Never Arrive: A Memoir

Everyone wants a success story. Celebrities publish memoirs every day, it seems, detailing some period of time in their lives when they worked hard and achieved something. They arrived.

I was enlisted in the U.S. Air Force, as any reader who has been with me over the life of my blog will know. When I think of success-story memoirs, and of success stories in general, the words of my Military Training Instructor (MTI) come back to me:

"Never arrive."

Staff Sergeant Massey imparted those words to us as bits of advice on our last day of Basic Military Training (BMT), as we boarded buses to go to our technical training locations. Mine was headed to Wichita Falls, Texas. Just a bus ride from where we were in San Antonio.

He had explained to us that many trainees, upon arriving at their tech school or even their permanent duty station, would feel as though they'd made it, as if they'd arrived. That feeling of arrival was their downfall - they got comfortable, and they made mistakes that proved fatal to their careers.

He told us to never arrive.

So, it never once occurred to me that I should write a memoir - least of all one that would focus on success and achievement. But now I'm in an upper-level English class and the assignment is exactly that.

And here's the thing:

I haven't arrived.

This upper-level English class is part of a program I'm in now to earn my Bachelor's Degree for Exercise, Fitness, and Nutrition Science. Still working, still studying, grinding through every obstacle in my way.

I'm forced to look back on my life. My brain is immediately flooded with the thought: "I'm not ready to write this story. I haven't reached success yet." Upon reflection, I have succeeded in multiple endeavors.

With each achievement, each accomplishment, each "success," I never once felt as though I'd reached the summit, so to speak.

For the purposes of this assignment, I'm looking back on BMT, with MTI Sgt Massey telling us never to arrive. That we should never feel as though we'd completed our journey, never get comfortable.

The advice came at the end of the most arduous and bewildering eight weeks of my life, which started late at night on December 28, 2010.

The first night, we were asked if we had ever played an instrument or had rhythm. Having played clarinet for five years, I naturally raised my hand - and, along with all others who did so, I was sorted into a band flight. There were two of us - a male flight and a female flight.

The first night, I cried when we went to bed, like so many others. I wondered what I'd really gotten myself into - if I could really handle what I'd signed up for.

Basic Military Training was an absolute nightmare in which we lived by the week - Sunday to Sunday. If you go into the military without religion, you find one to join while you're in BMT, just to get out of the barracks and be spoken to like a person rather than low-grade single-use plastic-mixed materials (garbage).

The only days in which I had any sense of bearing were Sundays. Sunday held the illusion of freedom - we had the choice to go to any religious service we wanted. Most weeks, I chose the Wiccan service, but there was one week I chose the Muslim service, and another week I added Bible Study to my week as an excuse to leave the dorm an extra time - only to be totally disappointed by it anyway.

Day-to-day operations were a mysterious fog. We marched from location to location. We went up and down the stairs as fast as possible while making sure to hold the handrail at all times, Trainee! We formed up at the bottom of the stairs outside, under an overhang large enough to conduct drill movements and PT and stay out of any rain.

We had band practice at least a couple times a week. I was assigned cymbals - an instrument I'd never played, but quickly got used to, and for which I credit my rapid improvements with push-ups. We had classes to attend and materials we needed to study.

We had time each week, if not each night, to write letters to people close to us. We had time each week to call someone close to us.

It never clicked to me what our schedule was. Hour to hour, I as clueless as to what the plan for the day was, and only knew the current activity, if not the next activity as well (if I were lucky).

Adding to my bewilderment, I was accused of having no integrity. I was accused of lying. I was berated for "having an attitude" when attempting to add input to a discussion among others in my flight.

When we met our MTI, Staff Sergeant Massey, I was petrified. The fear never went away - not even at the very end after we'd said our good-byes and gone on our ways.

He always said my name wrong. I'm not sure if he ever heard me correct him; he seemed unable to hear me any time I spoke to him, but at the time it felt as though he deliberately ignored what I tried to say - which added up in my mind as a typical experience of BMT that I should grit myself to endure.

Sgt Massey told us early on that his "worst trainees" would always write him letters to tell him how much they appreciated him, and so on.

