Maggot Girl: Live, Laugh, Love

“Tonight, it seems, the freaks win, and not the prom queen.”

Ok. Stick with me on this one because we are going to review/ramble about an author and his grotesquely disturbing yet brilliant book series, Maggot Girl. Still with me? Good. Otis Bateman is an extreme horror author who proudly advertises that he is here to gross us out with tales of filth and death; he’s unapologetic just like his writing, and he’s damn good. 

While extreme horror may not be for everyone, the horror genre is like the Golden Corral of entertainment. Do you like the basic meatloaf and mashed potatoes or are you more of a John Belushi in Animal House?

Maggot Girl is John Belushi. 

Morticia is an outcast. She dresses in all black and is an easy target for bullies and the closed-minded alike. I can remember getting teased for being overweight, being a comic nerd, and just being an awkward kid like it was yesterday. Going from a high school in Norfolk VA to a high school in Ellington MO brought on a whole new level of narrow-mindedness, I’ve always considered myself non-violent, but even the most docile creature will bite back eventually. Stokely Carmichael said it best "...in order for nonviolence to work, your opponent must have a conscience." Morticia found a way to bite back and boy did she. 

While Morticia Maggot's story is filled with abuse, trauma, and a vile way of life, Otis Bateman somehow has managed to give her a soul. It's a dark soul. Darker than a Jack Kevorkian documentary narrated by Tom Araya, but a soul nonetheless. With a title like Maggot Girl, it's a dead giveaway that this book is not for everyone. It's disgusting, perverted, and birthed from the darkest corner of hell, but that's what makes this series of books great. It takes the elements of body horror and pushes the boundaries...more like it smashes the boundaries into a land of uncomfortableness. But that's the fun part of horror. Horror is supposed to make you feel uncomfortable and test your limits. But not all horror is built the same. You can have the biggest buffet but if the food sucks the selection doesn’t matter. Same thing with horror, if there’s no sustenance then what’s the point? Otis Bateman writes in brutality with the humor of a sadistic Svengoolie, and I'm here for every f*cked up entry he makes.

Maggot Girl is more than an extreme horror story. It’s a tale of revenge. It’s a tale of finding where you fit in. It’s a huge middle finger to anyone who has ever told you that you don’t belong. 

Journey Through the Past: 20 Years of Military Service - Part 6: Recruiting, Loss, and Hitting Rock Bottom

So here we are with part 6 of this journey. This one is going to be tough to write about because it was during this time that my life would forever change. Now, let's go to Jacksonville, FL.

There are three types of stateside Sailors; Norfolk, Jacksonville, and San Diego. They all have their loyalists for the life of me, I'll never understand the draw to Jacksonville. The summers are humid and disgusting, and it rains the whole damn season. The highway system is hot garbage, and the people are kind of a**holes, however, I have met some folks that for some reason love Jacksonville, they're some of the greatest souls I've ever met. To answer your question, why did I take orders to Jacksonville if I don't like it there. Easy, I've never lived in that part of FL, and everyone up to this point has ranted and raved about Jacksonville; these folks have the distinct "honor" of being referred to as the Jax Mafia.

After I got everything situated and back to Naval standards (see part 5), I decided to take orders to become a recruiter. This was met with both positive and negative feedback from colleagues. The negative aspect could be broken into two different categories. The first category would be from past recruiters; as the job is the ultimate definition of a love/hate relationship. The second category would be from folks who didn't think I could do it. This would range from "leadership" to coworkers. It's always great getting your paperwork signed by someone, and they tell you "you're probably won't make it through recruiting school." Well, 5 weeks later, and orders to Naval Recruiting District Jacksonville, the naysayers can f*ck off. I was a recruiter and I proved them wrong. 

