Why and How I Got Out of the Navy

Why and How I Got Out of the Navy

Prior to entering my senior year of high school, I naively enlisted in the Navy. Although I enlisted intentionally, I did not do so deliberately. I took a military aptitude test during my junior year and ended up scoring fairly well. Late one evening, after a long day of school and basketball, my father approached me about the prospect of joining. Apparently, a recruiter jogging nearby the construction site where my father worked claimed to know who I was based on my scores from the military aptitude test. My dad told me about it and suggested that it wouldn’t be a bad idea. At that point in time, post-high-school-graduation was frightening and the sense of security associated with the military was alluring. Optimistically, I went to the local recruiting office to discuss potential roles I could play in the Navy. The recruiter was deceptive in that he glorified life as an enlistee making it seem far more lucrative and enjoyable than it actually is. In retrospect, I should have been more perceptive of the recruiter’s discontent and ruthless tactics to fill his quota for enlistees.

As an obstinate 17 year-old-boy, loyal only to my father, I bypassed the advice given to me by my mom, teachers, and school counselor; all of who were adamant about me considering my options before joining. By August 2007, less than two years after my brother hung himself, the recruiter and I visited both of my parents so that they could give up their rights as my legal guardians and pass that role onto the Navy in case the military needed me before my 18^th birthday. After my parents signed, I went to MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) so that I could swear in. Before swearing in, several psychological and behavioral inquiries were conducted. Advised by the recruiter to do so, I lied on all of them to prevent further scrutiny. From that point, my year of inactive service consisted solely of monthly meetings at the recruiting office. I proceeded to enjoy my senior year excelling academically, athletically, and even socially, as an active member of student government and being the class-appointed speaker for graduation. And with the ostensibly profitable and fulfilling future as a Nuclear Electronics Technician in the Navy, I was on top of the world.

Less than two months after making that speech at graduation, I left the one bedroom apartment I shared with my father so that I could receive some good ol’ military discipline near Chicago at Naval Basic Training. I hated boot camp. Not allowed to sleep for the first 30 hours of training, I woke up two mornings after my arrival to red lights flashing, alarms blaring, and RDC’s (Recruit Division Commanders) yelling in my face ordering me to do shit that would be impossible to do up to their standards. I vividly recall wishing that I was dreaming and that I’d really wake up in a couple hours to my jovial father asking me if I wanted breakfast. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a dream and the next two months were going to be jam packed with miserable monotony and emotional anguish.

Boot camp wasn’t really that hard, in fact, I outperformed my peers academically and physically so the RDC’s elected me to the role of Ship Staff. Ship Staff was cool because I got to clean around the building that housed a multitude of divisions while the other 90 members of the division practiced marching or folding clothes. I even made a friend on Ship Staff, Zane, from Tucson AZ. We reveled in slacking off just to chat with one another about our glory days of high school and our girlfriends. As one would imagine, boot camp is sickeningly strict, so simply chatting freely was truly a blessing. Besides the time with Zane, the only other solace I found were the letters written to me by my family and girlfriend.

As it was the only form of communication we had with the outside world, each night, all 90 recruits would stand adjacent to their bunks anxiously anticipating letters from their loved ones. I cried silently in my bunk as I read and reread those letters. Every Sunday morning, recruits were granted four hours to conduct religious practices, write their loved ones, or shine their boots. I wrote my family frenetically as I relished listening to the songs sung by my fellow recruits. I developed a newfound appreciation for music, even if it was just acapella. Boot camp wasn’t entirely bad, as I mingled with various individuals with whom I wouldn't have met otherwise. Initially, I arrived at basic training eager to be the top of my division and be a positive outlier amongst all enlistees. Day by day, my desire to attain that goal waned and was replaced with negative affects such as paranoia, depression, and regret.

During that time, I was in a long-term relationship with my high-school girlfriend, Matilda. I compensated for low self-esteem by being a controlling partner.  My overbearing attitude and Matilda’s pliable personality made for an unhealthy relationship. Matilda was, and is, an incredibly intelligent individual; I was lucky to be with her. At boot camp, I was overwhelmed with the fear that Matilda was seeking comfort in the form of a male companion as a result of my absence. I longed to be with her and the thought of spending the next six years apart was unfathomable. Looking back, I was a weak young man plagued by emotional fragility.

