Snipers

By our WGYG relationships correspondent: Anonymous

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The other day I looked at the calendar with a jolt. 17th October – why did that date have such significance for me? I racked my brains for a while and then moved on into the everyday routine of stuff and things, my own question forgetten in the play of life. Then, over coffee with a colleague, it hit me. I abruptly realised that this was the date I married my first wife, it was my ex-wedding anniversary, a date swept aside for so many years but now recalled from past oblivion.

The realisation colored my mood for the rest of the day and plunged me into an intense bout of memories. I actually calculated that it would have been our 30th anniversary on that day, but now it was just another day of no particular significance. 30th anniversary – what’s that? Not gold (50) or silver (25). Maybe some intermediate precious metal or rare earth. I settled on Irridium. It was my Irridium wedding day and for some reason the thought had swept into my life with great force, demanding examination.

That evening I decided to get drunk on my own in the apartment, raise a glass of celebration to failure and amnesia. I went through a strangely maudlin phase when something clicked and out popped fully-formed memories, replete with sound, color, dialogue, smells, tastes and raw vicious emotion. Long suppressed, or forgotten, these vivid memories held me entranced like some long-lost movie favorite, digitally remastered.

And then I remembered the snipers.

The long period of our on-off separation (18 months) could best be characterised as trench warfare. Each side dug in, immovable, intractable, each yards progress bought with massive pain and loss, each assault beaten back, total stalemate at enormous emotional cost. We lost track of our goals, keeping the war going became the goal and we forgot what life was all about. Just one more push, the final breakthrough would be made, victory assured.  But the real fighting was done by the snipers at night.

They are killers. Their only function is targeted homicide inflicting maximum pain and humiliation. They know where to shoot with their laser-guided sights and they know just when to pull the trigger. They are the true professionals of marital warfare.

They work like this. When the battle is at its height the sniper takes aim and, waiting his time to the split second, pulls the trigger and hits the target dead on. Remember that time you acted disgracefully at her bosses party, got sick to the stomach and had to be taken home? I embarrassed her so bad, it was then that she realised we had no future together.  Bullseye. The Red command center takes a direct hit, the assault falters, communications down the line crack up, urgent regrouping takes place under smoke.

The only possible response is return sniper fire. Dig deep, drag something up take careful aim and bang – the Blue command center takes a hit, a dum-dum designed to maim and cause maximum pain. Its no wonder I took affairs when you’re so frigid. A trump card which, once played, can never be retrieved.

We're trying to sort things out

Its a vicious war, anything goes. There’s no real point in the war, but the fighting is dirty, and the combatants get down mean and personal. Its only aim is to claim moral rights, to prove that you weren’t the one that started an unjust campaign and therefore any means of defensive response is justified. MAD – Mutually Assured Destruction. So much heat, so little light.

And when the war is over and the dust settles we start to pick up and get on with our lives. But for long periods after the snipers are still in play, indirectly in memory. We replay battle scenes, repeat the sniper attacks over and over, consider the snipers we never deployed, ponder the timing and pacing of failed sniper attacks, and lick the wounds of raw direct hits. Armchair generals refighting ancient tactics and strategies in fantasy combat.  Until eventually the snipers go back into their boxes (or should that be barracks?) and life moves on.

So when the anniversary comes around unbidden you stand in shock. Did I really unleash those forces to cause maximum hurt? What exactly was I fighting for? How did war break out? How did it end? Did I really fight that dirty when I can’t remember what I hoped to achieve? Time blurs the raw edges and erases the urgent immediacy of old warfare, and we ponder who that person was that was us.

And the goat-getter? Did I really fight so dirty and mean over something I can’t really remember with a woman whose face I can barely envisage even as she was then? Yes I surely did, and it  all seems so long ago. But make no mistake. The snipers may be back in barracks but they are a rapid deployment force, fully trained and ready for active service at a moments notice. We all have them. The deadly reservists of psychological warfare, fit to fight again at a moment’s notice. They still don’t get it. There is no victory in wars like these, no winners, no losers. Only survivors.

For the last line, here’s a tune I played over and then some at the time.

Oh whatever makes her happy/ I won’t stand in the way/  Oh  the bitter taste still lingers on/ From the night I tried to make her stay//