"These boys, now, were living as we'd been living then, they were growing up with a rush and their heads bumped abruptly against the low ceiling of their actual possibilities. They were filled with rage. All they really knew were 2 darknesses, the darkness of their lives, which was now closing in on them, and the darkness of the movies, which had blinded them to that other darkness, and in which they now, vindictively, dreamed, at once more together then they were at any other time, and more alone." -- Sonny's Blues
Overture
I believe that my personal monster was born in Germany. I'm not sure when, exactly. It subsisted on breadcrumbs and dust in the beginning; literally this means that, as there were few traumas in my early life, my symptoms went unnoticed; to most people anyway, including myself. In the wake of my case, I am learning that at least one family member noticed.
I used to think that my symptoms were caused by something, but now I feel inclined to believe that they have always existed, even before I existed. They hover in the air like a presence sometimes, feeling both like a disembodied Self and a foreign entity; like a Me-From-The-Future and a Me-From-The-Past. Often it feels like my existence is just a re-incarnation of the symptoms and that my personality is more like a by-product. I can't really expect you to understand or identify.
Since my psychotic break, I have imagined consciousness in the dust of the cosmos. I think they really exist, with intelligence ranging from that of an amoeba to a human and beyond. I don't know if they mingle with people or are even aware of them, but it seemed to me that I interacted with at least three of them at the height of my experience. Right at the end they felt like disembodied versions of people I know ------ but I should wait until that part of the story before revealing their identities. It makes me wonder about quantum entanglement, the size of the universe, the sea of subatomic particles in my mind, etc. But maybe those beings were simply an extension of my psyche (or whatever), as a perceptive distortion. Does it make a difference?
Whatever it is, my symptom-machines prolonged dormancy ended around the time I was 12 years old. This coincides with the time I moved to America. Growing up in Germany was an extremely pleasant experience. I'll have to tell you about it sometime. It's not immediately relevant, except to say that it set me up for some vast disappointments. I don't even remember what I was expecting, but my first impressions of America were no where close. I could say that with certainty.
My adjustment to daily life here could be described as "extremely poor". I became totally lost eventually ------ having no real friends, no rewarding experiences in my life, no goals; just nameless, unfulfilled desired. I remember, from seventh through ninth grade, that there were times when I turned to my environment as a sort of 'decision engine'. I also remember thinking that it was a dangerous thing to do ------ use an external decision engine in such a way ------ but I couldn't perceive why. I could hardly perceive anything at the time. There weren't reasons for doing anything, it seemed. Life seemed ... very insipid; very disappointing and empty. Only a few pictures of me exist from this period. I looked as blank as I felt.
My external decision engine was a bit like a game: when I would think of something that had been bothering me; a doubt or a problem, I would boil it down to a yes or no question. The first object to catch my eye would supply the answer to the question. If the object came in multiples ------ as fence posts, for instance ------ I would count them, with odd numbers meaning 'yes' while even numbers signified a 'no'. It provided a small respite from my confusion at least, and it provided me with something like a will. I think many people have played a game like this from time to time. It's of a take on the 's/he loves me, s/he loves me not' game. In fact it may have derived from that; love sickness has predominated my childhood, adolescence, and my adult life. When I played, I thought ------ or hoped on some level ------ that I was communing with God, although I knew that I probably wasn't.
By high school ------ I'm glossing rather quickly here ------ the monster had blossomed into a young adolescent. I had discovered anger as a coping mechanism. I lived and breathed hatred. I loved hatred. I hated everything; sometimes myself, sometimes others, sometimes institutions, sometimes cultural values; usually all of that. I think anger helped me deal with the inevitable frustrations of battling the malaise without understanding it, and probably had much to do with the frustrations at the short-comings I perceived in America's school system, when I compared it with Germany's. I had very little energy, and my Pavlov's hierarchy was generally at a point which was too low for me to concern my self about responsibilities; whether social, scholastic, etc. I wished something would kill me most of the time, which is an entirely distracting frame of mind to be in.
