I joined the United States Army in 2009 when I was 40 years
old. I’m often asked why. It’s a good question.
My stock response is that I wanted to serve, and the Army had
raised its age limit during the height of our two wars. There was a window I
could slip through, and my nation needed me.
That is part of the truth.
The whole truth is less patriotic: It was also a half-assed suicide
attempt.
I know that sounds dramatic, but at the time my life was
dramatic. On January 5, 2009 my wife walked away from our marriage, on our
anniversary no less, and to say her departure was abrupt doesn’t even begin to
describe it. We’d been together for 14 years. Our lives, I thought, were irrevocably
entwined. She left, and I uncoiled like a broken garage door spring.
I couldn’t fathom moving on alone and didn’t want to try. A
delirium that’s very hard to describe overtook me. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t
sleep, and couldn’t drink my grief away.
The loneliness was overwhelming. I gravitated to online
dating sites to fill the void, but that only mixed me up worse. Meanwhile, my painting
business started to sputter. My mind was elsewhere, so the quality of my work
suffered. I had to move back into my parents’ house with my two young kids when
I was 39.
A couple of months into this hell, I decided to buy a pistol
and end my life. I drove to the nearest gun shop, which was 30 minutes away in Salida,
Colorado.
As I was speaking to the young man behind the counter about
the benefits of 22 calibers compared to 40 calibers, the thought of my kids living
the rest of their lives with the repercussions of me shooting myself overtook
me. My daughter was two years old, my son five.
I thanked the young man behind the counter for his time and shuffle-stepped
back to the gravel parking lot. If you were one of the people who happened to
drive by the Salida Gunshop at that moment, you would have seen a ghost of a
man sniveling and limping and hiccupping towards a silver Toyota 4Runner like
he’d just been tear-gassed.
I was crumbling apart like an asteroid hitting the
atmosphere. Delirious as I was, I could still see that if I kept plummeting,
I’d keep fragmenting until there was nothing left to hit the ground. My end
wouldn’t even make an impact.
That’s when a notion slipped into my head: If this was the beginning
of the end for me, maybe there was a more noble way to die. Like a Soldier.
I don’t know where that random thought came from, but it put
into motion a series of decisions that launched a 180° change in my life that would drag me to the edge sanity, and then
pull me back.
180°
Nothing could have been more ludicrous for me than joining the
Army.
I grew up in
the ‘80s and ‘90s – two relatively peaceful decades for our country that made
it easy for people like me to dismiss the armed forces as a last-ditch career
choice for dumb jocks and rednecks. All I knew about the military came from
watching reruns of “Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C.” and “M*A*S*H” or from movies like
“Stripes” and “Platoon.”
Today it’s just
expected that we support our service members in every possible way, but in the
80’s and 90’s the predominant cultural climate in America bred subtle hostility
and, maybe worse - blatant indifference towards our men and women in uniform. I
was as guilty as anyone.
Looking back,
I think one of the most cringe-worthy moments in American history came when
independent presidential candidate Ross Perot picked retired U.S. Navy Vice Admiral
James Stockdale to be his running mate for the 1992 presidential campaigns. Perot
surprised the nation and proved to be a formidable opponent, ultimately
garnering a record 19% of the popular vote – but Stockdale became a footnote.
He was mercilessly ridiculed by news media and on Saturday Night Live as being
a doddering old fool.
I’m ashamed
to say, in 1992 I didn’t know what a Medal of Honor was. Stockdale was not only
a recipient, but also owned four Silver Stars and two Bronze Stars for valor in
combat - an astounding array of honors for any service member in the history of
our armed forces – but none of us knew what that meant.
The man was
probably the most badass American hero to enter politics in the last century
and nobody cared.
That was the
state of America in the 90’s. The Gulf War was a TV show. I came of age in
those years, so joining the military never crossed my mind as an option in
life. It was what other people did.
2009
I wandered
through my 20’s and 30’s as a wannabe Renaissance man: I earned college
degrees in journalism and theater, moved to New Zealand for a while, tried to
be an actor, wrote a couple bad screenplays, worked as a bouncer in strip clubs
and country bars, and eventually wound up in California painting scenery for
Broadway plays and TV shows for the better part of a decade. After my wife and
I had kids, we moved back home to Colorado to raise them in a less chaotic
place.
9/11 opened my eyes to our armed forces, but military
service remained a foreign world to me. Come 2009 I’d been alive for four
decades and didn’t know the difference between a sergeant and a colonel.
After I aborted my initial plan in the gun shop I went home
and did a little internet research into joining the military. I was surprised
how easy it was to sign up for service.
I answered a few online questions on the U.S. Army
recruitment page, and two days later real-life U.S. Army recruiter Staff Sgt.
Marc Parker stepped through a dusting of newly-fallen snow in my front yard to
knock on my door. I can still see him, completely out of place in my
high-mountain hipster town, standing there on my doorstep. It was the first time
I’d ever talked to a member of the U.S. military in uniform.
I remember focusing on his tan, thick-soled Army boots and
thinking what a bummer it must be to have to wear something like that all day,
every day. I’d never worn anything but tennis shoes to work. He offered to take
his boots off, but I said don’t worry about that. Come on in.
We sat opposite each other at my glass dining room table. He
informed me that, since I had two college degrees, I could come into the Army
at the rank of specialist.
That sounded pretty cool to me: “Specialist.” It had a ring
of authority to my civilian ears.
“Is that, like, above a sergeant?” I asked.
“Uh . . . no,” he offered. “But you’d start just two ranks
below me.”
Staff Sgt. Parker was good at his job. He didn’t mention
that it takes years to move up a rank in the Army, and left me intrigued and
excited about the prospects of being a middle-aged man in the military. A week
or so later, at his behest, I made the drive to the military entrance processing
center (MEPS) in Denver to take the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery
(ASVAB) - a general subject test designed to predict if you’re smart and stable
enough to be a Soldier. Back then if you could pass the ASVAB and a physical,
and weren’t a felon, you could be a Soldier.
You might be surprised that a 40-year-old could join the
Army. In fact, the maximum age is back down to 35 now but at the time the Army
had raised it to 42. The country was embroiled in two exhausting wars and
needed all the help it could get. Most prospects my age didn’t get past MEPS
because they couldn’t pass the initial physicals, but I passed all the tests with
flying colors, so Uncle Sam happily welcomed me into his steely embrace.
Almost every single person I knew begged me not to go
through with it. The military was so opposite from who I was it was laughable,
and they feared for me. But I was out of my mind.
I signed on the line and took the oath – and thus 2009 became
one hell of a year for me. It started with my wife leaving me, and ended in
basic training.
Worst. Year. Ever.
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