Out of Step

I joined the Army during the Clinton White House. It was the twilight of the dot com bubble, and the country was euphoric. There was little love and no respect for the men and women serving in the armed forces. We were a tax burden and proved a rancorous mob when put to the booze. Only strip bars and pawn shops would cut us a discount. Bases on the verge of bankruptcy were abandoned, decaying, and decrepit reminders of the Cold War-era arms race. That's the Army I joined.

It's true, then. I was a volunteer. I knew what I was getting into. Despite the relative tranquility of the decade leading up to September Eleventh, I knew that war was possible, even inevitable. I understood that by enlisting, it meant utter capitulation to the will of others. For that reason, I placed tremendous importance in my enlistment contract. It was - to me - my word of honor that I would do and die without ever questioning why. It was also my statute of limitations. I was giving everything up, but not indefinitely. The term of the contract was concrete. Five years, to the day.

So, I boxed-up my independent thinking and moth-balled my creativity and initiative. In it's place, I fostered a motivation that grew with the realization that I was a damn good soldier. Logical precision combined with an uncanny (borderline obsessive) awareness of details distinguished me from my peers. However, as insurance against insurgent creative impulses, I had to build a fragile world of denial on the foundations of closet alcoholism. This was an unfortunate but necessary step, as I quickly discovered the regimen of military life was suffocating my character.

In my darkest hours, though, I would take refuge in the knowledge that this is what I had signed up for. By taking responsibility for my decision, I have been able to overcome the most grievous obstacles. That simple and undeniable logic is a foolproof justification based entirely on the foundations of the oath of enlistment. It meant for bleak times. I bore the weight of all the blame for everything bad that happened to me. And bad things happen all the time in the Army. From doing push-ups for not having a pressed uniform, to loosing one of your best friends to a roadside bomb in Iraq. It sucks on so many different levels, and I have to carry them all.

Imagine having to carry a very heavy bucket of water for five miles. "This sucks," you tell yourself, "but I made the decision, and I'm going to see it out". Good for you. Now, imagine you're at mile four. Your hands are bleeding, and you're pissed off because someone lied to you, and the bucket was twice as heavy to begin with, and some idiot kept pouring more water in as you went. But it's alright, only one... more... mile! But wait! Suddenly, the rules change. You're given another bucket, and worse, you're told you have to walk an extra mile - maybe more. And then you're told that on this "last" stretch, there are bears that want to devour you and - in fact - your very close friend who just a moment ago walked that last mile did get devoured. So, how do you feel now?

Strangely, despite all my bitching and moaning, I have no regret. It may be a byproduct of intricate webs of denial that have't yet been demolished, but I have never dwelt on the decision itself. Instead, I focus more on the present. I can't help feel betrayal. The very institution the oath of enlistment represents was made a mockery to me. My foundation to which I turned whenever I needed strength was kicked out from under me. Suddenly, my bottled-up independence and creativity broke from their shackles and my motivation plummeted.

All that's left now is a tremendous feeling of hopelessness and helplessness. I'm standing there - well past mile five - lost, and scared. I am surrounded by the organization that betrayed me, and every time I look at someone in uniform, I get slightly sick to my stomach. Even when I look at myself in the mirror, I can't feel pride or accomplishment. I only feel bitter disappointment. With nowhere else to shelve my grief, I am putting it here. If you're interested, send me a self-addressed envelope and five-plus years of your life, and you can share some of it with me. Together we can be an Army of One.