Fueled by Spite and Sparkles: Episode Three

“The Snow Was Deep, But So Was the Shit I Was In”

So, there I am…Seventeen. New baby. New husband. New life. Two thousand miles away from everything I knew, all my family, friends, support system. Just me, trying to juggle high school, bills, cooking, motherhood, and military life. And let me tell you…I was absolutely lost.

Thank Goddess my son was chill AF (still is, actually).But when he was about six months old, he started crying nonstop. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I was terrified. Days went by. I was spiraling. Luckily, my mom came to visit. Ten minutes. That’s all it took her to figure out he was teething. Yup. Just teething.

We joked about the old wives’ tale “rub whiskey on the gums.” But neither of us could legally buy whiskey, so… yeah. Parenting at 17 is wild.

School, Survival, and Splitting (Sort Of)

About two months into military life, I got hit with the news:To graduate in New York, I’d need summer school after junior year, a full senior schedule, and summer school after senior year. Apparently, New York teaches more than the Midwest. Who knew?

So, we made a plan. I’d move back to Missouri, graduate early, save money. He’d live in the barracks. We weren’t separating, we were working toward our goals. At least, that’s what I thought.

Pretty sure he was sleeping with anything that moved while I was gone. I was naive. I was in love. I let him break my heart over and over again.

So many people tried to warn me, tried to tell me he was doing shady shit. But to me, this man could do no wrong. He told me he’d never lie to me...and I believed him.

High School Nursery & BBQ Hustle

Back home, my son went to school with me. Yes, my high school had a nursery. And yes, it saved my ass.

Some people think that’s trashy. That it encourages teen pregnancy. But guess what? Shit happens. And that nursery helped me graduate.

It wasn’t just babysitting, it was preschool. The kids were learning. I got to see my son at lunch and study hall. It was better than any preschool I could afford.

I got my job back at the local BBQ joint. Worked to pay for gas, childcare, and everything Bubs and I needed. My mom (again, MVP of my life) let us live with her, no rent, just love. My son bounced between his three grandmas while I worked.

And I did it. I graduated early at semester, senior year. Take that, bitches. To everyone who said I wouldn’t make it: Fuck you.

Back to New York… and Into the Storm

I packed our shit and moved back to New York. Ready to be a family. Ready for happiness.

Except I moved back in the dead of winter. Holy hell—I’ve never seen so much snow in my life. We had to shovel our roof. We had one car. I stayed home with our son to save money.

Let me tell you something: I was not built to be a stay-at-home mom. Hardest job I’ve ever had. I’d go stir crazy every other day. Pick fights with my husband just because he got to leave the house and talk to people. I felt like a prisoner.

We lived like that for a few months. Then he got orders to go overseas. This was during the 2004–2006 ear. Middle East. Shit was going down.

Deployment, Distance, and Emotional Whiplash

Once he left for deployment, I packed up again. Moved back home. No support in New York. No friends. No community. Still living on E4 pay.

He was gone for over two tours. Came home for two weeks. Then gon

e again.

Our relationship? A fucking rollercoaster. One day he loved me. The next, I was apparently sleeping with every man in town, and the next town over.

We wrote letters. Eventually, he got a phone. Some of those conversations still haunt me.

I’ve never been in a relationship like that since. Slut-shamed constantly. And at that point, he was literally the only man I’d ever slept with.

I still have some of those letters. Occasionally, I pull them out and get flashbacks of how bipolar that relationship really was.

There were conversations where he claimed our son wasn’t his. His mom had to shut that down, because our son is his spitting image. Sometimes she’d see old photos and get confused. Now that my son’s older, I’ll see a pic and think it’s his father. It used to piss me off how much they looked alike. I did all the work, look like me, damn it!

It doesn’t bother me anymore. I’ve put those thoughts to rest. My son is handsome, kind, and nothing like his father. And that makes me happy.

There were conversations where I was “wasting all his money” and “being a little ho.” Apparently, Jody came to my bedroom every night.

He would blamed his entire fucked-up life on me. Said if he’d never met me, he wouldn’t have had to take care of a kid. Wouldn’t have joined the military. Wouldn’t be overseas.

Then the next day, he’d send a letter or call with the sweetest apologies. Telling me how much he loved me. How he couldn’t live without me. How if I left him, he’d step on an IED, just to end the pain.

These conversations were just the beginning of the darkness that followed us for the next decade.

Trauma, Truth, and the Next Chapter

No lies—I have a soft spot for veterans. The man who left wasn’t the man who came back. War changed him. And because of that, it changed me.

The next seven years of our marriage? A battlefield of its own. Demons. Drama. Damage.

But guess what? I fucking survived it.