I was not the only recruit in my all-male division to suffer emotionally. I recall several instances of men far older than myself bawling when the RDC’s would tell us things like, “Well you guys fucked up! All your families, parents, children, or whoever bought plane tickets to come see your sorry ass won’t be able to cause’ you guys can’t get this shit right!” The RDC’s used threats and lies like this as ploys aimed at preventing complacency. One night, about halfway through, Zane received a letter from his girlfriend who wrote about all the new friends she was making at college. One of the friends she mentioned was a guy, who Zane thought she must be fond of. Zane cried and fretted incessantly about losing the girl he loved. Another recruit, who I could only recognize by his frail, sickly demeanor was rumored to have told the RDC’s that he would kill himself if he wasn’t sent back home. He was sent home with an honorable discharge for Other Designated Physical and Mental Conditions (ODPMC).

By the end of basic training, I was completely indifferent about how I performed as long as I could go through the motions necessary and move on to my Apprentice School (A-School). This sense of indifference nearly resulted in me failing boot camp and not being able to meet Matilda, her mother, and my father who had recently bought plane tickets to fly from Portland OR to come see me graduate near Chicago.

Basic training is concluded with a culminating task  aimed to test recruits on the entirety of what was learned during our two months. This capstone event is referred to as, “Battle Stations.” Battle Stations comprises 13 tests over a 12-hour period from 6 pm to 6 am and takes place on a 210 ft replica of a guided missile destroyer. My division, division 363, was scheduled to graduate on Monday, and for us, Battle Stations was on Saturday, just two days before the graduation ceremony. Due to the disdain I felt towards boot camp at that point, I optimistically assumed that I could simply go through the motions of Battle Stations in my team of eight recruits and just be done with that shit. It didn’t work out that way. Out of the 180 recruits that did Battle Stations that night, I was the only one that failed. While my fellow recruits, now considered sailors for having passed battle stations, were celebrating their success, eating pizza, and anxiously anticipating the arrival of our loved ones the following day, I was told to go sit in a room and wait until an RDC explained what was to follow.

It was Sunday morning, Matilda, her mom, and my dad, were arriving in Chicago that day and scheduled to see me the following morning. The RDC told me that I would have to do Battle Stations again Sunday night, and if I passed, I could graduate the following morning. At that point, I had already been awake for 26 hours and would be forced to repeat the overnight process again. The RDC told me to sleep in a fellow division’s room but that was impossible as my circadian cycle wouldn’t allow it and neither would the anxiety I felt about not passing the night before.

At 6 that evening, I stood amongst 180 recruits, with whom I had never interacted, in a long cavernous tunnel. Sleep deprivation made everything so surreal as a facilitator suddenly yelled my name over the massive crowd of anxious recruits, “Miles! Division 363!” I responded by running towards him eager to do whatever was necessary to get through the night successfully. The facilitator was my savior. He quickly informed me that he was aware of what happened the night before and that he’d be looking after me to ensure that I got to the graduation ceremony on time. Honestly, perhaps due to the lack of sleep, I barely remember anything from that night except for the fact that this particular RDC was a true homie and even let me leave Battle Stations prematurely to ensure that I get back in time for the graduation ceremony.

By the time I got back from Battle Stations, it was 6:30 am, and I had been up for 48 and a half hours. I ran into division 363 housing where Zane had already laid out my dress whites on my bunk. My fellow recruits were already dressed and prepared to march out the door but they all ensured I join them in the ceremony and did everything in their power to get me dressed, shaved, and ceremoniously presentable to meet Matilda, her mom, and my pops. I marched in the back of the division in a trancelike state as my thoughts continuously drifted. I even remember while standing at attention during the ceremony, I couldn’t see my dad amongst the thousands of families there, so in my phantasmal state, I simply concluded that he didn’t come, but that it was okay because I finished Battle Stations.

Fortunately, my illusory conclusion contradicted reality as I saw my father running towards me as the ceremony was consummated. I cried tears of happiness as I embraced his hug. Boot camp was the first time for me to be away from my father since he had been to prison. I hugged Matilda and her mother as well. The amount of joy derived from the realization that I would be able to spend a full day with them outside the confines of boot camp was pure bliss. I said goodbye to Zane as we both shed tears of happiness and relished the day we were granted with those we loved. We ate at the Cracker Barrel, I used my dad’s phone to call my brothers, rode a train into Chicago, and went window-shopping at a nearby mall. I got back to division 363 around 8 that night and fell asleep at 10 pm after 64 hours without sleep. Those days with my pops, Matilda, and her mom were cherished respites that I will never forget.

