Monday, February 14, 2011
My husband is deployed to Afghanistan. I have been enduring a lot of emotional abuse from one of my current handlers, an inexperienced little prick of a boy. It's very distressing. He hates me and I can sense it. I'm in an airport, with my "husband". He had no name; he was just my husband and that was all I needed to loyally wait as he was redeployed or shipped out or whatever scenario it was to emotionally deride me. I was taking it in stride, though, and actually now that I think about it was not that upset. Just kind of there. He walked away, perhaps to board the plane. I'm not sure. I remember barely that it was communicated to me that he was leaving for whatever, so I guess that was the trigger moment well times. And as he walked out of my line of sight, another man walked by it. This man had an extra layer of clothing, as if a pulled up robe, and a flash or red or yellow-orange underneath as if on a vest or something like that. He was my target. My mind zeroed in on this person, who was now my focus, as he walked through the scanners and down into the terminal areas of the airport. Yes, there were a lot of other people there but they were just a background hum. And then, when my target was gone, I returned to my waiting status. Suddenly without pause I'm in a hall and there's a map on the wall; one of the maps where the countries are in various colors. Like the one on my wall except it was much bigger. When I noticed it, I thought I was looking at my own map at first but then noticed I was in a back hall somewhere in the airport. I automatically zeroed into where Tim, my real husband, is right now: the Afghanistan area. But that was wrong, it was not where my eyes wanted to be. So they went south, and then skipped over when I hit water, and then south until I came upon a tiny country somewhere in Africa. By Kenya. I calculated it. I read the country's name. I knew this country, and I triangulated back to AFghanistan thinking to myself, "It's south of him." And then I pointed with my right hand even though no one was there and said, "The man is going there." In my mind it was wrong that the map didn't have a pin to mark the place. So I focused harder. And while my "husband" reappeared from the right and affirmed with me that this was the place a pin appeared there. Maybe because of my imagination. Maybe because it was placed. There was a white box on the wall; it held a phone. My husband picked up the receiver, dialed a coujple of numbers, and said, "Is ____ there? Yes. Tell her Tim is on the phone for her." He paused a second because the person on the end of the line apparently didn't quite get it. "No," he said, "Tell her Code Tim. Code Tim! Yes. Yes. Tell her Tim wants to talk to her." And I thought to myself, "So this person is screening her calls." Then my husband looked back at me with a pleased expression. He didn't have a malicious look in his eye, not really. He's just a young kid that was given me to deal with. And he had said my husband's real name. So while he was talking, I was looking at one of my handlers and seeing his true face for the first time. A young kid, maybe 22. Maybe 25. Short brown hair in a tight cut. Not blue eyes. I would have noticed if they were blue. Very thin, angular face. And not a bad soul, either. A quiet soul and a voice he made very sweet because he was pleased with me and wanted me to think Tim was there to love me. And although he continued to play the part, I stood there assessing everything about him and studying even his tiny blue jeans and the white shirt he wore. Because he was not Tim, and it was important I knew who this person was that put himself in the place of my husband. After a mission with the military, be it MILAB or not, you brief the situation to a superior. My brief came a foggy bit later as I stood in front of a big wooden desk. There was a woman behind the desk that I was ... ooh I get it... the woman was probably the person my handler called on the phone... but anyway, I was standing in front of the desk and I thought she was Eve Lorgen. So I told it to her with phrasing such as, "I had this dream, and in the dream my husband wasn't my husband..." etc. And proceeded to tell her about the man in the airport and where he was going. One of these days they're going to do that and I'm going to hit the rant, "I love my work, you know? I love doing these things. I just don't want to do them like this anymore. I'll happily use my gifts for my country. But I want my days and memories, and I want to know what I'm doing and what the situation is. And a small stipend would help out a lot."