Recruiting is a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't type of job. It's 36 one-month tours; you can be a hero in March but a disappointment in April. I've always thought everyone should be a recruiter once in their military career. I think if more people would take a peek at the "business side" of the military, they would have a better understanding of how it operates and the reality that soldiers and sailors are numbers and nothing more. Now, some folks, I'm sure will have different takes on this, but when your instructor who's a career recruiter (aka rate change (changed jobs)) can't say "Recruits are more than numbers" with a straight face, it kind of makes the argument pretty solid. Luckily for me, I fully embraced that every single soldier, sailor, and airmen is nothing more than a number. Numbers that are easily replaceable and categorized by race, gender, and age. Some days MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) will only accept females of color. On other days it may be white males only, some days it's based solely on ASVAB scores. Numbers. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't fault the military for operating their recruiting efforts like this, all corporations do. My gripe is: why try and pass it off as something it's not. Own it! 

We've all heard stories about recruiters doing evil things, and my time in Jacksonville was no exception. While I was there, every case of assault, thievery, etc meant more "death by Powerpoint" training with leadership hoping it doesn't come to their district. There's nothing like hearing the first presenter start their suicide awareness training by saying: "We're here today so that none of you suck start a nine millimeter." Unfortunately, the leadership that actually means well, more often than not will always get drowned out by the "good ol' boys" club, which is ever present in the community. Same with the recruiters in the field. 

I enjoyed my time recruiting to an extent. It opened my eyes to a side of the military that I wasn't too familiar with, and I learned a lot about the Navy and myself. I made great connections and friends and was able to get promoted. My wife was able to have life-saving surgery; there were some fun times we had. They had/have some rad comic shops and dope hole-in-the-wall concert venues (shout out to Jack Rabbits!). I get the draw to the area, but it's not for me, especially in this day and age. But I digress. It's 2010, and my time in Jacksonville has come to an end. I was going overseas, but the universe had other plans. 

I remember my detailer calling me and saying she was canceling my orders to Africa and keeping me stateside, but I had to go back to sea. Looking back, I wasn't ready to go back to sea and deploy. Even now, as I'm writing this, I'm overcome with emotion. But I gotta talk about it. His memory deserves it. He deserves it. 

I live that night over and over and over. My hands shake, my chest tightens up, and I tear up every time I think about it. The sounds, the conversations; you never get over the pain;  you become accustomed to it. It's been 13 years, and it still hurts. 

I knew that I wasn't ready for ship life, but I'd been running from my mental health for thirty-plus years. Surely I can pack this with everything else and continue on. Right? Little did I know that my journey into hell was just beginning. These next two years would prove to be some of my worst. 

Thanks for reading.   

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. 

Hanger Bay #2

 

Hanger Bay #2

I reported to my first ship in October 1997 in Norfolk, VA. It was still being built. I saw this massive skeleton of an aircraft carrier which was breathtaking and overwhelming, all in one shot. On July 25, 1998, the USS Harry S. Truman was commissioned. It was ready for sea.

Each time we left the pier, it meant that your daily life routine was about to change. How you ate, dressed, and found time to relax became taxing and monotonous. You waited for emails or letters to come, but who knew if they would and at what interval. Finding time to read, write, exercise, and just be able to collect yourself was essential. During most of my time on the Truman, I lived on the ship, so when we did go to sea, all my stuff was already there, so I had a few books, TPBs, and tons of music to help satisfy the urge to relax and realize you're not going anyway anytime soon. Which was okay because  I thoroughly enjoyed being on the open water. It was peaceful. 

Almost 23

Took a trip to the sea

Went out for a swim, and the waves came

Crashing down on me...

When I needed a break, I would walk around the hangar bay (where the planes are parked when not on the flight deck) and just look out at the open water. Birds, dolphins, and every now and then other ships. It was so serene. The breeze, the waves, it was so peaceful. 

As time and my career went on, I would always make time for Hangar Bay #2. It was great medicine for the soul; I still think about my time looking at the sea and all that she has to offer. When I met Nicki, Hangar Bay #2 took on a completely different feeling. I could be thousands of miles away, but when I was in Hangar Bay #2, it would seem that we were right next to each other. Knowing she could be looking at the same moon, sun, and the sky did amazing things for my soul. 