My parents certainly knew something was off about me by then, but their hands were tied. The flip-side to my schizo-affective coin could be my father's hepatitis C treatment and diagnosis. Understandably; my parents were preoccupied with my father's health much of the time. I often take my father's illness for granted; forgetting that other people have more interactive relationships with their fathers, or perhaps ever their families as a whole. At the best of times, living with my father was like suddenly living with someone you have long since become estranged to. At the worst of times, it was like living with a sick and dying pet. I have known mere shadows of my father since moving to this country. Now I can only interact with him by analyzing my own instincts and thoughts. My childhood memories don't do him much justice.
I found a legitimate escape from my surroundings eventually. Music provided a respite from the restrained emotions I bathed, swam and often drowned in. It gave me something I could call my own; something I could make actual decisions about, and, in doing so, it restored my humanity somewhat. It restored me to a kind of living that was just enough. It wasn't a jubilant or gleeful existence but now I had access to a greater range of choices than disappointment, sadness, or anger.
From my new vantage point, I realized that I had spent my 12th through 16th years as an aimless, walking corpse of sorts. I hadn't felt myself in years. It was inevitable that I would contrive to take music in a serious direction. It was the only career choice I could see myself making that didn't end in suicide, which was exactly where my aimless, walking, waking death had been leading me. I had almost killed myself twice before turning 15. Do you know what stopped me? I feared that I hadn't accounted for every detail and wouldn't be able to pull it off. When contemplating the benefits of jumping off a building, I considered the potential cons of merely breaking my neck and rendering myself a vegetable. While reflecting the merits of lighting oneself on fire, I feared it's extinguishment more than the foreseeable pain. The simplicity of drowning was spoiled by the bodies survival instinct, guns were unavailable, and bathroom outlets had those insufferable re-set switches. I didn't want to be discovered on the brink of death and labeled as a cry for help ------ for what was 'help'? What would it do? Consist of? Who would be responsible for giving 'help'? And who would foot the bill? I could tell by the kind of ice cream my family bought, that something was not quite right with their financial standing so I perceived that it would be an unwelcome burden; to say nothing of the added complexity it would place on my father's situation.
But what kid knows about that sort of stuff anyway? I feel as though I'm making excuses for my younger self. The fact is, most kids with mood disorders go untreated. CNN recently indicated that a study has found that one in 10 teenagers have mood disorders. The extent to which they are untreated was not revealed but had been reported as a majority. A separate study by the Journal of Abnormal Psychology (Intervention To Strengthen Emotional Self-Regulation In Children With Emerging Mental Health Problems - Proximal Impact On School Behavior) indicates that only one in eight children with behavioral disorders ever receive treatment. If there is any similarity for the rates of treatment between the mood disorder and behavioral disorder groups, I would not be surprised.
Perhaps if I were more informed as to my parent's financial position, I could have made a real decision about my treatment. Perhaps if I had known that my mind was not within the tolerance for normal, I could have made an informed decision about treatment. Perhaps if I hadn't been taught as a child that man was born to suffer due to a sinful nature, I could have made a rational decision about my treatment, but none of those things happened.
More than anything, I feared explaining myself (among the many other things I've mentioned, this blog also serves as a way for me to fact that old fear). I feared being punished for feeling the way I did. Punishments for trivial things like missing homework, bad grades, or forgetting to call home were bad enough; I couldn't conceive how horribly suicidal thoughts could be punished. I feared being medicated and locked away. to me, that was worse than death. My entire adolescence became an exercise in hiding my thoughts, hiding my feelings, hiding my desires, and how to blend in with everyone else -- not in the sense that I copied other people's dress or behavior (my social skills might have developed faster -- or even more thoroughly -- had I thought of that), but in the sense that, if you saw me in a crowd, I'd be the least noticeable person; the easiest to forget.
