Obviously, I’ve failed at this to varying degrees. But…it’s been weighing on me a lot recently. I thought I might as well try to explain some of it here, in whatever vague terms I can.
Most of you probably know that I was in the Army, and most of you know that I’m no longer serving. You probably don’t know that my service was cut short due to some Relatively Bad Shit, and a bit of intervention.
I don’t really want to talk about my time in the service, except to say that Basic Training was quite enjoyable. It left me with a feeling of accomplishment. An “I Survived” feeling that I’ll probably never recapture. And that things didn’t go to hell until AIT, due to a great deal of paperwork confusion, and my being rather ill the first time I was set to ship out — possibly too ill to actually consent to the changes I consented to. But that’s Of The Past. It cannot be changed. I don’t bother dwelling on it; neither should anybody else.
My military career came to an end when, while on leave, I found out that my previously clean room had been completely trashed, and that I was in a great deal of trouble over the state of it. This wasn’t the straw that broke the camel’s back — this was the flaw in the shielding that caused the shuttle to burn up on reentry.
See, prior to this, I’d learned a rather important lesson. In the military, if you’re female, you don’t just have to watch out for the males — you also have to watch out for the other females. The males tend to treat you as if you’re there for…well, you know. The females? They’re on the lookout for someone who can fill the lowest position in their pecking order.
This may be true of all jobs, but…it seemed especially harsh in this particular location. I was the omega.
That may sound overly-dramatic. You’re probably thinking, ‘Oh, it was just hazing. You took it personally. Grow up.’ But…it wasn’t. I wasn’t the only new girl in that particular workplace.
I’ve put in a good decade of actively ‘forgetting’, but I can’t exactly…unlearn it all. There might be a hole [or, more likely, a rather nice containment unit of some sort] where the memories are, but they still have some impact.
I’m not going to tell you any stories — not now. Maybe, someday, when I’m a little more comfortable with it. I don’t really care if you believe me. There are finally some doctors who believe me; doctors that, more importantly, I’ve come to trust. The handfull of people who knew me before know what I’m like now, and know the impact on my everyday life. My parents saw the difference.
And, yes, I’m now naturally inclined to suspect that anyone reading this will automatically assume I’m lying or faking it. I never saw combat. I was never anywhere but stateside. It only took fourteen months. How the hell can it be real? How dare I place myself among those who are coming back with their bits blown off?
I don’t know.
I may continue this later; I may not.