Life...

Let's take it back to square one and figure out how all this bullshit began...

I never knew why my toys needed to be in a certain order. I never knew why my hair had to be a certain way. I remember arranging my He-Man, G.I. Joe, Centurions, and the like, which seemed to never be in their proper order. All my mom asked me was to clean up my room. My room is clean. It doesn't feel right. Nothing feels right. It was time for school. My hair wasn't right. My clothes… what if my clothes created a catastrophe? What if I didn't have my toys in the right order? The horror that would descend the world would be my fault. 

So much yelling. There's no room for your problems. You're fine. You're just having a bad day. Decades would pass, and I would put on a mask as if it were Halloween. Surely the problem is you. Me! Your father believed in the bottle more than he believed in you. It was your fault. Your mom believed in herself more than you. It was your fault. Those thoughts are your fault. 

You may not understand why you have to leave a store a certain way or why you have to count to eight when setting your alarm clock. You count to eight while putting on deodorant. When you think about it, your hands shake. It's your fault. Thoughts of your childhood start to sink in. You block them out. They creep back in. Something is wrong with you. Figure it out. Figure it out on your own time. 

I can't sleep, too many voices trying to talk to me...

You can't tell her. She just married you! What will she think? Keep the feelings in; you're a pro. Suck it up; you're in the military, and there's no time for you to feel sorry for yourself. You got to be strong. 

It hurts like hell. For years I carried these feelings, these thoughts. Chaos. That's what it is; it's chaos. Since I love analogies, I guess the best one would be my mind feels like trying to eat soup with a fork. For decades I felt helpless. It's hard to put into words if you've never had to try and convince your mind that it's going to be ok. It's tough because, at times, it's your strongest opponent. It's your most devious opponent. For some, it's the most deadly. 

Is this the end of my reality?

When does it end? Your job doesn't allow you time to reflect and share. Your wife needs you to be the foundation. She's the stronger person. Everyone knows that. You're weak. 

I know it's scary, but everything will be alright.

I remember sitting in Shands Jacksonville and thinking to myself, holding her hand and thinking, what could I have done? Surely, there was something you could have done, right? I mean, you didn't park in the first spot you saw. You didn't go in the door that you first saw. This is your fault. Her pain is your pain. You caused this pain. Don't you dare feel sorry for yourself? Do you know how many people have it worse than you? 

I've fallen into self-defeat

Good news! I'm getting help; isn't that great? There's no time for your specific problems. Are you not a team player? Oh, are you sad? Don't be such a p*ssy! Back in my day, I wish I had all of your "problems." Once you deploy again, you'll forget about all of your "problems." You're right. It's my fault.

Lie awake in my miserable mind

For decades I battled with my thoughts. I grew up listening to words that cut my heart like unintentional daggers. My only resources were music, video games, and comics. It wasn't until I was in my 40s that I would begin my journey to understand my mind. Even after therapy sessions, I would still seek out the answers and truths to help sort out my thoughts. See, in my mind, my thoughts don't stop. Batman shares the same space as figuring out what's for dinner, my daughters' Girl Scouts' meetings, my meeting at work, and I need gas. Now, you may be saying to yourself that's every person in America. Do you know the feeling of driving around the gas station looking for the perfect pump? You can't use that one; what if a fire happens? Do you know what happens when you don't arrive specifically 15 minutes early to a meeting? God forbid you show up at a time not pre-arranged in your head. It's hell. And hell never stops.

 I know I was born, and I know that I'll die; the in-between is mine.

Where do we go from here? I retired from the Navy in 2017; for the most part, I enjoyed my time. I learned a lot, and the structure will always be a cornerstone for who I am. Since my retirement, I've spent a good portion dedicated to my mental health. I've become more comfortable with talking about my feelings and thoughts and bringing who I am to the forefront. There was a time that I would be mad at people for not knowing what I was going through. Now, I share what I'm going through. It hasn't been easy; just ask my wife. I'm not sure where I would be without her; I know a lot of folks say that, but in all sincerity, she's been heaven-sent. For instance, today, she stopped what she was doing to make sure I wasn't overdoing something because she knows I anxiety clean. She stopped what she was doing to make sure I was ok, and I wasn't triggered. My mind and my heart are forever in her debt. 

Bloodshot eyes, and I still feel fine.