I found solace in the idea of hiding in plain sight. Words like efface soothe me to this day. I won't say that I consciously learned to use body language which keeps people from noticing me, because I have no such knowledge, but I do have a bunch of nonsense compulsions. They had become incorporated into my personality. It has worked to my benefit in situations like prison or the military and to my detriment both at the bar and in business, where social interactions are more important. (Curiously, a low dose of alcohol impairs these compulsions, often to a point where I am considered charming, so they are intermingled with my inhibition somehow).
I think it's easy to see why I latched onto music to the degree that I did. My decision to choose it as a desired vocation seems just as obvious a follow-up to me; after all, the possibility of making a reasonable living in a musical vocation is clearly demonstrated throughout history in hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of iterations. The nigh-fanatical finality I have cultivated in my decision to pursue such an existence should have just as obvious a basis to the reader -- music, being the only thing so far that has proved capable of pulling me from my fog, is strongly reinforced as a meaningful drive in my life. It is tied into my very survival instinct.
Now, here's something I've thought about a lot: Remember the line in Fight Club, where Tyler talks about his generation being 'very, very pissed off at the discovery that not everyone can become rock stars or movie gods?' I don't think that's a fair description of what's happening with me. I don't care about fame or wealth, but sufficiency. Frankly, I consider the record industry to be a pretty corrupted, scary place that has little room set aside for artistry as it pertains to 'The Human Condition' and its strive for purpose and meaning. I've struggled with what I think of as "fair" rock-stardom (or perhaps 'socialized' rock-stardom... I've developed a business model for a record label that is based on this idea). I don't need millions of dollars, fame, or notoriety to be happy. And, while I certainly entertained the possibility of such an existence when I was a young teen, I'd like to quell any notion that I could be some sort of spoiled child, demanding of status and wealth while holding my own life at ransom. I don't consider your life to be worse than death, or beneath me, or whatever.
My musical talent wasn't very noteworthy at first, except that it came quickly and easily to me. After a few years I had found a few friends who seemed inspired by it and who expressed a desire to form a band. In turn, they showed me new music, new jokes, new attitudes -- and friendship in the general sense. I had some genuine friends for the first time since living in Germany. I recognized this fact immediately and appreciated it, although I have always been at a loss when it comes to actually displaying appreciation. We formed various bands together, performing for a few parties and a talent show.
We could have done more than that, but school and work predominated in our day-to-day existence. All of us had part-time jobs in addition to our High School responsibilities. We understood that it would take a while before life could settle to the point that we could focus on real musical endeavors, and that could take years. My friends had plans for college, and I needed something to tide me over while they got that out of their systems, for reasons I'll explain. I hadn't yet branched much into other instruments, and I didn't consider myself a singer. I felt that I needed a band -- a whole band -- and my friends and I reciprocated an interest in securing them as the members of such.
I had also, however, performed very badly in High School & felt that college was inaccessible to me. this I chalk up to a gross ignorance to America's idea that everyone should go to college. I had a more German picture of the world, in which only the scholastically minded choose such pursuits. My only interest other than music at the time was in Japanese language and culture, but that would have been too expensive for me to pursue. Since I had credits in JROTC and lived in what felt like an unprecedented era of peacetime and prosperity, I felt that the military could tide me over while teaching me some valuable language skills. Basic research pointed to the Marine Corps. Why?
In Middle School I had a friend who had lived in Okinawa. He described Japan to me somewhat, as much as one can know about it from inside an Army base anyway, and he even spoke some of the language. I suppose his friendship had a hand in raising my awareness of Japan, and Japan is an interesting enough place (with a duly interesting culture) that any suitably aware child will inevitably geek out on it. From time to time I would find news articles detailing the illegal exploits and delinquencies of marines in Okinawa (I'm talking about the occasional rapes that have occurred there), and, already feeling disaffected from the US, I felt that much of a stronger endearment towards the Japanese.