We were granted two more days outside of the base to spend with our families before our division dispersed by going to our respective A-Schools. The night of my final day with Matilda, I received a letter from my little brother, Blaze, bearing burdensome news. In his letter, Blaze told me that Matilda was spending a lot of time with a boy who was quite fond of her and allotted far more attention to her than I ever could. This boy’s name was Gabriel. Perhaps Gabriel perceived my absence as an opportunity to court Matilda without interference. The same night I got Blaze’s message, I received a letter from Matilda that she mailed prior to coming to Chicago. Matilda’s letter also outlined the relationship that developed between her and Gabriel. Regardless of Matilda’s, or Gabriel’s intentions, in my emotionally fragile state, it was devastating. “How could she!? And she didn’t say shit about it while she was here!? While I’m here suffering at Boot Camp, she’s off with that little EMO fucker!?” Irrational thoughts like these consumed me as I prepared for my transition to A-School.

The morning after receiving those letters, I flew from Chicago’s O’Hare international airport to Charleston SC. Fortunately, Zane was also in the Nuclear program so I met him a few days later. Despite expecting the situation at A-School to alleviate all the emotional distress I experienced throughout basic training, I realized that wherever I went, there I was. Yes, there were obvious perks about A-School relative to boot camp such as the decent housing, food, being able to leave the base on weekends, having a cell phone, and talking with Zane. Although A-School was an obvious step-up, I remained who I was: an emotionally unstable young man.

I incessantly worried about whom Matilda was spending her time with. I was pissed off at myself for surrendering my freedom for the next six years for a lousy military paycheck. Besides Zane, I didn’t like the other students in A-School. I hated the constant condescending comments made by instructors and advisors, who to me, seemed like extremely unhappy individuals. I seriously couldn’t fathom wasting the next six years of my life with my freedom restricted in a world of subordination. I wanted to go home, smoke weed, and maybe even move back down to Las Vegas with my dad, which is where he and I lived just before his incarceration.

“Dad, I hate it here. I seriously just wanna go home!” I said over the phone just two weeks into A-School.

“Really Rockman? You hate it that much huh? How’re you gonna do it?” My dad could sense my regret and was willing to say or do anything to placate me.

“Well there was a kid in boot camp who got sent back with an honorable discharge for telling the RDC’s that he’d kill himself if he had to stay in the Navy. And I could talk to them about Eddie’s suicide to explain why I’m feeling fucked up.” I solemnly suggested.

“Rock, we’re gonna get you out of there. Don't worry about that. I’ll come down there myself if I have to. “ My dad was saying anything to comfort me. He had already lost one son to suicide and just the idea of losing another was enough to devastate him.

“Alright, well I can’t stand this shit, so I’m gonna talk to my advisor tomorrow and get this shit started.” I said as we ended our conversation, assuring one another that we’d talk the following day.

Before the day of lectures started the following morning, I was sitting in my advisor’s office attempting to inform him of my emotional state. “Petty Officer Jones, I’m not feeling so great about things right now. October is an especially hard month for me because three years ago, on October 25^th, my 17-year old brother hung himself. And now, since I’m new to the Navy and I’m away from home, those dark feelings are resurfacing and I’m having trouble focusing. I need to talk to someone.” I wholeheartedly informed him.

“Well, once October is over, you’ll probably be alright then, right? Or do you think you actually need to talk to someone?” Petty Officer Jones responded.

Relative to any other advisor, instructor, or Naval superior I met during my short stint in the military, Petty Officer Jones was the most genuine. Unlike the other instructors and advisors, who seemed cold and unpleasant, Jones opened up to me and truly cared about my future.

“I need to see someone.” I asserted.

Petty Officer Jones made an appointment for me to see a Naval medical doctor two days later.

I sat in the lobby waiting to be called in by the doctor hopeful that the interaction would go smoothly and the ball would start moving in the direction aimed at me going home. It didn’t.

“So Miles, I hear that you’ve been complaining. That true?” He condescendingly questioned.

“Well no officer, I am feeling down because it’s October and I’ve been thinking about my brother a lot.” I said.

“Who’s your brother? What the hell does he have to do with this?” He disparaged.

“Three years ago my brother committed suicide. It was really tough for me and I’m depressed.” I plead.

