I joined the Army in 1987. I wanted to be a military policeman, and I was sent to Fort McClellan, Alabama for basic training. It was about a week into basic training that I became overwhelmed by the circumstances and wanted out. The specifics seem muddled as the years have passed. I was young, scared and stupid. After a disturbing dream where I saw myself lying in a field, looking up at trees and knowing I was dying from a gaping hole in my chest, I stopped being rational and began acting on my fears.

I made the decision to fake a suicide attempt to get kicked out. At breakfast, I broke an empty glass in the mess hall and proceeded to pick up a piece of glass to cut myself. I figured someone would stop me, but I was prepared to cut my wrists if needed. I never got that far. The plan worked. After being evaluated by the chaplain and a mental health professional, my separation was in the process of being approved. In two weeks, I would be going home.

Some of the drill sergeants I had over me took pleasure in making me feel like garbage for getting out. I can’t say I didn’t deserve their disdain, but perhaps the worst of the whole experience was a young man named David Adams. He likely would have quit anyhow, but he was nice to me, and when he expressed the desire to quit, I had to open my big mouth and tell him that if that’s how he felt he should say something now rather than later. I wish I could have kept my opinion to myself. David was perhaps the only “friend” I had during the whole ordeal, and what kind of friend was I to him?

Over the next two weeks, I felt myself telling anyone who would listen about what I was going through. It was how I was coping with everything, and some people felt I was bragging about what I had done. I might have not been sincere about harming myself, but as the next two weeks progressed, I became increasingly unstable. I slowly became the person I was pretending to be. Then, near the end, the more sadistic of the drill sergeants got on Adams’ case to the point that he was placed on suicide watch. That same evening, he had a chance to get away from the person watching him and downed a bottle of pills. Fortunately, the worst they could do is make him sick. Still, I was blamed for “putting the idea in his head,” and a part of me believed it.

The next day was a whirlpool of guilt and despair. Was I in real trouble for what Adams chose to do? Was I to blame? I was sent out with others on medical profile to do odd tasks on the base. Holding a pair of hedging shears, a part of me wanted to fall on it and die. Then, just when I thought I could take no more, we got back to the barracks, and I was told to pack my things. My parents would be picking me up the next day.

When I started on this path, this wasn’t how I expected it to end. I made my choice figuring the most it would affect me is for a year or so. I had no concept on how severely it would impact my life.

I was an angry person. I was a scared person. Nightmares of the experience haunted me for the next six months. I felt a need to prove myself, and the very factors that made me overwhelmed in basic training frequently manifested whenever I was under pressure. Before I left the Army, a drill sergeant said if he was my dad, he’d be coming to kick my a**, not take me home. I told him that my dad said would love me no matter what. The drill sergeant replied that he may have said that, but what would he think whenever he looks at me?

Indeed, I saw that “shame” hidden in my dad’s eyes. Yes, he tried to talk me out of going into the Army in the first place, but flunking out only made things worse. One day, I got my car stuck in some mud on a back road. I had a plan to get it out on my own, but my dad insisted on doing it for me. When I protested that I could do it myself, he replied that I couldn’t handle being in the Army so why should he think I could handle a car stuck in the mud.

That day I made what had to be the second worst decision in my life. I decided to get back into the Army to prove my dad wrong.

I was discharged with an RE3 classification. That means I could get back in if the Army granted me a waiver. I was working on finishing my degree in community college. I went to recruiter in a different town and got things going. I needed at least three letters of reference. I managed to get nine letters with one being an O-6 Marine Corps reservist who was a fellow student in a couple of my classes. I got my waiver, and among the limited options I was granted for skill training, I selected tracked vehicle repair.

My parents weren’t happy about my going back in. I was determined to make it work. I was older, supposedly wiser, and I certainly knew much more about what I was getting into and should have been more prepared to cope with it.

The second time would not end as I had hoped. The feelings of being overwhelmed began almost from day one. After talking with a chaplain, I purposed to stick with it, but in all honesty, I had no friends because I pretty much complained about everything that rubbed me the wrong way on a daily basis. It was clear I was not compatible with military life, but I wasn’t going to give up easily.

Finally, graduation day came. This is when the bottom fell out. At graduation, the speaker commented that outside of a few specialty schools, basic training was the biggest challenge any of us would face. I had done it. I had gotten through. Now what? From that day, I became increasingly despondent. I was ordered to the Aberdeen Proving Grounds for specialty training. As I became more and more depressed and pretty much everyone avoided me, thoughts of hurting myself came back stronger than ever. A couple times I stood at the top of one of the stairwells and tried to build up the courage to throw myself down the steps. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

It was then I had a realization. I came to know I was a homosexual before I asked to get back in, and there was no “don’t ask, don’t tell” back then. If I admitted the truth about being gay, I would be kicked out, and that was more sensible than trying to inflict serious bodily harm on myself.

The next day, I did just that. While my captain had no issue with homosexuals in uniform, the concern was what would happen to him if someone later found out he knew and didn’t act on it. So, to cover his a**, he went ahead to process me for a general discharge.

