Story of a Failed Mind Control Subject

Just another site

Archive for the ‘Chapter 12’ Category

Chapter 12

leave a comment »

Chapter 12
The Navy

So my school guidance counselor told me that I wouldn’t be able to get into any good colleges. My grades were poor for one thing, and I’d transferred so many times and missed some school thanks to being in Rivendell. Mostly, though, it was my grades. And when I did apply to one and get accepted, I couldn’t go because despite the fact that I was a state ward, they based my financial aid on George and Edna’s income– even though I was no longer their child, legally.

No one bothered to tell me about unsubsidized loans or any of my other options. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they didn’t care. According to one person I know who works for a financial office, they’re not supposed to tell. Pretty crappy, if you ask me. Either way, I didn’t know.

Thus I didn’t go to college. Instead, I went into the military. It was presented to me as the only option I had in order to ‘get ahead’ in life.

On the fourth of July 1990, I landed in Florida, bound for boot camp.

Let me just take a minor detour here and say something. I love FL. And when I stepped off of that plane, onto the tarmac (back then, some planes unloaded on the tarmac if they were small ones– mine was), it was incredible. The smell of the air. The quality of the sun. The sight of palm trees. It was all amazing, it all felt so right, so welcoming, so wonderful. It was warm. It was calm. I’d just left -60 Fahrenheit wind-chillls. I hate the cold to begin with (I hope you don’t wonder why). -60 was just brutal.

There I was, though, in sunny FL. Off to boot camp.

I rather liked boot camp, honestly. I was relatively safe; days were organized and too full to be boring. We got exercise, and life was orderly, the way I like it. I did well there, until the headaches returned… just before graduation. I’d actually gotten the honor of drawing the flag for our Company. But before I could even finish that, the headaches and the stomach pains arrived.

I did eventually graduate, but I had to graduate with a later company, because I spent so much time in the medical facilities. Until, once more, I remembered to lie.

I then went on to Philadelphia to the technical school there. They chose that for me because I scored so high on the ASVAB for mechanical aptitude that they had to score me on the men’s schedule instead of the women’s– the women’s didn’t go high enough. I scored maximum on the men’s.

That’s how I found myself learning welding and machining. I tried to ignore the headaches. I was doing so well. Everything was going great. I was excelling… there were 4 of us at the top of the class, neck-in-neck with each other. I was one of the guys, so to speak. My beads were the most artistic (welding thing), the most even and uniform, and over-all judged the best the trainer had ever seen.

I guess all those years drawing my loneliness and drawing my imagination paid off, eh?

It was an interesting time. I thrived there, more than anywhere else up to that point. But the pain… the stomach pains and the headaches plagued me until I finally passed out in the welding stall.

My career in the Navy was over– too early to get my financial aid package.

They took biopsies and found cancers, so I was treated for a couple of weeks for cancer. One of my ovaries was enlarged and my biopsy was cancer and they were going to do a full hysterectomy on me.

Until they found out that I didn’t have cancer at all, my biopsies had been switched. In the meantime, I was on drugs I don’t even remember the names of. Prozac, but also all kinds of treatments. I don’t remember as much about that time as far as information goes… only events and visual things. Like I remember being strapped to a massive spinning table-like thing. I don’t remember why.

This is the first of my memory gaps– though I always remember things, just not information. I remember a person, for example, but not their name. Or being strapped to a spinning table, but not why.

When I was evicted from the Navy, they literally pushed me off of the base with a final paycheck in hand. That was that. And when I tried to get information about my discharge, I was informed that I was discharged “for administrative reasons,” and that the “reasons” given were that I had a psychosomatic disorder (in other words, nothing was wrong with me, I was just pretending). None of what had happened to me was on record.

Conveniently, too, the diagnosis itself discredited me. I had no recourse but to leave, paycheck in hand, and sit in a hotel room. I wanted to be dead at that point. Life seemed so helpless and hopeless. What was I to do? Where was I to go? I was alone. No one would miss me. No one would even know who I was if I threw away my identification.

I was once more faceless, helpless, and lost. I was alone, stripped of livelihood, stripped of hope for a college education, stripped of dignity. My past experience in the Navy all a lie.

