communities have portrayed them to be.  The gloomy darkness that was once just the weather, stays all 8 hours. It stays locked in my mind as I send an officer out the door to respond to a simple car unlock.

I will watch the clock mercilessly until you are back 10-8. Yes, I will check on you in 5 minutes.  Yes, I will worry if something sounds funny on the radio.  Praying, that we are not the next headline.

Praying, that I am not that wife clinging to that flag.

Praying, that my children don’t have to cling to a casket as it is taken out of a building filled with people I don’t even know.

Praying, that that elastic band can be taken off that badge.

This is our reality, and it is a tragedy.

Weeping

Weeping

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As I pulled into my place of employment today, I noticed our flag weeping. drenched with the rain that was falling from our darkened sky, wrapped around the metal holding it in the air. Placed at half mast for the victims of Nice, France, out flag was weeping for our country the only way it knew how.

There has been yet another attack, from our own citizens, on the very people that protect and serve our country. Yet, our flag has no room to fall any further honoring the country it represents.

Cleveland Detective Steve Loomis was correct in stating “the president of the United States has blood on his hands that will not be able to come washed off.” To try and back up the many years of neglect that you, Mr. Obama, have put our protectors through and state that “there is no justification for violence against law enforcement. None. These attacks are the work of cowards who speak for no one”, is Ludacris.

This has become a WAR on our own land, started by the actions of few, but amplified by the very man who is to run this country and protect our population. The very man who has shown up to a memorial for fallen officers and stood in front of family and friends pushing his own political agenda.

I can no longer trust anyone around me, or my own leader with protecting my life let alone my children’s lives, the lives of many police officers, or members of the BLM movement. Actions of our leaders placed in the highest powers of our country are not showing that they care about anyone enough to take a permanent stance on anything.

Sunday has taught us it’s not about race, it’s a war on Law Enforcement. That was clearly defined with the the senseless loss of Montrell Jackson who lay there bleeding amongst the white officers beside him.

The flag of our country remains weeping for another country while ours is in turmoil. Is this the time we place our flag upside down, representing that we as a nation are in distress? Or what will make any of you see what is happening.

No matter who you stand up for, or what you believe.. that flag was drenched in the rain for a reason. Our country needs help. We are in distress from the inside out, people are dying to protect the people that are shooting them.

I saw my husband die today.

I saw my husband die today.

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It started out like any other.  I was going out with friends, and your job continued keeping you away from anything social.  I remember the way your arm felt wrapped around me, cradling my waist ever so gently as you kissed my temple.  I smiled, and asked if you had any big plans that day.

“Nope, just more paperwork.”

That was your response.  Just paperwork.

Four friends surrounded me, laughing and joking about the bowling trip we had just taken and how I continue to suck at bowling every time we go.  We get dressed in our home, discussing the upcoming plans for the night, as you eat dinner and then call yourself back 10-8.  I walked out the door, listening to you get called out on the scanner to my left as I shut the door behind me following the four that had already made it to the car.

Sitting at the golf course enjoying the benefit we were attending, I watched an old high school friend as he placed cuffs on an aggressive woman in front of me, for an apparently minor charge not worth the fight.  I looked around wondering if you were somewhere there in the swarm of people mixed with  random men and women in blue, but figured you wouldn’t be without letting me know you were headed my direction first.

All of a sudden the mood of the venue changed.  People weren’t happy and I just sat back, knowing that eventually things would be under control. It was just some unruly women upset about ridiculous things, and it would surely get resolved.  But it didn’t, nothing remotely normal re-appeared today. Things were out of hand, I looked around knowing that in your position as chief you would be called in for this situation.  I noticed all of your friends, the ones I trusted to have your back when shit went down, the same ones that stood beside you on our wedding night.  Each one trying to tame an individual, each one dealing with someone fighting them for power, no one there to help any other officer.

And then I spotted you.  A woman wrestling you for your police issued rifle.  I watched, helpless from the sidelines as you fought to regain control.  In the blink of an eye, it  happened.

She fired the weapon aimed straight at you.

I ran.  No control over my movements, I ran.  I can still hear myself screaming over the crowd. My feet not touching the ground.  Screaming and running to your body laying in the street suffering as the woman took off.   I can see the look in your eyes, as you gasped for air, blood pouring out onto the concrete pavement.

Brown wavy hair, about 5’6″, red shirt and blue jeans. She ran.