Hanger Bay 2 was unique. We shared moments that will last a lifetime, and I'm ever grateful.

Mountains looked like fun

Climbed up to the sun

From a peak, I got such a view

Forgot to hang on...

Hanger Bay #2 became its own entity as life continued its path. It became the chow hall, the lonely speck on the wall, or if the mood was just right, it could be a picture in a shop in a foreign land. Regardless, I always thought of my family. I hated being alone and was always searching for memories to keep me company.
As time went on, I learned that Hanger Bay 2 wasn't necessarily on a naval ship. It became a comic book, a song; it became an emotion. When I retired in 2017, Hanger Bay 2 became life. On March 15, it became 5.5 lbs. It became 20 years of marriage.

Broke my safety pin

As I flew by, you threw me a line

Saved again...

Even today, I still take time to walk around my building on campus. Sometimes I'll take a few minutes to sit on a bench, and those memories come rushing back. Memories of the different ports. Memories of coming home. Memories of being homesick. Then the memories shift to the comics, books, care packages, and mail from home. While I will always get emotional when they come up, I wouldn't have it any other way. I love hearing that song or reading a book that was a cornerstone of mental peace while I was away. That's so important, even when I don't deploy anymore.

Well, I didn't see you were right next to me, but I'm so glad you could make it

With you by my side I'm gonna get back alive from my next vacation...

I'm not sure why I'm writing this; maybe this is another variant of Hanger Bay #2. Which is fine. I never really talked about being homesick a whole lot outside of my wife and close friends. Maybe someone will read this, and it will resonate with them. I don't know; I'll leave that up to the reader. Maybe Hanger Bay #2 was fore-telling that I needed to pay more attention to my mental health, talk about it a little more. 

Peace of mind is essential. I guess I want people to find their Hanger Bay #2. Be it comics, a book, a sketch pad, etc. Find your Hanger Bay #2. Find what brings you peace. Find what brings a smile to your soul. Love it, embrace it, and make it a part of who you are. Thanks for reading. 

*Song lyrics are from Widespread Panic's song Vacation 

Happy Veteran's Day

Veterans come from all walks of life. Some, more accepted than others. If you ask 10 different people what being a veteran means to them, you will likely get at least seven different answers. Patriotism. God and country. Stuck in a dead-end job. With that being said, you will get different approaches to being in the military, which leads to varying degrees of self-righteousness in being classified as a veteran. 

Humbleness, when it comes to veterans, is a virtue.

There are three kinds of veterans. First, we have what I like to call the “thank me for my service veteran.” They must advertise. This veteran needs constant affirmation of his veteran status and must be praised for his time in the service and requires society to kiss their a** whenever you are in their presence. If you miss your turn at bending the knee, you will more likely than not be referred to as a libtard, socialist, or some other colloquial term. 

The second kind of veteran are the ones that acknowledge their service, may have one or two stickers on their vehicle, may have a shirt or a hat depicting the war or campaign they were a part of. Possibly a member of the VFW or DAV and usually chill to be around. Most importantly, they realize the military is not the be-all-end-all but does appreciate what they’ve done as far as service to their country. 

The third kind of veteran has become an activist and speaks out about the atrocities they have seen and possibly committed but wants to bring them to the attention of the American citizens because the news outlets damn sure won’t. The activist may or may not regret their service but at the same time acknowledges they may have done some things that weren’t as just and pure as advertised in the recruiter’s office. Veteran’s 2 and 3 get along reasonably well, which is the opposite of veterans 1 and 3. Oil and water will mix before they will. 

Where do I fit in? I’m somewhere in between 2 and 3. I retired in 2017 after 20 years; deployed around eight times. I experienced a few “sketchy” encounters while at sea but was never in real danger as if I was on the ground. I must say that when I say “real danger,” I’m comparing my time on a ship versus those that are on the ground and the front lines. Being at sea is still inherently dangerous, but I was way more comfortable on an aircraft carrier than carrying 100 lbs on my back, living in the desert. With this being said, I have been stationed with numerous folks who, as they would have you believe, are the second coming of Douglas MacArthur landing on Leyte Island in the Philippines. At the same time, I’ve also been stationed with some of the absolute best people that I will ever meet in any lifetime.   