I've struggled with obsessive-compulsive disorder since I was a teenager. I didn't know what it was, and my parents didn't have the time to figure it out. To this day, they can't be bothered by my issues or concerns. That's ok. I have a loving wife and daughter. I have a nerdy ass volunteer organization in Comic Watch that has been a godsend. I've reconnected with my older brother and his rad family. My mind might be a mess, but I've learned that surrounding myself with people that care is priceless. Not being able to sort out thoughts is f*cking scary, but having people help sort out those thoughts is immeasurable, even if they don't know it. 

I'm so worried to be alone.

Why write this? On the surface, it's just another blog post. A rambling. True on all accounts. I needed to get some stuff off my chest and to the surface. I wanted to get these words out to folks that may need them. I can't help but think about that kid that is sitting in their room and feeling alone and not sure where those intrusive thoughts are coming from. Maybe there's someone out there that will read this and start to take those small and frightening steps to seek out a safe and comforting circle of resources. It's ok if it doesn't work out at first; go at your own pace, your own time. Just like Mitch Luker said: I know it's scary, but everything will be alright. 

Her World

See the path cut by the moon
For you to walk on
See the waves on distant shores
Awaiting your arrival

Her arrival healed wounds. Her smile continues to be the brightest lite in this world. Her world. We promised to give her the emotional strength and support we never had so she could not only navigate her world but one day lead it. Be who she wants to be. Tell us who she wants to be in her world. We vowed to make her world safe. We may fail at making her world safe, but we fail her if we don't teach her how to love her world. Love who's in it. Love is love. 

Kids are a delicate blank slate. They look towards the home for the way life is to be lived. It's easy to project one's interpretation of life. Both its beauty and ugliness are at our disposal and ready to be handed down like a t-shirt. Handing off this knowledge to such a moldable mind can be tricky. You want to make sure the message gets through without getting skewed. The other day she saw two guys kiss and responded as any 5-year-old would. We used it as a teaching moment and let her know it doesn't matter if it's two girls or two boys. Love is love.

Both my wife and I grew up in Boomer households. Loving households but Boomer households. Since day one, we have been a united front on how we would raise our kids. As the saying goes..."give your kids what you never had." That phrase is going to mean different things to different people. As parents, we want to make sure she has room to express herself, feel safe about being who she is, and show her the love and emotional support we didn't have.

Since March of 2017, her world has looked different than it did that glorious day. My wife and I talk a lot about our daughter's future and its various aspects. What does her world look like in 2 years? 10 years? Will her lifestyle be illegal? Will she have to show identification to cross state lines? Will she be able to pick her own career? Will she be considered a citizen? 

It pains me that I can't protect her from everything. All I can do is give her the proper weapons to battle for those who look like her, don't look like her, and don't love her. If we taught her how to love, and she passes that on while holding hands in solidarity, in the battle for what is right, then maybe her world will be ok. 

I want her world to be hers. I want his world to be his. I want their world to be safe.    

  

Journey Through the Past: 20 Years of Military Service - Part 5: Everlasting Leadership

 Are we already at part 5! This is crazy because if you had told me that someday I would be bold enough to put these thoughts to paper and make them available to complete strangers, my anxiety alone would have shut down the idea and kept it as a thought with no action behind it; but here we are. I've enjoyed doing this, and for the folks keeping up with the series, I hope you'll continue to dig it. 

The last entry was pretty heavy, so I wanted to level things out a bit and highlight some rad folks that helped me during this time while making sure we're staying true to experiences. The military isn't for everyone; it was barely for me. But it wasn't 20 years of doom and stormy weather. For most of my career, I tried to stay as positive as possible. Some days were easier than others. One of my favorite aspects of my career in the Navy was the number of teachable lessons that were waiting to be experienced. These range from: should racial slurs be celebrated freely to life lessons that can be applied when you get out of the military and back into the real world. 

