Epiphanies and Shit

Most of the people that read my blog are also friends on Facebook, so I don't have to talk to you about the emotional hell my week has been as I started my new job. Lots and lots of panic attacks all around, and a crippling fear of failure has gripped me all week, but most of you know that already, so moving on...

Today, my wife and I had to go shopping, but we stopped at a coney island because a) We had no food in the house (hence the need to go grocery shopping), and b) a coney island was all we could afford.

While we headed to the restaurant, I felt the same familiar feelings hitting my body once again.

Crippling fear. Anxiety. Feelings of impending doom. The fight or flight response.

Yep, I'm having a panic attack. Again. Just one of many this week.

For those that are friends of mine on Facebook, I've told you in detail about the panic attacks this week. I would sit in my classroom training for my new job, and I kept having an emotional response that said:

"You're gonna fail. You're gonna fail, and they're all gonna laugh at you!"

This was different. For the first time, sitting in the coney island, I had the guts to tell my wife:

"I'm having a panic attack right now. It's been going on for about ten minutes."

Writing about past panic attacks is one thing. Telling anyone (even my wife) that I'm currently experiencing one is another. It's not something I do.

I grew up thinking that men aren't supposed to talk about emotional problems. Admitting that I was in a total state of freak out is a hard thing for me to do.

I'm plenty strong on the outside. I'm stronger than the average guy physically. But when I have a panic attack, emotionally, I feel like a small child. Fragile, easy to break. I want to run and hide from the world. I have to deal with being an adult with two children when I'd rather just curl up in the fetal position. Having a panic attack is hard. Having a panic attack when you have to adult with kids is the fucking worst.

My wife did her best to console me and take my mind off of things. She did a good job. She held my hand. She told jokes. We found other people in the restaurant to gossip about, whether it be good or bad. It took my mind off things for a while.

The thing about my panic attacks, is that they last for A VERY LONG TIME. I'm talking several hours at a time. When they happen, they come in waves. I go from slightly depressed to HOLY FUCKING SHIT DONALD TRUMP IS ABOUT TO PUT YOU INTO A REEDUCATION CAMP GRAB YOUR GUNS for at least six hours. So my wife consoling me helped to calm me down to at least keep me in the "slightly depressed" position for a while.

During those hours, I found myself entering a period of contemplation. I kept looking at what was causing me to have these panic attacks.

While I was having the panic attacks during my job training, I realized it happened mostly when my new employer was talking about all the ways they could fire me. They activated my fight or flight response. All the tales they were telling me about how tight a ship they were running, that response was activated, and I nearly sabotaged my new employment by telling them all that they should go and fuck themselves with a very sharp object before I walked out. I thought about getting out of the business of private security and finding some new job where I would be my own boss. Maybe mental health, as I love to study the subject, if only it's so I can figure out what the hell is wrong with me.

During this time, I had an epiphany. I realized what I really wanted.

Freedom.

Just fast-forward to the :30 mark.

There's many kinds of freedom that we have in the United States, but there's a type of freedom that's not guaranteed by our Constitution. I want economic freedom. I want the freedom to be able to pay my bills by just working my job without having to beg for overtime. I want the freedom from my job to be who I choose to be after hours. I want the freedom to not have to worry about money.

My new employer has said during my training that they won't offer this freedom, and that's why I've been having constant panic attacks this week. I've been freaking out over my lack of freedom to have a job that doesn't have an overbearing employer.

When I go to my new job site, maybe I'll find out that my employer isn't as overbearing as they made themselves during my off-site job training. It'll be good if that happens. I've worked under plenty of people in private security that were great bosses. They let you do your job and just left you alone. If you fucked up in some way, they'd defend you so you kept you job. I'd be fine working under someone like that if I made enough money to pay my bills.

If not, for the sake of my mental health, I'll have to look for a new line of work. All of these panic attacks are not worth the small amount of money I'll get to pay my bills (which, given my larger-than-before-promised-salary, still means I have to beg for overtime). If I have to choose between sanity and paying bills, I choose sanity. I choose mental freedom. I'll deal with paying the bills some other way.

In the meantime:

We Are Warriors, Tired Though We May Be

This is my post for Veterans Day.

Or as I've long known it as: Free food at Applebee's Day!

I joined the Army Reserves on my 21st birthday. 9/11 had happened just a few months prior, and I wanted sign up both to do my part, and also to protect one of my friends that was also in the Reserves (hi, Ger!)

