The Long, Melancholic Road Through Madness

I remember the first time I came to the realization that I was a very depressed person. It was in my old military days, studying a foreign language in the service of our country. A psychological screen on your profile was a total black mark on your profile, something to be avoided, and I pondered that for weeks before giving in to all the postings and briefings about depression we were made to sit through. I was falling behind in class. I was falling behind in physical training. I was growing sick within both body and soul. No one noticed, everyone was looking out for themselves and I was very good at masking myself due to the way I was raised. Growing up every look, every emotion was questioned until my natural face was blank. People think they're good at spotting liars and fakers, which makes them blind to it.

Taking the advice of the generic instructional videos and the monthly visit from the Chaplain I went to Chaplin Services to 'talk to someone who cares'. But I didn't have an appointment, so one was made and I came back in a week. He's busy today, may you come back next week? Week two after the breaking point and he was attending to urgent matters over a sick Airman. Week three or four, I forget how long it took, I walked out of his office slightly less depressed and infinitely more angered. I trudged on, making snide comments from back rows, studying nearly every waking moment under advisement from my superiors, all for the sake of... what?

They booted me from class while I was on bed rest from a mysterious illness. When I reported to grounds keeping duty and had my report card mailed to me, a B average. More sick call, confined to a small dorm room, and all I had was a small ball of hate growing inside me. I crafted 5-point letters railing against my school and instructors, petitioning my commanding officers about the indignation of my failure. I drank in my off-hours and unabashedly railed against people to the delight of others.

Sorrow and rage brewed in me like a slow venom, eating through my stomach and bowels. I had my way and was allowed to return to class, sicker, meaner. Anger and parasites brewed inside me as I sat through classes I'd already taken, but no one minded or cared. Argued with others needlessly and mocked people who didn't deserve it. I was vomiting constantly, but the clinic refused to acknowledge that anything was wrong. Perhaps the worst memory I harbor is nearly throwing up on the last woman I was intimate with, thoughts of love, of sex, permanently marred by the taste and burn of bile.

Like the Chaplin, I went to the clinic several times to seek help. This time I was called a liar and a faker for choosing such an unremarkable affliction. If my leg had hurt I'd receive vicodin and a free pass from afternoon exercise. Eventually I was given anti nausea pills whose side effects included chemical fueled nightmares. They stopped working and finally, when blood followed with the bile, I was seen by a doctor. The final medicant was essentially a pesticide. Reduced to a quivering, fevering mess I only slept with the door open, actually fearful of what would happen in my sleep. Purged of my ailment, the hate remained. It sat there, perhaps in the pit the bugs had burrowed into my stomach, festering and fermenting.

I flowed through the next years as in a stupor. Returning to Basic Training to learn how to fly? Nothing. Camping and mock torture in Survival School? Nothing. Being sent to Afghanistan, not fully trained? Nothing, both times.

I question where I'm at now. I feel empty and hollow, not quite the person I once was. Returning from the military to finish my education, those close to me comment how much I've changed with the passage of time. They say it like a compliment, as I maintain a blank face.