Getting sober was huge for my family and me, as it should be for anyone battling that demon. Now that my drinking was under control, I had to lose all the extra weight I had put on to pass the semi-annual physical fitness assessment. I was on the ever-so-thin line of being discharged due to my weight. Now, it was around this time that I was contemplating getting out of the Navy, but I didn't want my time to end like this. Not knowing where to turn or where to begin with this journey of saving my job, my supervisor simply said: "just start." At this time, I was on the USS GEORGE WASHINGTON (an aircraft carrier), which is a floating city of sorts. Food is served pretty much 24 hours (in some fashion), gyms, a library, and about 5,000 of your closet and, at times, stinkiest friends. So I got familiar with a treadmill, which unlocked my minor joy of running. Since that day, I have run a few half-marathons and numerous 5 and 10Ks. I don't do it too much nowadays because of my knees, but such is life, I suppose. 

That battle to lose weight was tough, but so was my supervisor. Her words were stern, but her soul and intentions were honest. Even when I didn't work for her and switched to a different department on the ship, she always managed to stop by and say a few words. To this day, I still think about her leadership and how she carried herself. She was the first person I had come in contact with who wanted to impart wisdom for the job and life. Until then, I wasn't too sure that was a thing. Is it possible to set aside the fact that the military isn't the be-all, end-all, and it's ok to teach authentic life lessons without worrying about how you can pad your evaluation with in-authentic mentoring bullets? YES! Is it popular? NO!

I remember getting my advancement eligibility reinstated after I had dropped the weight and passed my physical examination. She was the first in line to congratulate me. I'm not sure if I'm writing this today without her. She significantly shaped my outlook on the Navy and how people are treated. Now, I could sit here and give shitty example after shitty example, but I want this to be about her. I want this to be a reminder that the soul needs to eat and the importance of filling it with the right stuff. There are two kinds of people in the Navy. Those that share their knowledgeable souls and those that don't. 

Thanks for reading. 

Sitting on a Park Bench

I can't think of a time in my life when I wasn't scared of the future. All these events deserve their own space on the shelf: starting a new grade, high school graduation, or getting fired for the first time. Now I just have to figure out a way to make more space for more fears. I married five years ago, and Jacob will be here in four months; I've never known such fear or resentment. Fear, because I'm not sure if I can care for another life; I can barely take care of two. Resentment because Sarah is bound to find out I'm a fraud and a waste of her time. 

I used to come here as a kid and loved it. There was so much to do. Sometimes Sarah and I would just sit on the grass and look into the horizon and feel ourselves existing while the world went on by. That seems like such a long time ago. 

It looks surreal, lonely, and intimidating all at the same time. It's cold in my hand. I have fifteen tries to get it right, although I don't think it will ever be right. 

So I come here. This bench, this park, this sky. The same sky that she and I look at makes me wonder if she thinks the same things. Life is funny sometimes.

"Can I sit here?"

 I knew that voice. It was calming and loved. His slicked-back hair. His Dollar Tree aftershave smelled fabulous. I sat there in shock as my grandfather smiled and spoke.

"You don't have to say anything as I imagine this is odd," he consoled. "We all go through things in life that may seem like they weigh a thousand pounds, but when it comes time to lift them, they're light as a feather. I remember I was getting ready to ship out with the 101st Airborne and got held up in Georgia. Turns out flat feet are no good for war. So they sent me home. You wanna talk about deflating an ego? I was sent off with a hero's parade only to return to sad faces and disappointed neighbors. For years I thought your grandmother thought I was a failure. I thought she didn't know about the loose floorboard by the bathroom where I kept the gin. I looked at your father and knew it was inevitable. I couldn't bear putting another me into society. I walked out to the shed, and I saw your grandmother. In one hand, she had the gun, and the other, the bullets. 

The sound of the bullets hitting the ground mixed with the silence of her tears was louder than any bomb we could have dropped. I dropped to my knees; I couldn't cry. The disappointment wouldn't let me. As your father lay in his crib, your grandmother told me that your aunt was on her way. I wasn't a failure. I loved your grandmother, your father, and your aunt. I just didn't know how to express it. 

We sat with our backs to the shed wall in silence. I felt her head gently resting on my shoulder, her grip on my hand tightened. At that point, I knew I was worth it, and I needed to get some help. It was the hardest decision I've ever made.   

At first, the words came slow. Sometimes I didn't want a response, but only an ear. Life is scary. It's scarier when you go at it alone. You're not alone. 

It's going to be ok. Trust your heart. Trust her smile. You can't undo the past, but you can write a new story. It wasn't until your father was in middle school and they put on a play of Bambi, and I saw him up there on stage, and I was immediately sent back to that night in the shed when I loaded the gun. 

