The divorce is final.
Signed.
Stamped.
Closed.
But nothing about it feels settled.
The paperwork is done—
but my heart’s still
asking questions
no one can answer.

Could we have saved it?
Did she pull away too soon?
Did I put too much on her shoulders?
Was it the trauma,
the ghosts in my sleep,
the version of me
that couldn’t let her in?

Or were we already drowning
before either of us knew how to swim?

Some days, I replay it
like an old tape
on loop.
What if I had reached for her hand
instead of shutting the door?
Broken down my wall of pain?
What if she had stayed
one more night?
One more try?

What if I asked for help earlier?

Could we have saved, with guidance, a life most dream of?

But I can’t live in the what-ifs.

Because even before the marriage ended—
I was unraveling. Subconsciously begging for help.

Before the ring,
before the vows,
there was fire.

Guatemala.
Orders.
Blood.
Thoughts that don’t leave
even after the mission ends.

I carried things home
you can’t pack in a duffel.
But I tried. For decades.

I came back with a silence
that didn’t fully allow for love.
And a guilt
Trauma that made me flinch
when my son cried too loud.

Then came the scrubs. And another deployment.
Hospitals. Sand. The bridge. COVID.
Dead bodies stacked on tired ones.
Loss after loss. Screams. Blood.
you weren’t allowed to cry about.
I showed up every day,
but somewhere along the line,
I stopped feeling like I was there.

PTSD doesn’t care what role you play.
It waits in the corners,
feeds on the quiet,
and it doesn’t stop
just because you want to be strong.

I tried to handle it.
Tried to muscle through.
But it was the VA
that finally sat me down and said:
“You don’t have to do this alone.”

Paperwork.
Waitlists.
More paperwork.
Therapy.
Tears.
Emotions.
And still—
hope.

Not perfect,
not pretty,
but real.
And real was something
I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Now—
I’m just a man.
Not a soldier.
Not a husband.
Not a savior.
Just…
a father.
A soul trying to rebuild
with trembling hands.

And still—
I want to share this life
with someone.
Someone close,
but not yet known.
Someone who sees the scars
and doesn’t flinch.

Someone who hears me say:
“This is me.
Still wondering if love
could’ve lived
if I’d been whole.

Still becoming
someone better.
For my son.
For myself.
Maybe even…
for you.

Would you want
to know me too?”

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.