Some would say what happened next was a blessing. To this day, I don’t know if it really was. I was asked if I wanted to see a JAG officer to review my situation. I said I would, and the man I saw realized that my record was completely clear of any incidents of misconduct. He called my captain and suggested I be recommended for an honorable discharge. After all, my papers would list why I was kicked out, and the honorable discharge would prevent things being any worse for me later on.

My captain agreed, and as anyone in the chain of command up to the battalion commander could have said “no” and granted me a general discharge as the regulations stipulated, I suppose they all chose to show mercy and grant me an honorable discharge. Two weeks later, I was on a plane for home.

In a serious way, I was mortified by how things ended. The honorable discharge certificate enabled me to lie to my parents about why I was sent home. I told them that the military decided they just didn’t need me. I had the certificate to make it look good and only showed the DD-214 when it was required. I tried to do the right thing and not make a fuss about having ever been in the military. It certainly was nothing to be proud of.

But then it got much worse.

It seemed to be only a week or so later that Iraq invaded Kuwait. At that time, most all military discharges were frozen. The buildup for war began. On some level, I wondered if this was fate protecting me from something horrible. In a few months, Desert Storm began, and it was over for many almost as soon as it started.

I already felt shame about what I had done. I had managed to enlist in the Army TWICE in less than four years and get out with less than six months of total service with an honorable discharge I didn’t deserve. This was not something to brag about.

Now, as men and women who did go overseas and do their duty marched down the street in a ticker-tape parade, I felt a part of me die on the inside. It is a feeling I’ve come to live with almost daily. When I see a person in uniform, I die a little on the inside. Every Memorial Day, I die a little on the inside. Every bit of jingoistic pride displayed in the media, I die a little on the inside. When I’m with others and some men start to talk about the thinks they saw and did in the military, I die a little on the inside. The worst is perhaps Veterans Day…my birthday. Every year I spend my birthday avoiding any place with any sort of homage to those who serve. The reminder is a double whammy because with each passing year, I reflect on how far I’ve managed to come in life from where I’ve been. As each year passes with little to no progress, my birthday is a depressing occasion as it is, but to have my shame shoved in my face only makes it all the more painful.

A coward dies a thousand times, but the valiant taste death but once. I now understand all too well what that means. Some days I feel like a walking corpse. I am dead on the inside. I don’t dare tell anyone I was ever in the military. I fear people finding out because for all the people who are forgiving and would tell me that the military isn’t for everyone, there are more than enough who would despise me for what I’ve done.

I spent years after Desert Storm trying to rebuild my life, my image, my ego and my reputation. Eventually, I went back to college and then on to graduate school. The “heroes” of Desert Storm were fading from the nation’s memory. I was getting to the point where most of the time I was as good as anybody else around me. The times I had reason to feel ashamed became less frequent. My hopes for a brighter future started to grow.

Then, 10 years later, 9/11 happened. Overnight, the jingoistic pride in our military and those who serve returned. As I now had a RE-4 classification, the military wouldn’t take me if I begged to do something, as if that wouldn’t already be a bad idea to start with. It is now 12 years later, and the reminders of my guilt and shame is everywhere. Indeed it seems that the universe mocks me. I know of men who did amazingly simple jobs in the military who are treated with more respect and deference than I may ever know. I’ve seen some of these people be given opportunities they did nothing to work for because of the quality of their life accomplishments.

I am a 44 year old man filled with anger and guilt and shame and bitterness. How was I to know at 18 that what would take place in less than 30 seconds on one day in August would have this kind of impact on my life? I keep wishing I could go back in time and do it over. I don’t know exactly what I would change. The only clear right choice is that I didn’t belong in the military, but I can say that if it was a matter of staying in and dying in a conflict or living with the burden that eats away at my soul, I would gladly have died with a sense of honor as a young man than live a long life with the shame of my dishonor.

There are days I wish I had the courage to just put a gun barrel in my mouth and pull the trigger. I keep waiting for that day when things will come together, I will be where I should be, and I realize that all my life choices (both the good and the bad) was preparing me for that time and place, but it’s never happened, and I fear it never will happen. I try to find purpose. I try to find peace. It eludes me.

I hate myself for what I did. I hate the youthful arrogance and foolishness that made me trade the next 20+ years of my life for a short-term benefit. I hate that I can close my eyes and relive those two weeks in 1987 as if it was yesterday. I want the pain to stop. I want to stop being ashamed of my mistakes. I want to stop being afraid of others discovering the truth. I want to stop feeling the need to prove myself against people who didn’t make my bad choices.

I’m sorry I’ve not been a better person than this. Some would tell me that I shouldn’t blame myself…that some people just shouldn’t be in the military and that a lot of people don’t have it work out as they hoped, but it is of little comfort.

David Adams, I hope you are well and happy. I’m sorry I wasn’t the friend you deserved.

For those who served with me and felt betrayed by my choices, I’m sorry I wasn’t the man I should have been.

For those who served and feel I betrayed my promise to serve, I’m sorry for being a sorry excuse for a human being.

For my father, I’m sorry I’m not the son you hoped for, and I’m sorry for the shame and disgrace I brought about you and the family. It took years for me to realize that perhaps my actions caused you grief from people you associated with.

As far as I can tell, the world would have been a better place without me in it.