August 9, 1999, I came here to look at the water and remember the day I asked your grandmother to marry me. Five hours earlier, I said goodbye to her as the cancer took her away. I never thanked her for that night in the shed. Uncertainty is frightening, but you owe it to yourself and your family to keep going. Your family is an army, and armies win battles. You have some really great people that want to help you win this battle. Go recruit them."

I sat there exhausted and sad. What seemed like hours had passed as my grandfather talked to me was only minutes in real-time. I didn't know if I was sad or reluctant that I knew that I must be going crazy. I missed my grandparents. I never knew…

"This summer, I hear the drumming…Four dead in Ohio…." 

That song. There's always been something about Neil Young that reminds me of my father. He was always playing Neil Young, always talking about how many times he saw him live. I guess I really don't have an opinion on Neil either way. He did that record with Pearl Jam, but I still couldn't get into him. It was nice to see my dad happy when he would listen to him, so I just soaked it up. Later in life, I would lean on those memories when things got rough; it somehow made it better. 

There was this one time…

Jesus Christ. It's him. My father. I start to cry and attempt to leave, but it's as if a thousand bricks held me down.

"The bench, huh?" His voice pierced my soul. I couldn't move. Hell, I could barely breathe. He's the epitome of evil. I keep asking myself why is here? He continued: "You can't leave. That's not how this works. Hear me out; when I'm done talking, then you can leave. It's no secret that I wasn't the best dad out there. Even now, I live with extreme guilt for what I put you through. But you have a chance to change what you know. I can sit here and tell you I wish things were different, but I'm not going to. I want you to know that I was at the bar when you were born. The police arrested me when your sister was born for disorderly conduct. I saw your little sister turn blue, but I was too drunk to do anything. There wasn't a day that the bottle didn't tell me what to do. You're built differently, though. Your soul is strong.

I can't stress this enough, listen to your heart. Listen to the wind's message; you're loved. More importantly, you're loved by your family, and you know that. That's something that I could never fathom. My family loved me, and in turn, I didn't love them back. I can't take back what I did. No apologies will remedy that. You can't leave early. We see Sarah, we see Jacob, and at times we see you. What scares me is that we don't see you all the time."

It was at this time he touched my hand. It was warm. In a blink of an eye, he was gone. At that moment, I knew it was ok to cry. It was ok to be scared. It was ok to break the cycle.   

Journey Through the Past: 20 Years of Military Service - Part 4 (1 of 1): I Got Married?

 WOW! Here we are, part 4! This has been really rad to do, and I would be lying if I said that this was a little bit therapeutic. I'm definitely holding on to the idea that folks are enjoying these to some extent. So without further ado, let's jump into part 4!

I'M MARRIED! Fresh off my first deployment, I'm on shore duty and life is pretty good. Nicki and I are figuring out this whole marriage thing, I'm digging my job, but more importantly, I'm not on a ship and deploying, yay me. Now, where I was working, the building required key card access due to the classified information we held. I worked in what we referred to as "the vault" which is where most of our classified information was held (stick with me, this comes into play later on). On October 12, 2000, the USS Cole was bombed while docked in Yemen. As October 12, 2001, rolled around, the country is still remembering those who perished in the senseless attack and attempting to make sense out of it because ships have gone into the Port of Yemen for years with no issues. 

Two months later, the country would forever change.

September 11, 2001, started like every other day. Alarm, coffee, shower, coffee, car, work. In that order. I got to work, started my morning routine in the office, I did turnover as I had duty that day (basically I had an issued cell phone that I was attached to for 24 hours) so I started my rounds on base to grab the mail, and other assorted paperwork, etc. As I entered the base post office,  I get a call on my phone telling me to get back to the building immediately. As I hung up the phone and headed to the car, the base police cars seemed to be everywhere with sirens blasting. I started to notice that they were setting up barriers and closing roads. 

I get back to my building and headed into my office and the t.v. was on. We stood there in silence as flight 175 flew into the South Tower. 

We got orders to shut down the building and leave the base to go home. What was normally a 5-8 minute drive to get off the base turned into about 2 hours. Every car was getting checked as it left. Traffic to get home was insane. As events unfolded that day, I remember turning off the television to get a break from the horror. I grabbed a cigarette and headed out to the balcony that overlooked the boulevard in front of our apartment. I didn't see anyone or anything. It felt apocalyptic. 