I'm not sure how accurate my perception is, but I felt as though he disliked me the most in my flight.

Never in my life have I humiliated myself or been humiliated the way I was during BMT. These are details I won't share today because they are still humiliating to air.

Ultimately, I vowed never to be the kind of trainee to write back to my MTI. No, thank you.

I was fired from two important jobs I had been given - and these were humiliating revocations of responsibility. They were things that I had a knack for, and for which I did not fall in line enough when doing. I was even given an opportunity to use my greatest talent and skill - my art - and I fucked it up.

It's amazing I made it through at all.

It's a goddamn miracle I didn't get recycled.

Recycling happened when someone was held back for a week. Essentially, while the rest of their flight would move on to the next week of studies, practices, etc., a trainee would be held back in the same week, if not a previous week, and join another flight at that week's level of training. Some people were recycled two weeks back or more.

I held on. That's it. I held on, and I did my best to keep up and stay on track.

Through sheer grit and perseverance, I made it through. I earned my Airman's coin.

Prior to enlisting in the Air Force, and in fact, prior to high school, I practiced mixed martial arts. It was there that I learned about perseverance and the indomitable spirit. That was what I carried with me to sustain me in BMT. My MTI review at the end was upsetting to me, but I never got sent backwards in training.

My MTI's words stuck with me in tech school and even when I went to my permanent duty station in Germany. "Never arrive." Never get comfortable. It's what had me hitting the ground running, ready to move forward and excel as an Airman.

It's what has me continuing my education and continuing to seek a meaningful and impactful career that will bring me joy as well as enough wealth to thrive.

There is no arrival. There are only stepping stones.

A Bit of Rambling

Today marked the start of my second week of training. Those of us on the Sound Transit account received our batons and went through training for how to use them properly; those of us on the King County Metro account went to another room and sat through training from a book. I understand KCM’s day was much more boring than mine, as a Sound Transit security officer.

            I look forward to the completion of my training and the start of my day-to-day (or, perhaps, night-to-night) work routine. I look forward to becoming stable and secure in my position and moving my family forward in purchasing a second vehicle for myself, a new couch (sectional!), and, hopefully by August, a home. It’s a lot to look forward to in the four short months before our lease ends; not every goal may be attainable by that time, but I’ll find out as I go.

            My second official paycheck should appear in my checking account on Thursday, this week, assuming the company has my direct deposit information all squared away. If I don’t see my available balance increase, I’ll know to ask some questions, at least. I look forward to using that paycheck to re-enroll Persephone into KinderCare, if nothing else. The size of the check will be a good marker for what I can look forward to in the future, as my pay will increase from the training amount of $13.00/hour to the transit security officer pay of $15.95/hour. Some of you might think that’s quite a bit—and it’s certainly nothing to sniff at—but consider…

            I live in Washington State and the cost of living is pretty high, especially to the west of the mountains and the closer to Seattle/further north you look for housing. Houses in Thurston County are less expensive than King County but sometimes more expensive than houses in Pierce County, but the overall cost of living is relatively high compared to a state like Kentucky or Indiana. In fact, the low cost of living in other states is what has me considering moving us to another state when our lease ends, but we’ve moved so much over the past year and a half that I really just want to find a place and settle down. I also don’t want to transfer elsewhere within my company—since it is all over the USA—and have my pay cut, even if the cost of living is much lower.

            Randy had the brilliant idea to take us to Dairy Queen for dinner and then to the swimming pool! I was happy as could be to hear that he wanted us to go swimming; I’m a total wannabe fish and I love being in the water, although I don’t go to the pool nearly as often as I’d really like to, because I hate—and I mean, I hate—doing anything alone. That means that no matter how much I like to do something—i.e. swimming—I will avoid doing it if there’s no one to join me in my endeavor. Since our gym is typically empty and devoid of all souls, I tend to avoid going, not because I want an audience, but because I want company. Much as I may identify with introverts, I am an extrovert at heart; as I grow older, I realize that the introverted side of me exists solely because there was such a long period of time in my childhood when I had little to no friends.