“Look Miles, it’s been three years since your brother killed himself and NOW you’re having problems? Sounds to me like you’re just having trouble adjusting to life in the Navy and you’re using this as an excuse to avoid doing your job. You think your mom wants to hear about her son being depressed or suicidal? How selfish are you? If you mention this shit again, I’m gonna make sure that you spend the next six years chipping paint on an aircraft carrier. Now get the fuck out of my office.” He spat brusquely.

I couldn’t believe the lack of sympathy, or the harshness expressed by that doctor. Rather than deter me from being discharged, he reconfirmed the fact that there was no way I would squander away the next six years of my life amongst pieces of shit like him. I was pissed the fuck off and even more determined to get home.

“Dad, you wouldn’t believe what just happened. I went to see that doctor today but he was so fucking mean.” I complained.

“It’ll be okay Rockman, I’m gonna call Petty Officer Jones today. Just hang in there.” My dad said comfortingly after I reiterated what had happened at the doctor’s office.

            Enraged by what transpired just hours before, I went to my room to do something that I knew would exemplify my willingness to harm myself. I grabbed my razor blade and cut my upper arms several times as I watched the blood trickle down towards my elbow. I called my dad again and told him about what I had just done in order to show the Navy how serious I was about getting the hell out of there. From other enlistees, I’d heard about a student jumping off the third-floor balcony as an attempt to commit suicide. I knew that the balcony wasn’t high enough to die unless I swan-dived, so I often considered jumping feet first as a viable option to escape my current predicament.

            My dad’s call to Petty Officer Jones was impactful enough to get my security clearance stripped so that I was no longer qualified to be in that school. After being scolded by several superiors for my emotional weakness, I was sent to live in nearby housing unit for individuals that couldn’t cut it academically and were waiting on being transferred. Within a few days at the new housing unit, I was afforded the opportunity to meet with an actual psychiatrist.

            “Hello Mr. Miles. I heard that you’ve been having some trouble adjusting to life in the military. Is that true?” the psychiatrist asked.

            “Well, yeah, I hate it here.” I responded.

            “Okay, well you’re gonna have to give me a little bit more information than that. A lot of young men hate their life in the Navy but they aren’t sent to a psychiatrist.” He goaded.

            “Yeah, well three years ago, my brother hung himself and now he’s dead. I’ve already been cutting myself and if I have to stay in the Navy, I’ll kill myself just like my brother did.” I morbidly confided.

            “Well Mr. Miles, the military isn’t for everyone, and based on what you just said, you’ll be sent home within 10 days. I’m not in the military and I’m doing fine. I recommend you get some psychological help when you go home.” He consoled.

            “Okay, thank you sir.” I said while attempting to conceal my elation with a somber look representing my ostensible fucked-up mindset. I was so thankful. I knew at that point that I’d beaten the system and I’d be going home. Yes, what I did was extremely shameful but I knew that I was free of the military. Free to go see my girlfriend. Free to go see my dad. Free to smoke weed. Free to do whatever the hell I pleased because I was no longer trapped in a militant hierarchy that dictated my whereabouts and haircut. I was free!

            Before I flew home, I sat down with Petty Officer Jones to discuss my departure from the Navy. “Look Miles, if you quit now, you’re gonna quit everything for the rest of your life. You’re gonna be a loser. You’re gonna depend on your daddy for everything. I know shit can be hard sometimes but quitting isn’t the answer. When my wife left me all alone with our daughter, I didn’t quit. I kept going. And trust me, if you quit now, you’re gonna be a quitter for as long as you live.” Petty Officer Jones lectured.

            I didn’t respond because I simply didn’t know what to say. But I wish I could respond now and let Petty Officer Jones know what I’ve done with the six years I spent as a civilian rather than working on Nuclear power units on submarines or aircraft carriers. During those six years, I sold drugs, I earned my Bachelor’s degree with a 3.885 GPA, I studied in Botswana, I traveled to Mozambique, South Africa, Zambia, China, Vietnam, Thailand, South Korea, and have been teaching English here in Japan for almost two years. So Petty Officer Jones, if you’re reading this, I want you to know that what you said had an impact. It had an impact on who I am today. And contrary to Petty Officer Jones adamancy to ensure I remain enlisted, I am grateful for the shameful experience I underwent whilst in the Navy because it helped me become who I am today. And I like who I am today.