Now, please believe that I am not trying to sound like your patriotism turned to 11, and your car splattered in Punisher stickers is a bad thing. It’s not. Embrace your convictions and live your best life (unless you’re a racist Nazi twit, then you’re on your own). Veterans are a distinguished bunch. At the same time, we are are caretakers of contradiction. Overall, I enjoyed my 20 years. As with any job, you’re going to have ups and downs. People who you don’t care for. Maybe make long-lasting friendships. To coin the old slogan, “The Navy is not a job, it’s an adventure.” And that’s precisely how I would describe my time. It was definitely an adventure—pain, smiles, joy, and sometimes fear. 

The military is changing, albeit slowly. Hopefully, we can weed out the misogyny, homophobia, transphobia and truly embrace what the military preaches regarding inclusivity. 

Outside of the fall holidays, I was never a cheerleader of the other holidays. Some folks can, and some cannot understand why I’m indifferent when it comes to the 4th, Veteran’s Day, Memorial Day, even Labor Day. My reasoning, I try to live a life that acknowledges what this country has been through—both the good and the bad and not wait for the yearly reminder. I realize the day is for recognition and appreciation of the sacrifices made; however, some folks have weaponized the day, which diminishes why we are acknowledging the veterans in the first place.    

Sacrifice. A word that all veterans know and know well. I remember going to a therapy appointment at the Naval Hospital in Portsmouth, Va. I was sitting in the lobby waiting to be seen, and a veteran came in; and he’s missing a leg, and his arm was in a sling. Sacrifice. I’m always talking with my wife about Veteran’s Day and my ongoing quest to find humbleness and put my 20 years into perspective. I’ve always felt uncomfortable when people “thank me for my service.” I always say thank you with a smile, but it just doesn’t feel right on the inside. All my body parts are in working order (the joints hurt, but at least they’re still there). Most importantly, I’m still alive. In my quest for humbleness, I tend to downplay my time in the military. I remember a conversation Nicki and I had a few years ago. I was on Minesweepers (super small ships that find water mines), and we deployed a lot; I mentioned that the military is a volunteer job just like any other job. She looked at me and said, how many birthdays, anniversaries, surgeries, Christmas’, Thanksgiving, and weddings have you missed? Sacrifice. She went on to say it may be voluntary, but you’re doing something that many people don’t, won’t, and can’t do. Sacrifice. 

The conversation I had with my wife that night has stayed with me ever since. It’s helped me with my struggles in embracing my veteran’s status. For years I would compare my time with those who have lost limbs, life or have been made to feel inferior. As time has gone on, I’ve learned to accept my own sacrifices. We’re all veterans. Regardless of sexual orientation, gender, or nationality. I hope one day that when we say it doesn’t matter who is in the fox hole with me, as long as they are on my side, we truly mean it. We’re all veterans.  

Every Veteran’s Day, I think about those that have gone before me. I think of those that have made history with their selfish acts of blind faith to service and unmeasurable bravery. I think about the veterans that were kicked out of the military because of who they loved. I think about the veterans who, for their entire career, had to live a lie because of who they kissed. Sacrifice. 

Sacrifice doesn’t care who you sleep with, what your gender is, where you’re from, or who you vote for. We could learn a lot from sacrifice.

Happy Veteran’s Day. 

September 11, 2001

September 11, 2001, was 20 years ago today. I can account for almost every minute of that day. I was still in the Navy stationed in Va Beach and was getting ready to make my daily mail run. I was getting ready to leave the building until I realized the building had gotten quiet, and folks were gathering in our front office, where we checked and issued badges for everyone that came in. I peaked in the office and asked what was going on. It was at that point I saw the second plane crash into the World Trade Center. 

