When the Military (Finally) Broke Me
Bureaucracy Bites
I tried to hold back my tears. I looked upwards, blinked, and repeated to myself “you’re strong.” But it was no use.
The droplets of salty water rolled down my cheeks, uncontrollably streaming from my eyes. My cheeks reddened; my body grew numb. I tensed with sadness, frustration, anger. I never wanted to punch stupid 18-year-olds so much in my life. I never harbored so much hatred toward a generation, a society, a place. I never doubted my life choices with such extreme disgust. Until now–when I broke down in my base’s infirmary.
I could drop dead. I could be skinned alive. My tooth could shatter. And maybe then I’ll get an appointment at best next week. The head of the clinic justified the others’ behavior. It’s okay for them to be rude, to be on their phones ignoring other sick people, to go on power trips with no purpose. After all, they’re just 18. But no. Being young isn’t an excuse for immaturity. Being young isn’t an excuse to treat people worse than filth. Being young isn’t an excuse to not be doing your duty to protect this country. Being young isn’t an excuse to project the antithesis of love onto everyone you encounter.
I was 18 once. And where was I? Giving up a year of my life to shovel dirt in Guatemala to build bathrooms for a pre-school. Teaching English to village children who wanted nothing more than to absorb everything I could teach them. Waking up at 2am to dig up fresh turtle eggs and bring them to a place for preservation from predators. Managing an Inca ruin, translating hospitality documents, and giving tours to visitors from around the globe. I worked with every ounce of strength to successfully complete my undergraduate degree.
But here Brown is just a color. Masters and PHDs that could have been completed at Oxford and Cambridge became distant dreams that I only wish I now saw to fruition.
What am I doing? What have I done? Why am I here? Why did I decide to u-haul my life–pick up and move from the peoples, languages, and cultures that I had connected most with? Why am I not living in Latin America–a place where I thrived without ever having to do one thing solely because of my external appearance? (And then, when I did take action I was able to soar to the top.) Why did I cut my education short for someone who loves school, loves writing, loves fieldwork? Why am I sitting now, at a chair, at a desk, at an office in a building–a thought that simply entertaining makes me sick.
What if you could just rewind life and execute decisions differently?
What if I went to the U.K.? What if I moved to New Delhi or California for work? What if I never came to this this country–a place for which, idealistically and spiritually, I feel so much connect, yet that, in practicality, is a complex nightmare of bureaucracy, racism, stupidity, selfishness, and serves as the present-day antithesis to what its founders yearned to establish?
Who am I? What am I doing with my life? Am I truly contributing in a meaningful way–giving over all that I’ve learned and amassed throughout the years? No, I’m not. And why today did everything come to a crescendo and explode out of me? I don’t know.
I’m nervous that my depression is returning, closing in on me, choking me–and I can’t escape. I can’t run away as much as I dream of the coasts of Puerto Rico or the mountains of the Andes. I can’t stop it no matter how much I sprint or do yoga or increase my weight-lifting abilities.
I can’t breathe. Sucking in air seems impossible and expelling carbon dioxide is an even more impossible feat. Somehow the idea of suffocation gives me hope. An ending to this cycle of ups and downs that I never chose to embark on. Why was I born? Why am I here? It’s bizarre how life brings us to new places, peoples, experiences. Nature v.s. nurture–the question nobody will ever have an answer for…
Ten years ago I came to this country. I didn’t get the hype. Why did so many people emigrate here? It’s a desert wasteland with no green. The people aren’t nice. Everything is expensive. I want to go home and study for my exams. I want my plugs to fit in the wall. I want to be able to persevere without a constant struggle each step of the way even for the simplest of tasks. I want to go home–only I don’t even know what that is. I want to crawl up in a ball, hide under the covers, and shirk all responsibilities that I’ve assumed. I want to never check my email, not have a phone, and simply love each day knowing I don’t need to be reached–because if it was possible 8 years ago in Guatemala why can’t it be done today?
Is this place my home? Because I spend time here? Because I pay rent here? I always imagined that I’d live on the water. That I’d stare out at the rays of sun glistening on the surface of the crystal blue waters of the roaring sea. But I strongly dislike this port city. There are too many buildings and too many social climbing individuals. People disgrace the beaches with their loud music, beers, and pointless game of hitting a ball back and forth.
I miss the silence. I miss the tranquility. I miss me. She’s lost. I don’t know where she is. I want to hunt her down, to seek her, to have her help me lift this weight that is causing me to stumble, fall, and collapse. I want her to smile at me. I want her to give me a warm embrace. I want her to slap me across the face and bring me back to reality. I want her love. I want her to remind me of my motivation, to ignite my passions, to fill me with hope. But I’m here alone. It’s loud. It’s miserable. The walls are closing in on me–maybe I’m not over my claustrophobia.
My tears have dried. I don’t know if there’s any more within my eyes to shed. I need to carry on–I must carry on–but I don’t want to move. I need to go to the store, to lunch, to the gym, to meetings. I need to continue on with all my responsibilities, but I don’t want to. What happens if I don’t? Then tomorrow I’ll have double. The next day triple. I must carry on, churning the cog in the machine so it cycles through its ups and downs, taking me along the way to my dismay…
I ate lunch. And now I want nothing more than to vomit. This sensation of fullness fills me with emptiness, a growing pain of void, wandering, yearning for freedom.
Why am I still here? When will I ever taste the sweetness of liberty? To savor the soft, intoxicating lips of passion? To caress the elegant angles and majestic curves of desire?
I’m lost. As a geographer this shouldn’t happen. Maybe I’m a fake–a liar to others, and worst to myself. I should be exploring, chartering on expeditions, that’s what I think goes along with my job description. But now what am I? I sit. I run. I stretch. But who am I beyond a body?
About the Author
Shayna Ruchie was born in New York, traveled extensively in Ecuador, Colombia, and Puerto Rico for field-work, and studied geography at Brown University. Currently, she resides in Jerusalem, where she serves as a researcher in the military and tries to make sense of an unexpected life in the Middle East.