I had planned on signing up the year prior, but they said I was too fat. I wanted to join because of the college money, but also because my heavy training in martial arts gave me the mind of a Samurai, and I wanted all the warrior training that Uncle Sam was willing to give me on the taxpayer's dime.

Still, I was too fat to join.

But after 9/11, they were willing to take just about anyone. So I went to the MEPS station, sucked in my gut, dipped my neck, and a month later I was at Fort Jackson.

I signed up to be a 71L, what was known then as an "Administrative Specialist". It's admittedly the most wimpy MOS (Army job) of all MOS's. "Administrative Specialist" is a fancy term for "file clerk".

But that was the only job I could take to be in the same military company as my friend, so I took it.

I ended up liking the job. With that job I took two overseas tours (including one in Iraq), that for the most part, had me working behind a computer with access to the internet. It's how I found my love for blogging.

There's a slang for people that do our job: Chairborne Ranger. I wore that label like a badge of pride. We were office workers, but we were also combat ready. I told people, "We are the toughest secretaries on the planet!"

Being an office drone for Uncle Sam didn't mean we were exempt from danger. In Iraq, we had attacks on our base from insurgents, and I nearly died the day after Christmas in 2005 from an IED during a convoy mission. Fortunately, it was found before it could blow anybody up.

I met some of the greatest people I will ever know during my time in the service. There's something about being in the military that connects you with those that also serve. There's very little that we found offensive in terms of humor (where else can you make jokes about kicking babies and everyone around you laughs?) and our personalities just clicked.

Then, we went home. We went back on Reserve status, and had to go back to civilian life.

Most of us didn't re-up. We had done enough time on behalf of Uncle Sam, and decided that our time was over.

Adjusting to civilian life has been hard for some of us, and not as hard for others. Some of my friends went on to have good careers, while many of us struggled to pay the bills.

I tell people about the military, "We had a bunch of problems, and none of them were about money. Now, we have 99 problems, and every one of them involve money."

The civilian world still doesn't make a lot of sense to me, even though I've been home for over a decade. In the military, no matter how bad it sucked, we always had each other to look out for one another. But in the civilian world, it seems like it's every man for themselves. You're on your own out here, whether you like it or not. It's a dog-eat-dog world, so they say.

Of all the problems with civilian life, that tops the list. Why are there so many people that just don't care about the well being of others? I just don't get it.

Now, most of us are married or divorced, and ended up with kids. We're in our 30s now, and even with the spirit of the warrior in us, we're tired.

Just after Basic Combat Training, I could get four hours of sleep and run two miles the next day. Now, I have to keep a strict diet and exercise regiment to have enough energy to be able to function.

I miss being that young warrior and having all that energy.

I also joined the Army while having General Anxiety Disorder, even though I didn't know I had it at the time. The military and the combat zone cranked that disorder up a few hundred notches. Living for a year in a desert everyday where you're not sure if the next day is even going to come will do that to you. It's why I struggle with alcohol and other drugs (mostly weed) to self-medicate. Some days, I'm still stuck in that desert, and I need to get wasted to come back home. It is what it is.

Despite being old and tired, there are days where I still know that the warrior spirit still dwells within me. A while back, I stood guard in another Army buddy's front yard because his neighbor was threatening to kill him (he lives in a fairly bad neighborhood). I had no problem putting my life on the line and being willing to bring all sorts of pain to anyone that dared cross us that evening. I've had people threaten me or my family in the real world and I dare them to come at me, refusing to back down to them, even when I know doing so might bring death. I switch from mild-mannered guy to war-ready psycho in a matter of seconds.

We vets are still warriors, tired though we may be. We are old, we are tired, and we have mental issues. But we are still fighters, and always will be.

If anyone feels like thanking a veteran today (or any day), do more than just use words. Write your congressman to tell them to do more to help with the clusterfuck that is the VA health care system. Tell them to have better mental health so that vets aren't stuck with some nurse that just pushes pills on them. Tell them to do something to deal with the veterans that are sleeping in the streets tonight. None of us ask for anything more than to be able to work for a living, to have enough money to provide for our families, and to be able to retain some degree of mental sanity. We did enough for you to have earned that much.

If anyone needs me, I'll be eating free steak at Applebee's.

Two Gym Fails, One Funny One

As promised, I made a video attempting my calculated one rep max on the squat, bench, and deadlift.

Enjoy!