The Mind Wanders

Before I begin, I would like to tell you, the reader, that I’m okay. This narrative is prompted by a Vocal challenge entitled “The Metamorphosis of the Mind.” This challenge is a no more than 2,500-word and no less than 1,000-word piece where I, the author, am supposed to share a transformative moment from my mental or emotional journey. For the past few years, while being a Vocal Plus member, I have been entering these challenges in the hopes of likes, reads, subscriptions, and, of course, prize money. My entries, thus far, have been mostly fictional pieces of science fiction, fantasy, horror, and the occasional poetry. I report that to date, I have not won nor have had an honorable mention, which is okay. I am hopeful that I will at least sharpen my skills to where someone enjoys my writing enough to continuously want to read what I put out on Vocal. This challenge, however, is different. This challenge wants us to explore our own psyche and present a moment of our lives to you, the reader. I did not know where to begin with this entry, for you see, I believe I have experienced a more than average share of personal growth. Let me quickly explain.

From the age of, well newborn, to eighteen, I have lived on various military installations as a dependent of a war veteran service member. From an early age I had to quickly figure out how the world operates, then narrow focus on how military lives operate. You see, at any given moment, my parental warrior, could be asked to do something extraordinary, not only for his country but for the men and women who called him their leader.

From eighteen to twenty-nine, well, those years were a mix of my own military service, severe dependency on the approval of others, alcohol, slight drug use, more alcohol, relationship letdowns, and death. So. Much. Death. You can go ahead and sprinkle in religious freedom as well. And just for clarification, it isn’t like I completely abandoned God, but I had some serious questions that led me to a “self-religious” path.

From twenty-nine to now, I have been blessed with spontaneous crippling depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, marriage, counseling, kids (one who is now a teenager), confusion, job loss, more death, less alcohol, memory loss, and severe back pain. Through all of this, I have figured out a way to survive with pure stubbornness and a little voice in my head that tells me that as long as I keep moving forward, I can get past the obstacle and, for a short amount of time, be content. I am leaving out some specific events from my life, events that I don’t want to explore, even at the chance of winning $500 for this specific challenge. But, something that I chose to talk about is the specific timeframe from leaving military service and attempting to enter a “normal society.”

Again, I want to clearly say that I’m okay, but there was a moment where I was lost in my own head. It was approximately a month after I left the United States Marine Corps and checked into Our Lady of the Lake University, San Antonio, Texas.

I chose to leave military service and try my hand at earning a bachelors. I wrestled with the idea of staying in the military and reenlisting for another 4 years, but the options and career paths that were presently available for me were beginning to be slimmer than they already were. I truly loved my military experience, but I felt it was time for me to move on.

I checked into school in the fall of 2009, and by November of the same year, I received a message that another one of my friends, who I had known for two years on a daily basis, had died at his own hands. This was becoming an all too common occurrence. I dealt with it as best I could; I toasted to him, and I messaged my friends to see how they were handling it, but then life continued on. I mention that to begin to explain the spiral that began and what is currently happening to me as I write this.

After I received the message, there was a silent anger that became the foundation of my daily life. As I walked to class, the only thing I could imagine was the complete destruction of objects, the yelling in my head became increasingly intolerable. Now, before I continue, I would like to quickly explain an ability I discovered I had, which I originally thought everyone could do. I can vividly visualize thought. In my head, I could create characters with full personalities and full dialogue and manipulate a conversation fully independent of their own. It wasn’t until I was in my late twenties that I discovered that some people have Aphantasia, the inability to form or use mental images. I, apparently, have a hyped-up version of imagination called hyperphantasia. This was presented to me at my first Veteran Affairs mental health appointment.

I realized quickly that what was going on in my head, for example, the full imagination of purposely crashing my car into a utility pole to feel something other than depression, is not exactly great mental health. I, of course, would never decide to wrap my vehicle around a utility pole, that would be irrational, however, in my head, a movie would play out:

On the far right side of the highway, I would pay particular attention to obeying the speed limit; my music would be playing, and my eyes focused on the road. The cars around me would not be suspicious of any irregular actions I would potentially make. Since I would more than likely be by myself in the vehicle, I would press a little harder on the gas. My truck would no longer exist; in its place, it would become a thunderous 1969 Chevelle SS; my hands would mimic the gear shifts as I continued to press harder into the gas pedal. Passing and weaving through steady traffic, I would see the pole in the distance. Every inch of me wants to put my foot on the floor and drive headfirst into the wooden passage of bliss. Everything would be gone; I wouldn’t even know if it would hurt. All of this runs as a scene in my head. This was just a small example of what went on inside of my thoughts. It wasn’t until much later in life that I discovered that this was a normal thing for people who have high levels of anxiety.

It was only a few months after my military departure, and I had heard almost every horror story about the Department of Veterans Affairs, but I decided to use this opportunity to see if I could talk to someone about the death of my friend. I called to make an appointment, it would be another six months until I could be seen.

I then decided to push every single emotion I had so far down that every day was a perfectly planned out picture of masking.

Every piece of anger, sadness, confusion, and happiness was compressed so that I had to focus on what was important at that moment. I used work and school as a deterrent for processing feelings. Every day was a trained thought; I had to make sure that those around me were taken care of first. My emotions were never a priority, not anymore.

It wasn’t until I moved into my own apartment by myself that my mind began to wander.

A conversation began to play out in my head. Perhaps it was god? Maybe it was my sub-conscience trying to remind me that I had a guttural basement full of unprocessed emotions and feelings. I could visually see each emotion manifest in front of me. Shadows followed me; long, pointed, and cold, dehydrated hands poked my temples. On occasion, the hysterical figure would stand in my bedroom corner and carefully extend his smile until the corners stretched far beyond its ears, all the while laughing, contorting its body in awkward, sharp positions. The child would spontaneously run across the doorframe, giggling; at times, the child would freeze just before leaving view and slowly turn its head in laughter. The woman crying in the corner sobbed throughout the night, pleading for someone to help. Every so often, an elderly figure would send visions of reassurance; at times, it is as simple as a comical thumbs-up.

Variations of these manifestations continued on; I acknowledged their existence, I often greeted them showing them that I wasn’t completely ignoring them, there was simply too much work to do and I couldn’t be bothered with unpacking these layers.

I fought hard to make sure that I kept moving. I made sure that I had some sort of direction to keep moving forward. The day that I couldn’t physically do anything because my body was finally breaking down from the years of militant abuse, that is when I was left alone in my head, and I couldn’t move to shake them away. Each and every one of those pushed emotions now circled me with no intention of receding. It was time to address them.

My then fiancé, now wife, watched me break into pieces. The top layers of each emotion were now exposed. The trigger was my inability to move; my drive was gone, and my worth was no longer valuable; to me, I was withering away into a forgotten mess. It was finally time I needed to talk. For the next year, I painted a picture to a therapist, not one from the Veterans Affairs, because since my departure from military service, the only mental health doctor I had the chance to see told me I had thirty minutes to talk and told me that I was overreacting. So I paid to see someone. I was lucky. I was lucky because the first person available specialized in people like me. So I talked.

It has been nine years since I talked. I do research, I subscribe to specialists who do one minute videos. I take notes. I talk to my wife. We grew and are still growing. I didn’t like talking, but I’m glad I finally did.

Do you want to know what the most frustrating part of this whole story is? My friend who took his own life. I can see his face, but I can no longer remember his voice. My memory is fading faster than I would like. I can see a picture of him in my head. We had hundreds, if not thousands, of laughs together—but I can’t remember his name anymore. That is true inner hell.