by Joethefat

My wife and I divorced last summer. You should also know for the purpose of this story the U.S. Military has the highest suicide rate of any job in the country. I am in the U.S. Air Force. Okay on with the story.

Yesterday my boss comes up to my desk and says

"Airman joethefat do you got a second?"
"Sure boss."

He leads me back to this back office and I walk in and see his boss is already there, I know right away something is afoot.

"Sit down Joe"

My first thought is that it is about that female student of mine that I had been sweating.

"So how have you been doing Joe?"
"Fine sir."
"Well Boss and I called you in here because we are worried about you."

Thinking that they were fucking with me I laugh a little and say shut the fuck up! I look at them fully expecting them to join me in my state of chuckling; instead I got to blank stares.

Immediately I realize what is going on here, you see as I stated before military people are put through a lot of hardships, fighting, not being able to talk about your job, going across the fucking world to serve your country for months at a time and coming home to a house that is more empty then your fucking bitch of wife's heart etc., so needless to say we lose a lot of people by their own hand.

You see it is drilled into our heads that if you think someone is going through a tough time that you have to do something or they might hang themselves. So because of this I know they are probing me to see if I am depressed. They are saying things like "We have noticed that you have been withdrawn lately" and "Don't think I didn't notice that you were pale and hung over last week," or my personal favorite "Are you drinking to cover up some kind of pain?"

I try to assure them that I am doing fine and that I am over the divorce. They are not having it. They tell me that they want me to go talk to someone about it. I ask why the fuck would I do something like that. I tell them that I appreciate their concern, but I am not "talking" to anyone. In a nutshell they tell me I have no choice. Yes they can do that; they can do whatever they want because this is the military.

They tell me not only am I going but also they have already made an appointment for me, Thursday at 12:00 to speak with a chaplain.

I am fucking pissed about this, and spent all night awake thinking about it. I decided that if they were going to make me go to this thing then I was going to have some fun.

Before I go to my meeting I decide to put bandages around my left wrist.

Once I get in the Chaplain's office, we sit down and he says,

"So what can I help you with."

I pause and put a confused look on my face well we have something in common because I don't know either. He looks at some piece of paper in front of him, then continues,

"Oh I see. It says here that you have just recently gone through a divorce, and that your co-workers are worried that you might be drinking too much."

"That’s what I hear."

"Do you think you drink to much?"

"No not at all you should see my friend Tucker, now he has a problem. Would you like to talk to him?"

"Is he in the military?"

"No he doesn’t really have a job."

We talk a little more about the drinking, and then move on to the wife.

"So tell me about the divorce, what do you think lead up to it?"

"You know all I know is that she left me for some African American named Jojo."

Then shaking my head I say, "She always did like the brothers."

This is the only time that I almost lost it, but I managed to keep it together.

"So did you know this guy Jojo?"

"No not really, I mean I have seem him around, you know he’s one of those guys that drive around in a big SUV sitting on 20’s and got a ton of bling bling around his neck."

I swear he paused and just looked at me for a good twenty seconds. He goes on to tell me all kinds of things that can help me get over the wife bla bla bla. Right before I am about to leave he says,

"Airman Joethefat can I asked what happened to your wrist?"

"Oh I fell and cut myself."

"You fell and cut just your wrist?"

"Yeah I was trying to hang something from my ceiling."

I was forced to go to my second session Thursday, only this time it is with a full-blown psychiatrist. Her name is Capt Reynolds, and if I had to guess I would say she is about thirty-five, married, and, guessing by the picture on her desk, she has two kids. She isn't hot, but looks like she was five or ten years ago.

As I stand up to greet her she has a very confused look on her face. Now, I am no mind reader, but I am thinking it has to do with the fact that I am in full service dress. I am talking blues, white gloves, round hat, all my ribbons, the whole shah-bang. [You should know that we never wear this shit, unless at a very formal ceremony, funeral, or visit from the president.]

She asks me "Do you have a ceremony after this?"

"Nope...why do you ask."

"Well what's with the full service?"

"Well this is our first meeting; I just wanted to look sharp."

"Well...you look sharp"

"Thanks, mam. So do you."

In her office, she keeps asking me small talk questions like,"So tell me how you are doing at work," and "Where were you before you came to San Antonio?"

This confuses me because I was thinking she would go right into the good stuff like the other guy did. My best guess is that she was trying to build some kind of rapport with me. So to counter this I would answer the question, but would end it with something to pertaining to drinking, or the ex-wife (to whom I referred as "Satan" every time).

For example, when asked how I was doing at work, I said,

"Well it is so much easier now that I don't care about it."

"Why don’t care about your job anymore?"

"Well, to be honest, since Satan left I don’t care about much of anything."

"Airman Joethefat, how about we not refer to her as Satan, I don’t really think that is appropriate."

"I can’t think of a name more appropriate, Captain."

She asks several more small talk questions, and this is boring me so I decide to shake things up by asking her what she was writing (she had a yellow pad that she would write on after every other answer to one of her questions).

"What are you writing about me?"

"Oh, I am just keeping notes about our conversation."

"Really I don’t think I have said anything worth writing down."

"Well Airman Joethefat I talk to a lot of people throughout the day, so I keep notes so that I can remember what I talked about with each of you."

"Yeah you don’t want to get the crazies mixed up!"