My Executive Office (2nd in command) had told me to finish my morning run and come back as soon as possible. I went to pick up the mail at PSD Oceana, and then I heard a scream as the plane crashed into the Pentagon. No sooner did that happen than I got a call to stop what I was doing and get back ASAP. As we watched the attacks and chaos unfold, all we could do was empty our building and get everyone home. Every car was getting checked by the K-9 units as we left base. What was normally a 5 to 8-minute drive to get off base was now about 2 hours. I got home and turned on the t.v. As most folks were doing at this time, we were trying to figure out what was going on.    

As I watched the news, I looked out of our back patio window and saw nothing. No cars, no people, not so much as a stray animal. We had been attacked. Fear, concern, anger, these were just some of the emotions that we felt like people. My wife and I just hugged each other and cried as we took all of this in. 

Some of the faces had expressions, and others didn't. The people were desperate for answers, clues, anything that could explain what had just happened. As the buildings burned, the cameras fixed on the unfortunate souls who could no longer bear the unknown and decided to take their own lives by jumping from their burning encampment. To this day, emotion overtakes me when I see footage of that day. It's painful, and my heart and soul will always go out to those that lost loved ones in those vicious attacks. 

We wanted answers, closure, and justice. 

20 years later, September 11th has been relegated to memes on social media thinly veiled in "patriotism." Joining the ranks of July 4th, Memorial Day, and Veteran's Day. You can set your calendars to it. Folks will have their opinions on who to blame, and that's fine as they are absolutely entitled to do so. So I ask this question when you remember September 11th, what parts are you remembering? Are you molding your memories to fit an agenda? Does your empathy go past our first responders and to the victims of the discriminatory attacks on people of color that happened out of pure racist anger? 

Once the stores put the American Flags in their discount bins, we returned to our political sides, and the finger-pointing started, the conspiracy theories were birthed, senseless attacks on people of color started, and it was back to business. Once capitalism is done with a cause, we seem to follow suit. Unfortunately, September 11th is no different. Now, this may make some folks mad, and I get it. I say this, look inside yourself and ask that hard question of "Once it's not on sale, do you care?". You might surprise yourself.

Every time I write or talk about that day, I still fight back the tears of anger. Anger from the attack, anger from the political fearmongering that followed. Anger that it's used as a political weapon from both sides. I'm no different and try to catch myself when I do find myself going down that road. To politicize the event to fit an agenda is to dishonor the souls we lost. We can do better; they deserve better.      

20 years later, we still have unanswered questions. Our government has seemed to forget the first responders that we have immortalized for their heroism. We barely talk about the victims of the hate crimes that followed the attacks. 

That day we weren't democrats, republicans, liberals, or conservatives. We were frightened. We were people.      

Journey Through the Past: 20 Years of Military Service - Part 2: Bootcamp, Expectations, and What The Hell Did I Get Myself Into

In this installment, we will be talking about my first couple of years in the Navy. Boot camp, my first ship, my first deployment, and meeting my wife for the first time. We will also try and capture the "what the hell did I get myself into" moments, and honestly, we had those right up until year 20. So with that being said, please keep your arms and legs inside until the ride comes to a full stop. 

The Navy's drill instructors are called Recruit Division Commanders (RDCs. The military is enamored with acronyms, so I will do my best to put military lingo into laymen's terms). So as we were going through our final rounds with medical, we were lined up alongside the wall in the hallway, and my RDCs started giving us nicknames. Now, if you've ever seen the movie Animal House, the scene where John Belushi was giving out Delta names, it was sort of like that. Only two names have stuck with me after all these years; one was another person who was aptly named Private Pyle. Yes, just like from Full Metal Jacket. The name fit him like a sweater in the winter. Mine? Well, mine fit just like a sweater in the winter also. Tubby was my name all through boot camp, and man, oh man, did the RDCs not waste a moment to call my name.