For about 2 weeks the country was one soul. As the American flags showed up in the Wal-Mart discount bins, we weaponized our anger and dressed up racism as patriotism. March of 2003, we invaded Iraq. Now, I don't want to take up too much space with the Iraq War, if you've made it this far in my blog series, you should have a pretty good idea of where I stand with certain issues. I did learn pretty quickly that you can't call the Vice President a war criminal and be on active duty, especially on My Space. I still remember being in my LCPO's (Leading Cheif Petty Officer. In civilian terms, I would say they would be like an assistant manager. The Department Head is the manager. Hope that makes sense) office and he just sat there with his head in his hands shaking his head. He called me a dumbass and told me to check my privacy settings, and don't say specific names. We had a mild chuckle and then we went out back to smoke and that was that. That wasn't the first time my social media accounts were being monitored and definitely wasn't the last. Thankfully I had some really great luck with folks I worked for that when I was tattled on I was never reprimanded or got in any sort of trouble that needed documenting and when the doors were closed sometimes we shared the same ideals. 

It's 2004. It's time to go back to sea! When picking orders for your next duty station, you usually pick like 3 or 4 choices and then your detailer (person who "approves" your orders) lets you know what you got chosen for. Since my first ship was an aircraft carrier I was trying to shoot for something smaller. I had picked smaller ships such as cruisers and destroyers. Really it was for a change of pace. I also bought into the myth that going to different types of duty stations would make a difference in my career. Right. Anyway, I got a call from my detailer and she said I had been picked for the USS George Washington (an aircraft carrier). This was my first lesson in you can wish in one hand and sh*t in the other, then try and figure out the difference. 😂

So, I guess I'm staying in Norfolk, Va and I'm back on a carrier. Such is life in the military. Realistically I was fine with it. I'm from Norfolk, I knew the carrier life, I wasn't disappointed but it would have been nice to leave Virginia for a little bit. Later in life, I would realize that you need to be careful about what you wish for! 

Deployments during this time took on a whole vibe. I still missed Nicki and home but I started to re-visit some writing ideas and really look inward and how I can do things differently with my life. It was also at this time that I felt my mental health get a little off-track. Unfortunately, the military doesn't do mental health. It's one of the most taboo topics you could bring up. It's easy to mock and it makes a great punchline. The military is filled with dark humor and at some point in time, you will be a part of that. I'm not exempt but I learned to use it to my advantage. It made a great shield, but that shield has a very weak foundation.  

As with any deployments, care packages are gold! I remember one time Nicki asked me if I had any special requests for a care package that she was getting together. My mind began to rattle off album after album book title after book title. But when you need Coheed and Cambria and Drizzt, you gotta have them. When those packages came in, it was like a new day has dawned. 

What would get me through all those deployments wasn't necessarily what was in those boxes, but that the items would smell like home. It sounds weird but those are some of my best memories of getting those packages. It was great to get those packages but you never forget that smell of home. Marvelous. Just writing and remembering about those experiences, I got such a huge smile on my face opening those boxes and seeing the Singles soundtrack or Midnight Mauraders, or a new copy of the Icewind Dale Trilogy because mine was so worn out. One of the most rad things she sent was a small photo album with pictures of her, the dog, our friends, etc. I still have that album. It will always be something I'll always get emotional over. There's nothing better in life than when you don't have to question if you're loved and appreciated by someone. You know it. You feel it. It's magical. 

So, we are going to stop it here because we have gone on long enough and the next installment is pretty heavy and is another long one. Thanks for reading. 

 

 

Journey Through the Past: 20 Years of Military Service - Part 4 (2 of 2): He's a Monster; I can't be Like Him.

**Asking for help is never easy. It's scary. No one wants to admit they have a problem, recognizing that could feel like failure. It's not. You're not. Your worth in this world is much more than you will ever know, and you are never alone. https://www.aa.org/ 

We are about to get into some heavy shit. A dark time in my life that I constantly look back on. It was a time that describes what I'm built from but does not describe who I am. 

Alcoholics breed alcoholics. It's a disease, and it kills the soul. 

