American Wife (37 page)

They've both matured since then, and it's amazing to see not just how good friends they are but how protective they can be of each other. They almost never even raise their voices to each other. They have filled each other's void with laughter, kindness and compassion—their shared experience of pain bringing them even closer than they'd been before.

In late fall, I had a phone session with my Oregon therapist. For some reason, we started talking about happiness.

“Chris achieved happiness so easily,” I said to him. “And I don't.”

The counselor interrupted me. “Do you know how he did?”

I started to answer that I didn't. But then I realized that Chris had set out to do many things, and he'd achieved them. He'd wanted to be a rodeo competitor, work as a cowboy, join the SEALs. He'd done all of those. What's more, he excelled at them.

Those achievements made him happy, or at least confident enough that he could be happy.

As we talked, the counselor noted that I, too, had my own achievements. But I told him—as he already knew—that I wanted to do so many more things. And I always do.

Was that a reason not to be happy?

The counselor pointed out that I tend to focus on what I haven't done, rather than what I've achieved. My thinking runs: If I do A, then B, then C, then I'll be happy. But when I achieve A, rather than saying “Yay!” I say, “I haven't done B and C, so I can't be happy.”

Why focus on what I haven't done? Why not celebrate those things I have done, even as I look forward to doing other things on my list? Those achievements are accomplishments—I should feel good about them, confident I can do more.

And happy. Or at least happier.

Another lesson.

There are other components to happiness beyond achievement. “Smaller” things, like carving out time for workouts as well as the kids, are actually big things when they are added up. Yet I often feel those things are distractions from what I really want to achieve. Blockers, rather than stepping-stones.

Obviously, the wrong way to think about them.

On paper, it doesn't seem like a very profound realization. But put into practice, it means that I—we, all of us—have to keep things in the larger perspective. If you want to achieve a lot, then the reality is that you are
always
going to have something else you want to do. Keep trying to achieve, but don't beat yourself up for not getting everything done. The “smaller” things are just as essential to happiness.

So: the key to my happiness is appreciating what I have and what I've done, and realizing that I'll always have something else to do.

Profound?

No, but empowering.

I might never have realized it had I not been grieving so deeply. I would have felt silly, really, talking about achieving happiness when Chris was alive. Why wouldn't I be happy with a great husband and wonderful children?

I
was
happy. But not at the deepest level.

I'm not there yet, obviously. But it is possible now.

And yet I still wonder:

How can I possibly be happy with Chris gone?

It always seems to come back to some variation of that question. Can I miss Chris and still have a complete life? Can I grieve and not be swallowed up by depression? Can I love him, yet walk through the rest of this world without him?

Adversity—the court cases, loss, simple problems and life-altering ones—taught me I could survive. Feeling the pain every day taught me finally that I didn't need it to prove I loved Chris. I had too many other proofs of that: the kids, our memories, my own changes and perseverance.

There are still tears. But maybe they don't bar the way. A friend was over the other night and we watched an old video of Bubba's first few months. The beginning had many photos of Chris and the baby—so many photos that I was taken by surprise and felt like crying.

Ordinarily, I would have fought to hold the tears back. But somehow that night I felt it was right to just grieve. I reached my hand out to my friend; she took it and held it while the video played.

I was exhausted at the end of the video, and yet I felt as if I'd passed some sort of test. I haven't lost my grief or found true happiness, but maybe I understand both better.

THE MOVIE

In early November 2014, Warner Bros. called and told me that
American Sniper,
the movie, was ready for screening in L.A.

Even though I knew everyone had worked very hard to get the essence of Chris's life into it, I was still afraid that it wouldn't represent him properly.

But I had to see it.

They said I could bring anyone I wanted with me.

“Anyone?” I asked.

“Well . . .”

I thought of 180 people who I just had to have with me—relatives, friends, people who knew Chris, people who helped me in some way. They needed to be there. All of them.

The producers told me very gently that the first screening was really an experience I needed to go through with only a very small handful of friends, if not alone.

I invited the calmest people I knew—Melanie, my brother-in-law Stewart, and a SEAL friend and his wife who have been very close over the years. I steeled myself and went to the theater. It was the day before Veterans Day.

I cried as soon as the movie started. Soon, though, the tears dried as I watched the movie, absorbing everything.

It was beautiful, everything I'd hoped. Bradley did such a tremendous job—there were points when I thought it was Chris I was seeing on the screen, not an actor. Sienna was wonderful. Jason, the screenwriter, and Clint did a masterful job capturing the essence of his life.

If you're looking for a movie on the SEALs, or a guide to battlefield tactics—that's not what the film is about. Yes, there are parts that didn't happen the way they are portrayed in the book. But if you're looking for the deeper truth about what our veterans go through, what their families go through, it's all there. They definitely got Chris.

I felt a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. It's a great movie, true to its subject and true to Chris. I'm so grateful to everyone involved.

P.S.: Warner Bros. arranged for a special showing in Texas to thank those 180 people later on.
Thanks, WB!

SIDE EFFECTS

As the year came to a close, I struggled with smoking. I worked to get my business sense back and take more control of my life. I learned that grieving didn't have to mean 24/7 pain and depression. The charity was nearing reality.

There was another lesson I had to learn: working isn't a substitute for breathing. Being a workaholic is ultimately destructive.