To me, the general delinquency of the enlisted Marine Corps members, coupled with a presence in Okinawa, meant that they would need a PR department. As I got older, I thought it stood to reason that they probably maintained a small 'PR force' with a strong proficiency in Japanese language and culture. Such proficiency was a challenge in which I felt extremely interested. I didn't like the idea of defending the sort of monsters marines often become, but I considered it necessary to obtain my desired skill; having no money to pay for school, or the well of patience or fortitude to jump through the scholastic hoops of leaping from one community college to another. I considered it a sort of trade-off -- of physical hoops for symbolic ones. If there was one skill I had acquired; it was that of willing myself through daily events -- ignoring suicidal urges over prolonged periods of time requires a great deal of willpower.
I tested extremely well on the ASVAB, I remember my recruiter being very excited, telling me that I qualified for -- literally -- every job they had. This saddened me a little; I wondered if I was scholastically minded after all, but my depression had led to some pretty abysmal performance -- I landed a resounding 0.58 GPA my freshman year of High School. (Sound unbelievable, doesn't it?) And, aside from my money problem and my grade problem, there was the problem of deciding on something to study. At the open houses my mom took me to, people acted like I was crazy when I inquired as to the existence of any sort of 'Japanese Program', and the music schools required an audition with a classical instrument -- something I had no experience in (I don't remember my High School having anything such as 'classical instrument' classes -- I would have taken all of them). What else was there for me? Business? Political Science? Philosophy? My family thought I should be a lawyer. Did they know nothing about me? This was all in the summer preceding my senior year, and I was 17.
The recruiters told me all about the Defense Language Institute and the languages they taught -- including Japanese. They told me that the only way to get to the Defense Language Institute was to become a signals intelligence analyst. It wasn't PR, but th ejob description seemed impressive and appeared to require a great deal of proficiency. Believe it or not, I still didn't really understand how mentally unhealthy I was as I swore in and signed the necessary documents. I joined under the provision of the Delayed Entry Program, meaning I would finish my senior year and ship out pending my successful graduation.
My mood anticipated little of what was to come as I joined the Marine Corps. Either by deliberate act of omission or through sheer ignorance, my recruiters were liars; every one of them; from the enthusiastically mustached Corporal to the one-eyed Master Sergeant. To top that off, my ignorance to the state of affairs in the world, in addition to my lack of knowledge about depression, as well as my risk for developing schizophrenic symptoms, put my life and security in dire jeopardy, to say very little of my comfort and well being. (Continued in entry after next.)
Overture
I believe that my personal monster was born in Germany. I'm not sure when, exactly. It subsisted on breadcrumbs and dust in the beginning; literally this means that, as there were few traumas in my early life, my symptoms went unnoticed; to most people anyway, including myself. In the wake of my case, I am learning that at least one family member noticed.
I used to think that my symptoms were caused by something, but now I feel inclined to believe that they have always existed, even before I existed. They hover in the air like a presence sometimes, feeling both like a disembodied Self and a foreign entity; like a Me-From-The-Future and a Me-From-The-Past. Often it feels like my existence is just a re-incarnation of the symptoms and that my personality is more like a by-product. I can't really expect you to understand or identify.
Since my psychotic break, I have imagined consciousness in the dust of the cosmos. I think they really exist, with intelligence ranging from that of an amoeba to a human and beyond. I don't know if they mingle with people or are even aware of them, but it seemed to me that I interacted with at least three of them at the height of my experience. Right at the end they felt like disembodied versions of people I know ------ but I should wait until that part of the story before revealing their identities. It makes me wonder about quantum entanglement, the size of the universe, the sea of subatomic particles in my mind, etc. But maybe those beings were simply an extension of my psyche (or whatever), as a perceptive distortion. Does it make a difference?
Whatever it is, my symptom-machines prolonged dormancy ended around the time I was 12 years old. This coincides with the time I moved to America. Growing up in Germany was an extremely pleasant experience. I'll have to tell you about it sometime. It's not immediately relevant, except to say that it set me up for some vast disappointments. I don't even remember what I was expecting, but my first impressions of America were no where close. I could say that with certainty.