For about 4 years, I was a high-functioning alcoholic. What started out as a joke to bring liquor in bottles of mouth wash onboard the ship for deployments not only made them entertaining but woke the sleeping demon with great fury. Even when I was a kid, I always felt it would get passed down to me; it was just a matter of time. Like most kids, when I hit my teenage years, I discovered weed, but I never really drank as a teen. The occasional beer, but I never really got a taste for it. It wasn't until my early 20s that I started to develop a taste for it.  

As time played out and I got more comfortable with the demon, this was also the time that I knew I had inherited a cursed gift. At the height of my addiction, I was not only drinking and driving but draining liters like Steph Cury drains threes. Then liters turned into gallons.  

Once you feel it take over, there's nothing else. You don't remember what you did, said; you make excuses why you got so drunk. It feels natural. You can no longer tell the difference between you and the bottle. The worst of it was when my wife got switched to nights. As it was, by the time I got home, I was two or three drinks down, and now there's no one home to cut me off. I was a mess. 

I remember that night vividly. Nicki found me on the floor, unresponsive and not breathing. Then the noises started, but I couldn't open my eyes yet, but I could hear noises. Voices, crying, etc. My eyes opened to EMTs standing over me. I was moments from the paddles and a trip to the ER. 

The next day I was met with an ultimatum that I never thought I would know. It was her or the bottle. The very thing that destroyed my family was getting ready to ruin mine. 

I often visit the memory of me and my wife dumping liquor bottles down the drain, and I remember thinking so many things. From stories of my dad and my father-in-law, and wondering how this happened and what this means for my career in the Navy. Do I tell my chain of command? I hold a security clearance, my chain of command finds out, I'm done. I had enough time in by now to know that you only tell the Navy what they need to know. Anything dealing with addiction or mental health is very taboo and frowned upon; it's a weakness. Out of 20 years in the military, I can count on one hand how many people I would trust with talking about mental health issues. 

So what do you do when you want to get sober, but you don't want to involve the military? You thank the universe for sending you your soulmate, who is going to hold your hand while you walk through hell; that's what you do. And that's what she did. Through the tears, the shakes, sitting there and listening, and the hugs, but more importantly, she assured me that everything was going to be ok. I still thank her after all these years for being strong, loving, and understanding during those times. 

I know this was a long one. I teetered with even mentioning this part, but this was such a huge part of my life that I needed to include this if I was going to tell my tale. So, what's in store for the next installment? We get healthier, we get orders to Jacksonville, Fl, and against all odds, I become a recruiter. For the folks that have been hanging out and enjoying this series, thanks for reading.  

The Confession of William Wilson

It was nighttime. I could smell her perfume. I thanked her for picking me up, a stranger on the side of the road. She didn't know it yet, but I would be the last person in her life. The last person she would talk to. The last person to see her alive. 

Just recalling that night is intoxicating.

I sat in the passenger seat, waiting for that right moment. Then it happened. The detour on Highway 58 rerouted us down a semi-secluded road, not too far off the beaten path but just enough. Just enough that the people filling up their cars with gas nearby never heard the screams. 

I pretended to get something from my bag. I planted my elbow across her face and knocked her out as I sat back up. I sat there in silence, looked over at her, and wondered if this was the one. I can leave her here and let her live. Or I can kill her and make her my statistic. My headline in the next day's news. When they're alive, they belong to their world. Once they die, they belong to mine. She will always be mine. 

I, William Wilson, make this confession of my own free will. 

Journey Through the Past: 20 Years of Military Service - Part 3: They Found out I was a Progressive!

Hello again! It's been a while since the last installment. We had some ups and downs, but more importantly, I think these entries need to have a "natural flow" and not feel like I have a deadline to meet. So with that being said, let's dig into part 3. 

I'm in the Navy! Ill-fitting uniform and all, I am ready to take on the world; I just got to figure out how to do it first. I was lucky to have the first set of bosses that I had. Semi-strict, but fair. My first four years were a mess. Not only was I trying to figure out who I was as a person, but I was also trying to figure out how to be in the Navy. At times this was rough. I was entering a dog-eat-dog profession, but I couldn't be farther from that way of thinking. As I would learn later in my career, this would be used against me in a sense that I bought into what was being preached. The Navy is a team; you just have to play for the "right team," and then all is well. 