            It’s my desire for companionship that has me determined to get back into martial arts classes. The problem is, the more I think about it, the less I think it’ll be feasible; I think my work schedule will not allow me to join a regular dojo and go the two or three times a week that are offered for my skill level and because of this, I wonder what I might do to get back into shape. I ask myself, Would it be enough for me to do my workouts alone and blog about them?

            The answer to that question is not a simple one. I require companionship and support, although I tend to be shy when I’m actually placed in a group. For example, I’ve managed to make a couple of acquaintances in my training class, but I’m not sure I’d call anyone my friend; I tend to avoid approaching people of my own volition out of fear of rejection, but the couple of times I have approached individuals in my class have turned out quite well. So, would it be enough for my fragile ego to blog about my exercise routine? Perhaps.

            After all, I did manage to get out and work out by myself when I was in Germany. The only reason I had to work out was to improve my PT score, but it was enough to get me out of my dorm room and to the gym—so what’s stopping me from putting on my running shoes and blogging about what I do for a workout each day? After all, I had no one cheering me on from the sidelines when I found my motivation in the Air Force, while I now know that at least one friend would openly support me should I make a point of publicizing my progress at this time.

            I’ve questioned myself as to why I’ve been unable to keep myself motivated since separating from the Air Force. I think the answer lies in the problem: My depression and, as my doctor believes is the case, my bipolar disorder—but mostly, my depression. My diagnosis came after my separation and shortly after I gave birth to Persephone, but the weight of the diagnosis didn’t sink in until more recently.

            People underestimate mental illness. They tell us to get over it. They tell us that it’s all in our heads. They tell us to get over it. They tell us to stop feeling sorry for ourselves. They don’t realize how debilitating the illness truly can be—and neither did I, at first. Before pushing my daughter into this world from my body, I hadn’t the slightest idea that depression could keep me sitting in a chair for days on end, accomplishing nothing. It never occurred to me that the very idea of motivation would be pushed away by the monster holding me down, the name of which had been dubbed “depression”. Now I know better. Now I can do better—but it’s hard.

            My new job makes it easier. My new medication will help. But the biggest trick in the book is to take life in chunks—one day at a time, one week at a time, and so on.

Post-Military Life

                When I initially decided to separate from the Air Force under the pregnancy clause, I decided it would be a brilliant idea to turn around and enlist in the Air Force Reserves. That way, I could retain TriCare for my family and only work part-time, which would be phenomenal with a new baby. After arriving in Washington and speaking with the in-service recruiter at Joint Base Lewis-McChord, however, the reserves unit here decided they wouldn’t take me because my last official physical fitness test was a failure. They didn’t want to set me up to fail again after joining, since I was pregnant at the time—it made sense, so I decided I’d try again a few months after having my baby.

                I stand by my decision to separate. As a breastfeeding mother, I rest easily in the knowledge that I can provide for my daughter better as a civilian than I could have as an Airman—regardless of whether or not my husband had been able to remain enlisted. At the time of my decision to separate, I didn’t know how much longer Randy would be in the military; the mental health clinic was working on the paperwork to have him go through the Medical Evaluation Board (MEB) for separation, which can take up to a year to fully process. He would have been stuck in place at Spangdahlem while I was scheduled to PCS (change bases) in August, 2014 (I would have moved right after Persephone was born). The last thing I wanted to do was get to my next base and have to worry about finding child care; I refused to take my baby to the on-base Child Development Center (CDC) with what I knew about Spangdahlem’s CDC and I sure as hell didn’t want to start screening babysitters. I generally don’t trust people.

                It has taken me some time after separating—and upon deciding to separate and getting the ball rolling to do so, it was decided that Randy’s separation would be much, much faster than an MEB because his would be an administrative discharge instead—but I have finally realized something very important about myself.