It was the 6th dream I’ve had.  Sixth dream where I’ve watched the love of my life die.  Always with a bullet.  Always just out of reach.  Sixth different way I’ve woken up crying, thinking you were gone.  Six different killers, with faces I can’t bring to my memory.

This is why I can’t watch you walk around the corner downtown to get into your police truck after we eat lunch on a weekday.   Its the reason I watch you walk to your truck every morning, always watching for  someone behind the garage.  The reason I worry when you drive down a particular street.  Always with a bullet, always unexpected.  Always a dream.

I saw you die today, and then I watched you walk out the door to just do paperwork.

 

 

Knots

Knots

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I can’t describe the feeling I get when I see her.  Its worse than when I hear her voice, or listen to your voice speak her name, but not as bad as the images that pop into my head when I think about your past.

She was part of it, a very large part of it.

That feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one that ties my body in knots and has my mind swirling with just about every emotion you can name, that belongs to her.  She has power of me that I can’t control.  After 6 years, the feeling still remains.  Every week, I feel my pulse spike, my mind caught up in a past that I can not control.  A life that I was not part of, yet it still controls every part of mine.

She was your first.  She shared all of the experiences that I wish I had.  I see pictures of memories everywhere.  Her name plastered on your grandmothers wall with a phone number that just wont stop staring at me.  There are pictures everywhere.  Prom, weddings, vacations, bringing home your first child.  I hear memories of vacations, and schools and events that I was a part of, yet there are no pictures. Even after 6 years, my first born child and I still have no place on those very same walls that she adorns.

I remember what your face looked like going through the academy.  I remember how red and swollen your eyes were for the following three days after you got pepper sprayed, or how you spent most of your time trying to avoid your room mate while skyping for hours.  I remember when you went to Vegas, and how the beach looked at your sisters wedding.  I held your daughter when she was 3 days old.  I have watched the little girl grow up just as much as everyone else has, yet no one will speak of it.  This woman attended everything I couldn’t, her hold on your family stronger than it was on you as time passed by.

I can’t blame her, as a matter of fact for a long time I felt sorry for her.  Sorry that I fell in love with someone she had. Sorry that I had let a friendship turn into feelings I couldn’t control.  Sorry that I stepped in when your feelings for her checked out.  I tried to make up for it by hiding in the background at functions, and not stepping on toes when it came to your daughter.  I said sorry for everything and suffocated in the presence of her surrounding me constantly even when she wasn’t physically present.

I see her in my step-daughters face.  I see the way she has spoken about me in her presence.  I can feel the hate, and the anger and the power of her holding a grudge every time that precious 6 year old walks in our door and doesn’t acknowledge my existence.  In my own house, I am for a moment the odd one out.  I will never get the respect that she has gotten in your world.

 Jealous of the memories she holds, and the power she possesses with you and your family?  Sure. Angered by the way she has portrayed me to the little girl that i am trying to help raise? Absolutely.  Horrified that she is a constant reminder that marriages, and true love isn’t guaranteed? Of course.

But I am also grateful.

Grateful that she taught you how to love.  Grateful that she was weak enough to let you go, and showed you that loving a strong woman is a good thing.  I am grateful that she has shown me what it is like to remain humble when everyone around me disregards my feelings.  I am grateful that she gave you a girl, a beautiful little girl to love and to hold on to when the boys get too rough.  I am grateful that she has given my son a friend. Grateful that she has become your past, and I am your future. I am forever grateful that she has made me strong enough to handle a life I never imagined.

So yes, I get this feeling.  I get this feeling because I can not imagine how I am going to get through this life with her having a hold on everyone.  She is not someone I can ignore, she will never be.

Because I am human, I will always get this feeling. I will suffocate at the sound of her name, and roll my eyes when I hear her voice.  Because of my undying love for you, I will sit and listen to stories about her life. I will listen to how she is a queen in your daughters eyes, holding in my emotions when I am not preferred.  I will drive the miles, and answer the phone, and open the door.  I will allow the pictures and the discussion and the changing of schedules.

Always, with these knots.

 

 

I am not a public defender.

I am not a public defender.

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I am not a public defender.