My adjustment to daily life here could be described as "extremely poor". I became totally lost eventually ------ having no real friends, no rewarding experiences in my life, no goals; just nameless, unfulfilled desired. I remember, from seventh through ninth grade, that there were times when I turned to my environment as a sort of 'decision engine'. I also remember thinking that it was a dangerous thing to do ------ use an external decision engine in such a way ------ but I couldn't perceive why. I could hardly perceive anything at the time. There weren't reasons for doing anything, it seemed. Life seemed ... very insipid; very disappointing and empty. Only a few pictures of me exist from this period. I looked as blank as I felt.
My external decision engine was a bit like a game: when I would think of something that had been bothering me; a doubt or a problem, I would boil it down to a yes or no question. The first object to catch my eye would supply the answer to the question. If the object came in multiples ------ as fence posts, for instance ------ I would count them, with odd numbers meaning 'yes' while even numbers signified a 'no'. It provided a small respite from my confusion at least, and it provided me with something like a will. I think many people have played a game like this from time to time. It's of a take on the 's/he loves me, s/he loves me not' game. In fact it may have derived from that; love sickness has predominated my childhood, adolescence, and my adult life. When I played, I thought ------ or hoped on some level ------ that I was communing with God, although I knew that I probably wasn't.
By high school ------ I'm glossing rather quickly here ------ the monster had blossomed into a young adolescent. I had discovered anger as a coping mechanism. I lived and breathed hatred. I loved hatred. I hated everything; sometimes myself, sometimes others, sometimes institutions, sometimes cultural values; usually all of that. I think anger helped me deal with the inevitable frustrations of battling the malaise without understanding it, and probably had much to do with the frustrations at the short-comings I perceived in America's school system, when I compared it with Germany's. I had very little energy, and my Pavlov's hierarchy was generally at a point which was too low for me to concern my self about responsibilities; whether social, scholastic, etc. I wished something would kill me most of the time, which is an entirely distracting frame of mind to be in.
My parents certainly knew something was off about me by then, but their hands were tied. The flip-side to my schizo-affective coin could be my father's hepatitis C treatment and diagnosis. Understandably; my parents were preoccupied with my father's health much of the time. I often take my father's illness for granted; forgetting that other people have more interactive relationships with their fathers, or perhaps ever their families as a whole. At the best of times, living with my father was like suddenly living with someone you have long since become estranged to. At the worst of times, it was like living with a sick and dying pet. I have known mere shadows of my father since moving to this country. Now I can only interact with him by analyzing my own instincts and thoughts. My childhood memories don't do him much justice.
I found a legitimate escape from my surroundings eventually. Music provided a respite from the restrained emotions I bathed, swam and often drowned in. It gave me something I could call my own; something I could make actual decisions about, and, in doing so, it restored my humanity somewhat. It restored me to a kind of living that was just enough. It wasn't a jubilant or gleeful existence but now I had access to a greater range of choices than disappointment, sadness, or anger.
From my new vantage point, I realized that I had spent my 12th through 16th years as an aimless, walking corpse of sorts. I hadn't felt myself in years. It was inevitable that I would contrive to take music in a serious direction. It was the only career choice I could see myself making that didn't end in suicide, which was exactly where my aimless, walking, waking death had been leading me. I had almost killed myself twice before turning 15. Do you know what stopped me? I feared that I hadn't accounted for every detail and wouldn't be able to pull it off. When contemplating the benefits of jumping off a building, I considered the potential cons of merely breaking my neck and rendering myself a vegetable. While reflecting the merits of lighting oneself on fire, I feared it's extinguishment more than the foreseeable pain. The simplicity of drowning was spoiled by the bodies survival instinct, guns were unavailable, and bathroom outlets had those insufferable re-set switches. I didn't want to be discovered on the brink of death and labeled as a cry for help ------ for what was 'help'? What would it do? Consist of? Who would be responsible for giving 'help'? And who would foot the bill? I could tell by the kind of ice cream my family bought, that something was not quite right with their financial standing so I perceived that it would be an unwelcome burden; to say nothing of the added complexity it would place on my father's situation.