                Everything I had done with my life up to that point—short of the decisions to get married and separate from the military—I had done to impress my family and make them proud of me. Joining the military—I wanted my grandparents, particularly my grandma, to be pleased with the decision I’d made post-high-school to move forward in my life and become independent, as I’m a fiercely independent person anyway but hadn’t decided what I wanted to do, really. After joining the military, getting a bit out of shape, and deciding to get back into shape for my own happiness (it was working), I was looking at new clothes in a completely different style from what I really like. I was beginning to replace my wardrobe with jeans, scarves, nice coats (oh, they’re nice and I’m keeping them, but my intentions for how to wear them have changed), and… well, white and generally much less black. In addition to the lightening of my wardrobe, I’d grown my hair out just past my shoulders, which was, suffice to say, very much not me. I really prefer my hair short and ready to spike up at will.

This is an acceptable outfit—would be more so if the undershirt were black.

This is where my wardrobe was going—maroon and white—and the skirt is acceptable but there simply isn’t enough black, here.

                I like having a dark wardrobe. I like having black as my primary color and I like wearing dark makeup. I like looking intimidating and formidable, strong and confident. Since being denied entry to the reserve unit here at JBLM, I’ve realized I don’t particularly want to join the Reserves at all, particularly since my only real reason for doing so is for the insurance—something that we can get with the VA anyway. I’ve begun revamping my wardrobe again—this time, it should be permanent. I’ve bought some long skirts, mostly black but one brown and one green. I’ve decided I want to wear primarily black with some earthy colors as well. I want to look witchy. I want to look like I can walk into the room and cast a spell on you with a look, and I think that look is partially accomplished with long, floor-length gypsy skirts that flow nicely and drag when I go down stairs. I like looking like I could be dressed for Halloween on any day of the year, whether it’s Christmas, my birthday, or actually Halloween (although, naturally, I like to go all out with a costume for Halloween).

                Recently, I used my husband’s detail trimmers on my eyebrows without the guard. I had no idea there was a guard to prevent cutting hairs too short, and ended up nearly shaving my eyebrows off completely. The very next day, I bought an eyebrow pencil and some red lip color since I didn’t have a good one. The eyebrow pencil is dark brown but looks black, and I drew my eyebrows on and took a selfie, which I uploaded to Facebook and subsequently received more likes than I’ve ever received on any of my posts! I also got multiple comments from my guy-friends to the tune of “Wow”, like I’m really sexy and they never noticed, and the way I had my makeup that day really accentuated my look. I looked like a freaking vamp. It was amazing.

                Naturally, because I was truly pleased with it for myself, Mema simply couldn’t approve. She thought my brows were too dark with the pencil, that I’d pressed down too hard or something. The only problem I had with my drawn-on brows was that I’d drawn my right brow thicker than my left. I did much better the next day.

                So, now is the time for the ultimate point of this post.

                I have realized that I no longer care what my family thinks. I don’t give a shit if they’re impressed by what I’m doing or if they approve of my decisions, I’m going to live my life the way I want to so that I’m happy. I married a man who wants nothing more than to make me happy the way I want to be—not in a way that he approves of—because he loves me for who I am and nothing less. So, Mema thinks my brows were too dark and unnatural? Great! I’ll draw them darker and less natural next time! I’ll keep my brows nearly-completely-shaved so that I keep drawing my brows on and I might just wax them off completely to experiment with brow looks! Who knows? It’ll be fun! So, Mema doesn’t like corsets or doesn’t approve of me wearing them? I don’t care! I’ve always wanted to wear corsets and I finally have a couple of them! I’m going to wear them until they freaking break! So, my dad thinks it’s unwise of me to move into an apartment with my best friend? I don’t really care, because I’ve given it an awful lot of thought, talked a lot about it with her, her boyfriend, and my husband, and we’ve decided that it is the best decision for where we currently are in our lives.

                I’m done trying to mold myself into someone or something I’m not just to please my family. I am who I am and if they really can’t accept that, then they can see a lot less of me in the years to come. I’m grateful for everything they have done for me that has helped me in my life—I truly am—but I will no longer lie down and try changing myself to be who they want me to be, nor will I continue living so cautiously that I never take a chance to do what I’m really interested in. I’m going to leap into real estate investment while taking my medical billing specialist course and everything is going to be fucking fantastic, even if it takes a couple of years to get there.