The Fall
As far as foolish decisions go—if ‘m being overly critical of my behavior—this was one of my worst decisions. However, if I consider my mental state at the time, and the depression I was trying so desperately to stave off and avoid, this was most definitely a cry for help. As I alluded to in the previous installment, my mind was flooded with thoughts of rage, disappointment, and feelings of being trapped. I consider myself only mildly—and by mildly, I mean in the lightest terms—claustrophobic. Although this phobia isn’t in the physical sense, it manifests in the metaphysical. When my mind, heart, and soul feel trapped, the effects become physical for me. My anxiety goes through the roof.
The decision to join the military was partially inspired by the belief that it would give my flatlining life the defibrillation it desperately required; it did, in a sense. I made some very interesting educational and career choices in college, and the military provided me the avenue to—rather than “right” a misperceived wrong—choose an alternate path. I had wanted to be a neurosurgeon at one point, but when I reflect on my past self, I question whether I had the empathy and compassion to be a good one. I don’t like the person I almost became. The military—for better or for worse—saved me from my own self-destruction… or so I had thought.
The realization that my false expectations of the military clashed with reality sent me on a downward spiral. I didn’t self-medicate, but I did start down a path of self-sabotage. I still showed up to work, but I stopped trying. I stopped caring as much. This decision to give up wasn’t solely rooted in the fact that I didn’t have permission to rent my own apartment. I think the decision to “give up” was the fear that despite my age and maturity, the Army and my superiors still saw me as a child. They treated me like one. My rank was a false representation of my age, maturity, and my integrity. I hated that. It burned me to my core. I had always dreamt of living in Europe and the military stationed me there. Living in the barracks with a roommate who was ten years younger than me, however, was not part of my grand scheme. Having to request permission to cross the border into another country for the day… that was not part of the plan. Having to notify my supervisors—some who were also much younger than I was at the time—was not part of the plan. Being a grown man… on my own… thriving in Europe… that was beautiful; having glorified babysitters was ruining my dream.
I went searching for answers. At the time, I believed—and still do—in meditation, prayer, self-reflection, all of it. I sought answers there… but I couldn’t find any. My prayers went unanswered, although now I believe the noise in my head was drowning out whatever answers I was waiting for. I wasn’t consistent enough in my meditation to help quiet the noise. So… I got in the car…
I won’t go into detail about exactly what happened when we got to our destination, as I want to preserve and respect the privacy of the individuals that I got in the car with. We drove to a place that we didn’t get approval to be in. We came back with things we should not have had in our possession. I think the worst part of all of this is that my decision was based solely on seeking answers. My decision to get into the car… it got me into a great deal of trouble. I almost lost my career because of it. I almost lost my freedom. The military saw what I did as a criminal act. Let’s just say I purchased an item that is often used to treat people with anxiety and depression. I didn’t even break the seal on my purchase. I didn’t get an opportunity to use my purchase. The military thought differently, though. My therapist told me that my mistake was choosing external sources to find answers and solve my internal conflicts. I believed, at the time, that she was spot-on with her assessment. When I think back now, however, I think it’s hypocritical that our society is so dependent on, and the pharmaceutical industry is bolstered by synthesized “external sources” to solve mental health issues.
I didn’t get kicked out of the military. Although I wasn’t charged with anything at all, I didn’t escape the situation unscathed. The Army took my rank, they took my money, they took my time, and they took my confidence. Unfortunately, the situation I and my “friends” were in, was novel. Our leadership had no idea how to properly handle our situation. Rather than give us the punishment equal to our misstep, they sought to make an example of us. For almost thirty months after my decision to get into the car, I walked around with no rank. I remember the day they aggressively ripped my rank off my chest. I spent almost three years walking around with a vacancy where my rank should have been, and everyone who saw me would stare. Some people remarked, “hey, you forgot your rank.” Some thought they were helping me by reminding me that my rank was missing.
Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter partly inspired the design for my clothing. I mention that because the only word that I can think of now to describe my fall from grace and the embarrassment and shame I was subjected to, is irony. In my own personal story, I was the “adulteress” walking around with a red “A” painted on my clothing… except, instead of an “A”, I was walking around with a blank piece of Velcro that once bore the rank I hated so vehemently. The low rank that prevented me from “being all that I could be in the Army” was now gone.
The funniest part about all of this is that the car ride was supposed to take me to a destination where I would get help with solving my problem. I would finally know what my purpose in life was. I would finally find peace and start to rebound from my looming depression. The car ride brought me somewhere, all right… it brought me to one of the lowest points in my life and the absolute lowest point in my military career.
More to follow.