I do not wake up each morning, and lace up my boots.  I don’t wait for a radio to tell me the next location of some rational emergency happening in the surrounding community.  I have never sat behind a computer preparing myself for when the phone rings, calming myself and my voice before the storm. I have not dispatched anyone to a loose dog, or a house fire, or a life alert button being pushed. I don’t carry a gun, I don’t call out license plates that look suspicious.  I have no clue who sits behind bars waiting for trial, or know the roster of who has court today.  I have not listened to my co-workers being attacked, knowing I was unable to help.

There are no major events in my life that I can pinpoint for depression.  No scenes that I have run up on, gun drawn.  No accidents that I have arrived at, not being able to help a dying victim.  My children won’t gloat about what line of work I do.  It will not be part of projects, or of meme’s shared around the internet.   I have not walked on foreign land, following orders of the Commander In Chief.  I have not witnessed anyone die, or been a shoulder to cry on for a stranger.  I do not receive thank you cards from people addressed to my business place.  I have never taken a parents child away from them.  I don’t make the front page of the newspaper. Being ridiculed for my decisions by people I don’t know, for a law I didn’t write is never in my daily schedule.  When I die, my funeral will not be surrounded with people of whom I do not know, the obituary having a gleaming report of my accomplishments.

But what I do is my own kind of important.

I listen for footsteps upstairs all through the night.  I pay attention to my children crying, about nothing, multiple times a day.  I make sure the oldest has socks, when he loses 15 pair.  Our cupboards have food, fancy or not.  I make sure the bills are paid, and when it seems impossible they all get paid, I find a way. I align our calendar, making sure we can be at every event, no matter how small or ridiculous it seems. I keep my schedule open, for when the ex’s find a way to shut our children out, we can be there.   I pick up the endless mess around the house, even if it isn’t mine.  I schedule pictures, and birthday parties.  I make sure holidays are remembered, and an impossible number of sports and activities are signed up for.  Clothes are washed and trash is taken out.  Dinner is made making sure that each of the 5 breathing bodies in our house receive what they prefer.

I put on my decent clothes, while making sure the kids have done the same.  I brush my teeth, double checking for the smell of fresh breath of 3 others.  I style my hair, and cut theirs.  I go to work.  A work I love to do, even though the pay sucks, and the benefits are minimal.  I just punch in numbers, and pick up the phone, but each of those numbers help people survive.  I make sure that the individuals that can’t pay their bills, or brush their teeth, or shop for themselves have a way to do so.  53 sets of teeth I am in someway responsible for.

I am not a public servant, but my actions do matter.

*image taken by Miranda Young Photography*

 

I Stay Up

I Stay Up

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I stay up.  Longer than you would ever dream I do.  Not because I want to, but as the months have gone on I have gained an incredible need to watch over you.  To protect you, at your most vulnerable moments.  The only time of day that you feel comfortable enough to let your guard down, I stay up.

I lay here, just watching you breath.  Paying attention to how the air flows and continues to hint at life in the darkness of the night.  Even through my tired eyelids, your chest rising and falling is a relief.  A relief that I get to witness you in my life for one more moment, a moment that I may never get again.

I knew your career would be dangerous, an every day reminder that evil exists.  I may not see it, or even hear about it, but I can feel the effects every time your eyelids squint and your breathing hitches just enough to jolt my closing eyes back to your face. That same face is the only face that keeps me sane.  In the daylight it is strong, steady and never hints at a compromised view of the perfect little dome of happiness we place ourselves in. Our secret world filled with the laughter of the children, and the sarcastic comments showing our random kind of love.  A love that does not waiver.  But during nightfall, that face shows the toll that this life has placed on your soul.

Sometimes, I think I am just over-thinking.  Worrying about the possibility of things that could stop this symphony of  respiratory intensity.  Caught up in the numbers that cross my social feed.  The numbers of men and women, bodies, thrown to the side by a society that fails to see the effects of hate.  Fails to see the toll its taken on the family, friends, and individuals still walking this line.

In a few short hours you will wake up unaware of how much time I spent locked in my own mind.  The strong features in that face returning to a stance that shows no fear.  You will place a vest on your chest, protecting a heart that can not be replaced.  You will holster the gun on your hip, boots showing the wear from previous shifts on your feet, and a golden badge on your shirt.  Our son will hold on to that badge, as he laughs at the way your face expresses happiness.  I will hear you call on your radio 444 10-8, and in return I silently listen to the voice of someone that has sworn to take over the job of protecting you.  Take watch over the man that I stay awake for.

In dispatch, I must trust.