Since Chris's death, I'd worked nonstop at being a mom, organizing the charity, reviewing legal documents, preparing speeches, the books . . . I thought that was the way to do things: sprint to a finish, then rest. But life isn't a sprint; it's more a marathon. And once you finish one project, there's another. Some never finish—the kids will always be my kids. So I had to learn to trot rather than sprint. Working so hard and so late that you sleep through three alarms in the morning is not good.

There's a pun in there about it being a three-alarm disaster, but I can't seem to laugh about it yet.

I tried sleeping more. I tried slowing down. I got an assistant. And I leaned, heavily, on Stewart.

It was as I was learning a new pace that something odd began to happen: some people seemed to feel hurt if I didn't take all of their advice, or decided to do things in a different way than they wanted. As time went on, if I no longer needed quite as much help as I had a few months before, they somehow felt hurt.

I was surprised. Good friends thinking I was dissing them because I didn't need them as much?

Really?

Yes. Simple remarks to the effect of “I need a little space” became unintentional slights. If I wanted to have some time with the kids or just be alone, I took it for granted that people would realize it wasn't about them. But I was wrong.

I certainly didn't mean to insult people or turn my back on friends. I had to regroup and reach out, as I imagine they originally reached out to me, and make an effort to reassure them that I still needed them as friends, even if I couldn't talk to them every day or answer their emails or texts right away.

Someone said, “When is the old Taya coming back?”

The old Taya, unfortunately, is gone. But the friendships she made remain critical to me. I realize that I have to make more of an effort to keep my friends close, even as I struggle to balance my life.

It was another lesson: you can't take people for granted. But it was also a lesson that ran both ways: my friends, too, had to come to terms with a friendship that was still deeply emotional and important, but one that had less physical time to share.

I imagine many women have this problem. It doesn't have an easy solution—and won't until there are forty-eight hours in every day and ten days in every week. We talk, and somehow struggle to grow together.

I truly wish there were more time in the day. I guess everyone wishes that.

One thing I appreciate about living in a small community: people respect my privacy. From casual acquaintances to total strangers, I'm rarely bothered in town. Every so often someone will come up to me in Walmart or a store in town and mention that their husband went to high school with Chris, but that happens to everyone.

The thing that's different is their next line, which is always something like:

Bless you, and bless your heart.

It makes me doubly thankful to live here.

REMINDERS, EVERY DAY

Little things.

I drive by the funeral home where he was taken several times a week, if not a day. Ordinarily, these trips mean nothing. But one time not long ago I happened to glance at the building and my mind was filled with a vision of him laid out on the table, his body being prepared.

I started crying. I was still crying when I got on the freeway a short time later.

“You're gone,” I whispered. “I can't believe you're gone.”

I can't believe it. I can't believe he's gone.

I repeated the words over and over, until I started to hear something else above the rumble of the tires and the rush of the wind.

I'm still here. Always with you.

The other day I went to the pizza parlor with a friend and our kids. We ordered pizza and sat down.

Suddenly a song came on the sound system there.

There was a refrain about driving all night to get to his lover. It reminded me so much of Chris. He'd literally done that when we first met.

I crumbled.

“Just a song that got to me,” I told the others through my tears. “I'm okay.”

I ran through the streets the night of the murder, not knowing what else to do with myself. I metaphorically ran—overworking myself—for months and months after the murder, not knowing what else to do.

I'm still running, though I hope with more purpose. I try to pace myself more. I don't know sometimes if I'm just pushing to get things done, or if in some crazy way the feeling of being overworked has become a way of keeping Chris alive.

Images and memories hit me all the time. Before, I tried to ignore them. Now, I acknowledge them. A helicopter passes overhead and I remember being at the memorial. I see an actor with blondish hair on TV, and I remember touching Chris's hair in the casket.

The psychiatrist told me the other day I was nowhere near done grieving.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“No. Nowhere near.”

And yet, I realize how incredibly blessed I am. Truly. The kindness of others, the comfort of God—I appreciate those things more fully now. The beauty I have seen in the world buoys my faith. If it's not yet my motivation, I can at least think that perhaps someday it will be.

All of our stories are really tales of love, struggle, faith, and perseverance. They are all intermingled. Happiness comes with faith and compassion. Success means getting and giving a helping hand. Finding the strength within ourselves to overcome adversity can lead us to the point of recognizing that everyone has done or will try to do that.

I look at our wedding photo often. Many things strike me—how young we were, especially.

Am I still the same person?

Yes, and no. I'm much older, obviously. And if not wiser, at least more experienced.

The strength I had then? Some days I'm close, but not always.

Do I have the same optimism about the future? That one's hard to say.

I know my faith is stronger, and my blessings more plentiful—from our marriage I have two wonderful children, and my circle of friends has grown exponentially.

If there is any lesson to be drawn from that photo, it's this: You don't know what the future holds.

The other day, Angel found her old memory box toy and took it out to show me. It's a kind of recorder where you answer certain questions and then keep them as a keepsake.

“I want to share these with you,” she said.

I listened to the questions and her answers, recorded some time before.

“Name your happiest memory,” said the machine.

Angel talked about going on a roller coaster with her dad shortly before he died.

“What makes you sad?” asked the machine.

“I miss my dad,” she replied.

I listened some more. Her most powerful memories were all about Chris. And yet her voice was always positive, and even when I asked about everything she remembers, she sounded genuinely happy. I know she misses Chris deeply, and grieves in her own way, but she is also unfailingly grateful for having known him. She is happy, and she is optimistic about the future. She has her dad in her heart, always.

And Bubba? He's always remembering the times when Chris made him laugh. Some of his happiest moments come when someone tells a funny story about his dad.