And worse than that, I was plagued in that time period by something that had happened to me during those months of being drugged up. Something profoundly disturbing to me that I couldn’t quite get past. I’d met a man, from whom I wanted to buy something very expensive. It doesn’t matter what, really, because it was nothing worth what he put me through.

What does matter is what I did. I once again gave in to something I knew was wrong. Something that this time I actively didn’t want to do, and yet once more went along with it as if I had no choice. He told me that I could have what I wanted for free, if I would pose for some pictures for him. Nothing bad, just some display photos. Soon he had me pulling down my top a little bit… a little bit more… Then he came over and slid it down and covered me with an artfully draped cloth. Then that dropped a bit more, and a bit more.

Before I realized it, I was naked. I was terribly uncomfortable, but I didn’t stop him until he had my face in his lap and pulled his pants down. That was when I finally, at last, stood up to him and said no. Sadly, I have to say that it took every ounce of my courage to say no to him. Judge me, as I’m certain you will, but it was difficult for me to say no, and I did do things I wasn’t willing to do. No, I didn’t end up having sex with him, but it was bad enough despite that.

When I found myself kicked out of the Navy, I was eaten up with guilt and shame over that. And I was horrified and alone and I hated my life and myself. Looking out over the lights of Filthydelphia, I realized that I was alone in a dirty and dangerous city, with 200 bucks to my name. No one knew, and no one cared.

And I had sleeping pills. In fact, I had a lot of them. And pain killers. I had a lot of those, too. Because I didn’t take them (I’m still like that with pills). I took three bottles of sleeping pills, and four of painkillers (they give that stuff out like candy!).

The next morning, I woke up as if nothing had ever happened. You’d think that maybe I was glad. That maybe I realized I’d gotten a second chance and that someone was “looking out for me” or something.

No. I was angry. I was livid. I was… there are no words for the rage that blossomed inside me. And I blamed God then. I somehow knew deep down that whatever higher power exists, it was this that got in the way of me leaving this forsaken planet entirely. And I was in a towering fury. I wanted to be dead. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to live. It wasn’t a favor.

In my rational mind, I knew I was over-reacting, but I found myself hating God with a passionate frenzy. I believe in that moment, as I’d always suspected after having read the Bible, that God was a violate psychopath with a magnifying glass and I was the ant He was tormenting. God had forced me to survive, so he could watch me suffer more. God had played the ultimate joke on me… he’d created me just to watch me suffer and squirm and shriek in pain.

I hated life so much in that moment, because it brought back that memory of seeing my mother dead. What hope had managed to limp back into barest life died again. Just like when I saw my mother dead, I realized and recognized on the deepest levels, that there was no escape. No way to get free. I was stuck, hopeless and helpless in the face of forces far more powerful than me.

I knew then that there would be no permanent death for me. I was here to stay, because God’s agenda of torture and torment had not yet been fulfilled. God needed me to suffer more, He needed another laugh.

That was the first night I had what I call my Eternal Life nightmare.

In the dream, I’m strapped to a bed, and can’t speak. A nurse comes in and inadvertently switches my clipboard with the elderly person in the bed beside me. I scream, a silent, desperate scream, but she walks out of the all-white, ephemeral room through an opening in the strange white mist.

A group of doctors come in. They’re carrying an experimental drug to give to the elderly patient. Instead, after a moment’s confusion, they shrug and give it to me as I struggle and silently plead and scream for them to stop.

With this serum I’m given, I’ll live to be 300 years old. I realize then the real, true misery of my plight. That I must LIVE. That I must be in this world, which I cannot escape. That somehow, “life will find a way.” What everyone wants… to live to be 300– or more! No. Not everyone, my friend, not everyone.

I call it a nightmare for a reason. I awoke in screaming terror.

I was certain that I couldn’t take any more. That something would break, that I would go insane. Which was kind of ludicrous, because I already thought I was probably insane. No matter what the psychiatrists that I kept seeing told me. My life… the things I experienced… I was still on a crusade to convince myself they weren’t real.

As it turns out, though, I did find a way out of that situation. From the fat to the fire…

Written by sandit4glp

July 30, 2010 at 1:35 pm

Posted in Chapter 12