P-Days are over, so that means boot camp can properly start. Once the medical department has cleared the final soul, we all marched back to our compartments (these were our barracks where we slept) and stood at attention, in silence and scared shitless. What happened next is something that has stuck with me for over 20 years and is one of my favorite stories to tell. The door in the front of the compartment blasts open under the influence of an RDC's foot. The back and side doors follow suit. For the next hour, it was an onslaught of pushups, 8 count bodybuilders, and jumping jacks. You name it, we did it. They didn't care about your age or past experiences, they just wanted you to do more pushups while calling you colorful names, and as you lost your composure because it was funny, well, you were made an example of. Guess who that was (I'm raising my hand; you just can't see it). I remember it as clear as day. I was in the pushup position, my arms are shaking, and I'm staring at the pool of sweat that is pooling on the floor in front of my face, and then it happened. 

RDC: Pyle, are you quitting? Did your mom raise a p**sy?

Pyle: No, sir!

RDC: I think she raised a big lazy p**sy...

Then it happened. Pyle got up and punched the RDC. For about 5 seconds, everything was in slow motion. Right in front of me, a recruit and RDC were fighting. Never in a million years would I've thought that something like this would happen. As I would come to find out, this wouldn't be the last time I would see a fight between service members. As the other RDCs in the compartment restored order, we stood silent, sweaty, out of breath, and in disbelief of what we just saw. The base police came and took Pyle away to the brig, and he was never heard from again. That day would stay a constant conversation topic throughout boot camp. Years later, I would see my old RDC, and I asked him about that day, and all he said was, "shit happens." Boot camp as a whole was a pretty cool experience. My division was nothing short of the military version of The Bad News Bears. I mean that! My division comprised a rag-tag group of folks from all walks of life, and most of them barely made it through the halfway mark. Now, this isn't a dig on their character, far from it. 

The military is a strenuous way of life and is not made for everyone. I came close at least 3 times to get out during my career. The only thing that kept me in is that I had zero clues of what I was going to do after I got out. It didn't help that I started to see a pattern with leadership when they knew someone was not going to reenlist; they were pretty much shunned and cast away. We'll get into that a little later. Now, back to boot camp.    

I never experienced being homesick before boot camp. Along with getting used to and learning a new way of life, the culture shock was immense. Once you graduate boot camp and go to your first command, you start to realize that it is a tool to re-program 18 plus years and get you military ready. Now, I say re-program, not in a bad way, but to highlight that the RDCs have a herculean task while maintaining Navy regulations and keeping their cool while doing it. Their days normally start around 4 AM and end about 10 PM. I will always consider it one of the most tasking jobs in the military, regardless of branch. The RDCs are stressed, the recruits are stressed, everyone is stressed. While learning how to cope with new surroundings, you try to find any type of reassurance that you did the right thing, and this won't last forever. Whether it's a letter, or perhaps you decide to find the lord every Sunday and spend a few hours in the chapel, you grab on to anything that you can. I'll freely admit I conveniently found my Roman Catholic roots a few times. I mostly leaned on the weekly Mail Call on Sundays. Letters from home provided the stability that allowed me to navigate boot camp. 

I still have all those letters that I got while in boot camp. I used to read them often as they serve as a great time capsule in where I was during that time. 

As boot camp raged on, people left, some folks got set back a few weeks in training, and some folks came into our division as they too were sent back a few weeks in their training. It happens, no big deal. As part of the preparation to get you ready for the Navy, you have jobs/tasks that you are in charge of. Mine, ironically, was Divisional Yeoman. It's funny because that is exactly what I did in the Navy for 20 years, I was a Yeoman. Basically, I would escort the folks to what is referred to as ASMO Central to be processed to go home or to be sent back in training. Generally, it was menial paperwork tasks; however, the great thing is that I got access to the RDC's office, which save me from getting "beat" (boot camp term for doing strenuous exercises for a prolonged period of time. It was all fun and games until they saw you chillin' in the office, and then it was our turn! 

I never really stopped thinking about the folks that got kicked out of boot camp and went home. Some were excited, and some, you could tell they didn't want to face their families. The look on their faces expressed such a sadness that has stuck with me for over 20 years. I can't recall a memory about my career and not give a few minutes to the souls that went home early. That may sound a bit melodramatic, but I can sympathize with that very sadness of not making it. Guilt. 