But what kid knows about that sort of stuff anyway? I feel as though I'm making excuses for my younger self. The fact is, most kids with mood disorders go untreated. CNN recently indicated that a study has found that one in 10 teenagers have mood disorders. The extent to which they are untreated was not revealed but had been reported as a majority. A separate study by the Journal of Abnormal Psychology (Intervention To Strengthen Emotional Self-Regulation In Children With Emerging Mental Health Problems - Proximal Impact On School Behavior) indicates that only one in eight children with behavioral disorders ever receive treatment. If there is any similarity for the rates of treatment between the mood disorder and behavioral disorder groups, I would not be surprised.
Perhaps if I were more informed as to my parent's financial position, I could have made a real decision about my treatment. Perhaps if I had known that my mind was not within the tolerance for normal, I could have made an informed decision about treatment. Perhaps if I hadn't been taught as a child that man was born to suffer due to a sinful nature, I could have made a rational decision about my treatment, but none of those things happened.
More than anything, I feared explaining myself (among the many other things I've mentioned, this blog also serves as a way for me to fact that old fear). I feared being punished for feeling the way I did. Punishments for trivial things like missing homework, bad grades, or forgetting to call home were bad enough; I couldn't conceive how horribly suicidal thoughts could be punished. I feared being medicated and locked away. to me, that was worse than death. My entire adolescence became an exercise in hiding my thoughts, hiding my feelings, hiding my desires, and how to blend in with everyone else -- not in the sense that I copied other people's dress or behavior (my social skills might have developed faster -- or even more thoroughly -- had I thought of that), but in the sense that, if you saw me in a crowd, I'd be the least noticeable person; the easiest to forget.
I found solace in the idea of hiding in plain sight. Words like efface soothe me to this day. I won't say that I consciously learned to use body language which keeps people from noticing me, because I have no such knowledge, but I do have a bunch of nonsense compulsions. They had become incorporated into my personality. It has worked to my benefit in situations like prison or the military and to my detriment both at the bar and in business, where social interactions are more important. (Curiously, a low dose of alcohol impairs these compulsions, often to a point where I am considered charming, so they are intermingled with my inhibition somehow).
I think it's easy to see why I latched onto music to the degree that I did. My decision to choose it as a desired vocation seems just as obvious a follow-up to me; after all, the possibility of making a reasonable living in a musical vocation is clearly demonstrated throughout history in hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of iterations. The nigh-fanatical finality I have cultivated in my decision to pursue such an existence should have just as obvious a basis to the reader -- music, being the only thing so far that has proved capable of pulling me from my fog, is strongly reinforced as a meaningful drive in my life. It is tied into my very survival instinct.
Now, here's something I've thought about a lot: Remember the line in Fight Club, where Tyler talks about his generation being 'very, very pissed off at the discovery that not everyone can become rock stars or movie gods?' I don't think that's a fair description of what's happening with me. I don't care about fame or wealth, but sufficiency. Frankly, I consider the record industry to be a pretty corrupted, scary place that has little room set aside for artistry as it pertains to 'The Human Condition' and its strive for purpose and meaning. I've struggled with what I think of as "fair" rock-stardom (or perhaps 'socialized' rock-stardom... I've developed a business model for a record label that is based on this idea). I don't need millions of dollars, fame, or notoriety to be happy. And, while I certainly entertained the possibility of such an existence when I was a young teen, I'd like to quell any notion that I could be some sort of spoiled child, demanding of status and wealth while holding my own life at ransom. I don't consider your life to be worse than death, or beneath me, or whatever.
My musical talent wasn't very noteworthy at first, except that it came quickly and easily to me. After a few years I had found a few friends who seemed inspired by it and who expressed a desire to form a band. In turn, they showed me new music, new jokes, new attitudes -- and friendship in the general sense. I had some genuine friends for the first time since living in Germany. I recognized this fact immediately and appreciated it, although I have always been at a loss when it comes to actually displaying appreciation. We formed various bands together, performing for a few parties and a talent show.
