My Cathartic Book

Many people possess maturity & a savvy knowledge of life at a young age, say, in their teens, early 20s.  Some are still quite immature, even at the age of 25.

I was somewhere in the middle.

It was when I was new to the USAF, barely 19 years of age, newly assigned to Hickam AFB, Hawai'i. I had a deliciously tormenting crush on someone who, as is sometimes said, 

"didn't even know I was alive." 

Or, so, it seemed to me, at the time.

The residual feelings of my crush on him lasted long after I had left Hickam AFB, long after I had married, separated from the military, had 4 children. Even now, it still, very softly lingers.

*******I divorced in 2007 for my own personal reasons.
NOTHING at all to do with my "crush".*************

The best way I can describe it is that I didn't want the crush ~

It wanted me! 

Even when the object of my crush clearly did not. The residual feelings stayed with me a long time.

Originally, I thought I was writing the book manuscript for future publication. 
The beauty of writing the manuscript is that it was more cathartic in helping me to resolve my feelings than it was anything. 
For the most part, it helped. It would have been nice if it quashed every last shred of how I felt.

Presently, I am grateful for what I have. A bittersweet memoir.

I apologize for the poor quality of the book's cover. When you see it, you will realize what I'm apologizing for.

This is only the prologue.

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                    ~ Sweet Liberty ~

Coming of Age as an American Servicewoman

Maybe he will recognize himself in these pages of my memoirs; maybe he will shrug it off, explaining it to himself as coincidence. He may never hear of my book. This is not the type of book a man would pick up to read. With the little I knew of him, at least. this is not the kind of book HE would pick up to read.

This is a story of no-closure and unrequited passion. 

I have carried it in my heart, in my mind, it would not leave me. It would torment and tease me, waking me after having crept its' way into my dreams. Just when I thought I had solved the what-ifs and whys, it came to me again and again to cajole me into reliving it all over again. I carried the feeling with me for so long, my thought is that by writing my manuscript I might be able to create for myself, the closure I was denied, then, be at peace.

If he had been a man who sought to use me, treat me unkindly, toss me aside, I could have easily written him off with, 

"What a jerk, I hope he rots!"

He wasn't like that.

He was thoughtful, kind, compassionate, intelligent, humorous, mischievous and so mysterious to me from the beginning.

I had plenty of male attention. Often, too much and not the good kind, either. It was the damaging kind that gives PTSD.

I had a few good guys paying attention to me. If I had wanted, I could have had a date for any occasion that I wished for.

So, why? Why, HIM? 

Why did he intrigue me? It was as if I had radar for him. If he was nearby, I knew it, my heart would begin to pound out of control. My palms would sweat, my knees were jelly. From that place inside my soul that every woman who loves a man of his caliber, knows, it would start. It was a vulnerable trembling and softness in a reaction to his presence which I experienced so powerfully around him.

Was this what it was like to have "chemistry" with someone? If it only goes one way was it still "chemistry"? Did it, in fact, go both ways between us or did he simply feel that I was an annoyance? 

An immature young woman with a crush on the enigma presented by the display of a Pararescue hunk in a flight suit & maroon beret?

I know for a fact that he had a presence like no other I had ever felt before or since. 

It was a raw and wild sexuality kept in check only by military bearing. Rules he had to live by, grueling extensive training, phenomenal life experiences that made him very nearly super-human. Part of the course which all selectees must pass is casually referred to as Superman School. The euphemism fits.

He was so much more than a well trained PJ.

I could tell from observing him that he had his own personal code of conduct that respects the American flag, his mother, the preciousness of the lives he helped to save.

After all, the motto of the Pararescue Squadrons, or the P.J.'s as they are affectionately referred to, is:

"That Others May Live"