It was gun range day. After our classroom time and written tests, etc., it was time for gun qualifications. I was the ONLY left-handed person in my division. To the nonmilitary folks, this may seem like nothing at all. If you are carrying a firearm, this is a thing because left-handed gun-belts are a lot like the Chicago Cubs' World Series championships. You know they're around; they just don't have a bunch. So after my mild berating of being a south paw, I had my gun belt and was ready to get qualified. As with any type of firearm training, safety is paramount. There is very little, if any, wiggle room for dumb sh*t. Every gun rage has the same standard rules. One is, if you have a question, you will raise your non-firing hand. For me, that is my right hand. So, when you are inundated with 30 plus recruits, the one left-hander is going to stick out like a sore thumb. Case in point. I had a question. I raised my non-firing hand, which is my right hand. The instructor absolutely lost his marbles. After I was yanked off the range, I was relieved of my weapon, and it was push-up time. I was disqualified for violating the safety rules of the gun range. Now, I know what you're thinking, and you're right; I didn't violate any safety rules at that time. They didn't have time to save face, and they absolutely were not going to entertain reasoning from a recruit, and I get it. Once I had the big red disqualified stamp on my form that I took back to my RDC (who already knew everything that happened), it was 8 count bodybuilders and the threat that I was going home due to nonqualifying at the range. 

I was devastated. I was going home, back to small-town Missouri, to figure out what to do with my life. The utter disappointment I felt was more so along the lines of this was my first big venture into adulthood, and it was going up in flames because I was lefthanded. So after about 45 minutes of getting beat in front of the RDC office, I was told to fall in line and get ready for chow. After chow, I was told to report to the ship's officer (our barracks' "Commanding Officer"). It was him and my 2 RDCs. I was told to recant the story about what had happened at the gun range. I did, and their response was simple..."Don't f*ck up again"! I wasn't going home, and that felt rad. I was relieved. I used to wonder if any of the folks I took to ASMO Central to get processed out ever tried to come back in the military. Out of those folks, how many was the military the last option? I hope they found solace. 

Overall, I had fun at boot camp. The smells, sounds, people, the entire place had such remarkable moxie about it, and when I would return 17 years later, that same moxie was still there. I remember we had just left the chow hall and marched past the building where you get fitted for uniforms. You could hear the Black Crowes’ song She Talks to Angels, and for some reason, I remember thinking to myself, I really miss home, my comics, video games, and just being able to be “me.” At the same time, I had this reassurance that everything was going to be ok. From that moment on, every time boot camp got rough, or I got homesick, I would play that song in my head, and it was such a calming reassurance. 

For everything that boot camp was, I wouldn’t change anything. Even the senseless and goofy sh*t was an experience that was a huge stage in shaping who I would become. Upon getting our first set of orders, I was informed that I had been selected as Honor Recruit, an award for the recruit who shows enthusiasm, a supportive attitude, etc. I was pretty stoked to find this out; also stoked to find out that it was voted on by the other recruits in my division...unanimously. Obviously, I’m no Douglas McArthur, but the honor was pretty rad. Upon graduating from boot camp, I was heading to PCU Harry S. Truman (CVN-75) based in Norfolk, VA. PCU or pre-commissioning unit means the ship is still being built and has not been commissioned as a USS yet. The great thing about the military is you get to see new and exciting places; I was headed back to my hometown! I was excited, scared, and 100% clueless on what awaited, but what awaited was some really rad people I was getting ready to meet. People that would forever change my life and, in some cases, keep me out of a foreign jail.

With that being said, I noticed that we are over 2K words. Since I ramble on like Nolan Ryan throws strikes, I will break this entry into parts because we need to dig into the first time at sea, meeting Nicki, and realizing you can't have your subscription of The Progressive come to the ship as mail, but you can watch all the Fox News you want to. Thanks for reading.