We could have done more than that, but school and work predominated in our day-to-day existence. All of us had part-time jobs in addition to our High School responsibilities. We understood that it would take a while before life could settle to the point that we could focus on real musical endeavors, and that could take years. My friends had plans for college, and I needed something to tide me over while they got that out of their systems, for reasons I'll explain. I hadn't yet branched much into other instruments, and I didn't consider myself a singer. I felt that I needed a band -- a whole band -- and my friends and I reciprocated an interest in securing them as the members of such.
I had also, however, performed very badly in High School & felt that college was inaccessible to me. this I chalk up to a gross ignorance to America's idea that everyone should go to college. I had a more German picture of the world, in which only the scholastically minded choose such pursuits. My only interest other than music at the time was in Japanese language and culture, but that would have been too expensive for me to pursue. Since I had credits in JROTC and lived in what felt like an unprecedented era of peacetime and prosperity, I felt that the military could tide me over while teaching me some valuable language skills. Basic research pointed to the Marine Corps. Why?
In Middle School I had a friend who had lived in Okinawa. He described Japan to me somewhat, as much as one can know about it from inside an Army base anyway, and he even spoke some of the language. I suppose his friendship had a hand in raising my awareness of Japan, and Japan is an interesting enough place (with a duly interesting culture) that any suitably aware child will inevitably geek out on it. From time to time I would find news articles detailing the illegal exploits and delinquencies of marines in Okinawa (I'm talking about the occasional rapes that have occurred there), and, already feeling disaffected from the US, I felt that much of a stronger endearment towards the Japanese.
To me, the general delinquency of the enlisted Marine Corps members, coupled with a presence in Okinawa, meant that they would need a PR department. As I got older, I thought it stood to reason that they probably maintained a small 'PR force' with a strong proficiency in Japanese language and culture. Such proficiency was a challenge in which I felt extremely interested. I didn't like the idea of defending the sort of monsters marines often become, but I considered it necessary to obtain my desired skill; having no money to pay for school, or the well of patience or fortitude to jump through the scholastic hoops of leaping from one community college to another. I considered it a sort of trade-off -- of physical hoops for symbolic ones. If there was one skill I had acquired; it was that of willing myself through daily events -- ignoring suicidal urges over prolonged periods of time requires a great deal of willpower.
I tested extremely well on the ASVAB, I remember my recruiter being very excited, telling me that I qualified for -- literally -- every job they had. This saddened me a little; I wondered if I was scholastically minded after all, but my depression had led to some pretty abysmal performance -- I landed a resounding 0.58 GPA my freshman year of High School. (Sound unbelievable, doesn't it?) And, aside from my money problem and my grade problem, there was the problem of deciding on something to study. At the open houses my mom took me to, people acted like I was crazy when I inquired as to the existence of any sort of 'Japanese Program', and the music schools required an audition with a classical instrument -- something I had no experience in (I don't remember my High School having anything such as 'classical instrument' classes -- I would have taken all of them). What else was there for me? Business? Political Science? Philosophy? My family thought I should be a lawyer. Did they know nothing about me? This was all in the summer preceding my senior year, and I was 17.
The recruiters told me all about the Defense Language Institute and the languages they taught -- including Japanese. They told me that the only way to get to the Defense Language Institute was to become a signals intelligence analyst. It wasn't PR, but th ejob description seemed impressive and appeared to require a great deal of proficiency. Believe it or not, I still didn't really understand how mentally unhealthy I was as I swore in and signed the necessary documents. I joined under the provision of the Delayed Entry Program, meaning I would finish my senior year and ship out pending my successful graduation.
My mood anticipated little of what was to come as I joined the Marine Corps. Either by deliberate act of omission or through sheer ignorance, my recruiters were liars; every one of them; from the enthusiastically mustached Corporal to the one-eyed Master Sergeant. To top that off, my ignorance to the state of affairs in the world, in addition to my lack of knowledge about depression, as well as my risk for developing schizophrenic symptoms, put my life and security in dire jeopardy, to say very little of my comfort and well being. (Continued in entry after next.)