As I began to search out fellow nerds, I realized that reading comics, playing D&D, and being in that group was apparently fair game for ridicule, just as not being a bed-wetting conservative. Within my first year in the Navy, I would learn that this is nothing short of being in high school but getting a salary. I will spend a lot of time figuring out if this is what I really want to do with my life. Hell, I'm 43 and still trying to nail down precisely what it is I'm supposed to be doing! 

Looking back at my first 4 years in the Navy, it was easier to figure out the regulations I had to abide by while being in the military than it was figuring out how bad the leadership was going to contradict not only themselves but the "values" that we were supposed to be upholding while being active duty. I know this is not by any means exclusive to the military, but at 18, this wreaked havoc with how I operated and is 100% to blame on how I became more progressive the longer I spent in the Navy. As I mentioned earlier about the military being a salaried version of high school, once you get settled into your new duty station, you will be promptly outfitted for your clique, where you will remain for the duration of your time there. Once I got my clique, I was off to the races.

Like high school, I got along with an assortment of folks; my biggest problem was the constant and consistent "do as I say, not as I do" approach to military leadership. For the next 20 years, this would continue to baffle me. But, as I write this, I don't want to make the military seem as it's the worst thing that you could do with your life, far from it. Remember, I was 18 when I hopped on my first ship. I was super naive and didn't know anything. My mailing address was to the ship, so I had my copy of The Progressive come to the ship, and the fun began. The secret is out! "How can you be a democrat and in the military?" To this very day, I am still asked this question in some form or another. The military has a charity fundraising campaign called the Combined Federal Campaign (CFC). There's a catalog that lists tons of charities you can give to. From big names like the March of Dimes to smaller organizations like Refuse & Resist!. R&R was a human rights campaign that started during the Reagan years that I found out about in high school. For years I would give to them through the CFC, and at times you would think I was killing puppies. 

Aside from me honing my political ideals, I did come across some really great people in my first four years. People who I still think about the life wisdom that they imparted on me. For me, this was huge. To sit with folks who were twice and in some cases almost three times my age and soak it all in. This was pure magic. During the 2000 presidential fiasco, I had started to openly express my concern with what was going on and my disdain for people like George Bush and Roger Stone. This would be the first of many times that I would be told that it may be a good idea not to express certain opinions; however, if I wanted to, then I would have to learn "how to do it." The ensuing conversation I had with my department head was fabulous. He was a staunch conservative and wore capitalism like a fine cologne. But he was also an intelligent dude and one of the people I will FOREVER be indebted to for his wisdom. He was the first person that listened and didn't mind that I asked questions that may have gone against the grain but helped me formulate those questions to an acceptable tone that would work with being in the military. 

One of my favorite stories during this time was when we were getting ready to deploy, and we had to be on the ship the night before. I go to muster, and I'm in shorts, flip flops, and wearing a Jerry Garcia t-shirt. My department head looks at me and simply says, "it figures."  While most folks laughed, some felt wearing a Jerry Garcia shirt fell into the category of "depicting drug use." Welcome to the military. 

Along with some really great memories, I would meet someone who would become my best friend and the person who would bail me out of almost going to jail in Nova Scotia. 20 plus years later, he is still bailing me out, and I'm forever grateful.

I remember getting a call while I was on leave at my parent's house in Las Vegas. I was playing Tomb Raider on my PS1 when my stepdad said I had a phone call. I figured it was work, possibly getting recalled back to the ship or something along those lines. The voice on the other end was female and was Nicki. I knew her from a circle of friends. At this point, we've probably known each other for about a year. I was confused about why she was calling. With the phone sandwiched between my shoulder and ear and playing Tomb Raider, we chatted. While she flirted, I played video games. She would eventually invite me down to her college to get coffee. Me being me, I put on my best pair of Etnies, cargo shorts, and my Jerry Garcia shirt and headed down to North Carolina for coffee. As she opened the door in a dress (not formal or too fancy), I immediately knew this was more of a date than just grabbing coffee. So our first date was me wearing shorts and a Jerry Garcia shirt while she was in makeup, nice shoes, and a dress. 22 years later, I guess that Jerry Garcia shirt really impressed her. 

So, I think this is a good stopping point. The next installment we'll get into September 11th, MySpace, having my MySpace profile monitored, and going through one of the most challenging times in my life. Getting sober. Thanks for reading.