She actually kind of chuckled at this, but then caught herself.

"Why would you call yourself crazy?"

"Well for one, I hear voices."

This shocks her, and she says

"What kind of voices?"

"Ahhh I’m just messing with you doc!"

She gives me that "look" and I realize that this is the point where she realizes that either I am full of shit, or there is something really wrong with me.

It must have been the latter, because she starts to tell me that she thinks I am covering up my depression with drinking. I tell her that I think she is right, I am depressed, but I am not covering anything up. I tell her that I drank like a fish before Satan left. I say,

"Look Doc [I keep calling her Doc, I think she likes this], let me help you out. I am pretty sure I have schizophrenia."

"Why would you say that?”

"Well, Doc, because I have interruptions of my fundamental aspect of waking consciousness."

Again I have shocked her into silence.

"Airman Joethefat, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but that has nothing to do with schizophrenia. Schizophrenia is a severe and chronic brain disorder, impairs a person's ability to think clearly, manage his or her emotions, make decisions, and relate to others."

Right then I pull out a pen and start writing on my hand.

"What are you writing?"

"This is good stuff, I’m pretty sure I have that as well." She offers me some paper, but I decline, and take off my jacket and write halfway down my arm.

After writing her definition of Schizophrenia all over my body I calmly put my jacket back on stand at full attention and render a salute.

"Airman Joethefat, what are you doing?”

"Ma'am, I am leaving the room, and according to Air Force Regulation 298-03 when even leaving a room and an officer is present you are to render a salute!"

"We have twenty minutes left."

I say nothing, just stand there at full attention with salute. After about what seemed like a full minute she slowly salutes me, and I do an about-face and walk out.

You know how when you get away with things, you start to get cocky? That is how this shrink thing was going; I mean, I'd had no repercussions from the first two visits, so I was starting to think that I was untouchable.

WRONG!

The events that took place during my last visit have put me in a load of shit. That being said, this will be my last shrink story.

I spent the whole week trying to come up with fresh antics to pull with Capt. Reynolds. I was struggling because I knew that I had to go bigger, but did not want to face any consequences.

This time when going to see the good Captain, I decided not to go with the Blues Dress, but to go ready for war. Full camouflage gear, tall black boots, green helmet, field back pack, big black belt that holds a canteen on one side, and a gas mask on the other, and, best of all, my face was painted tiger camouflage style. I swear I looked like a fucking Navy Seal, hunting down Charlie in the bush.

"Airman Joethefat why on earth are you dressed like that??"

I can tell she is really pissed this time. I am trying to decide if I should lie and say something about having a field exercise after this, but opt against it. So I yell in a pissed off voice,

"What do you mean why am I dressed like this! I don’t know if you’ve been under a rock, but we're at war missy!"

I think the missy comment might have been a mistake. Her face turned bright red and she turned over to look at her secretary who was just staring in silence. I am actually scared at this point because I realize what the repercussions of talking to a United States Air Force officer like that are. Not knowing what to do, I just shrugged and said, like nothing ever happened,

"So should we get started?"

We are in her office now, and she starts in with the small talk. I am getting impatient; I mean I didn’t dress up like Private Ryan to shoot the shit with this lady.

So I pull off the backpack and set it on the floor, and start digging through it. I am pulling all kinds of shit out: ammo pouch, gloves, and a pair of boxers with smiley faces on them. I finally get all the way to the bottom and pull out a little notepad, sit back down, and start writing.

"What are you writing?"

"Just taking notes, you give really good advice."

Here is the picture you should have right now: I am sitting in my chair with all my combat shit strung out on her floor, face painted, pad in had and my legs crossed.

This is where the trouble starts. She asked me if everything had gone okay this week.

"Were things pretty calm?” (Last week she told me that I should take it easy this week.)

"Well Doc, my week was pretty tame except for Saturday night."

"What happened Saturday night?”

I tell her about how I got drunk and acted like an asshole. She laughed twice, I thought that was cool.

She goes into this long spiel on how drinking heavily can be damaging to my health and career blah blah blah. Well, she finishes her speech with this little gem:

"Just remember drinking can get you really drunk.”

I giggle and say, "Oh, that’s golden," and start writing on my pad while repeating under my breath her Confucius-like statement. Drinking can get you really drunk.

She catches my sarcasm and just explodes on me.

"You are wearing my patience thin, Airman Joethefat! I mean I realize that you have problems, (She actually said out loud that I had problems, what kind of fucking doctor is this lady? What if I was really fucked in the head and my doctor told me that, I might have hung myself right there) but if you cannot speak to me in the respectful manner owed an officer in the United States Air Force, then we will not speak!"

"Doc, I really think you should calm down. Maybe you should write yourself an order of Valium."

This does not make her happy. She demands that I leave.

"I want your commander's name now!”

I give it to her. It is starting to sink in right about now that I am in a little bit of trouble, and by a little bit I mean a lot, but I figure that I have gone this far -- I want the last word. So after packing my shit up I stand up and walk over to her desk, gaze over it and snatch her notepad and run out.

I heard "Airman Joethefat!” as I was running out.

I get a call from my commander the next day. He wants me and my boss on his carpet (military term for you're going to get torn a new asshole).

I won't go into the boring details of what was said, but let's just say that the words fuck and fuck were used a lot, and my Air Fore career is now in quite a bit of jeopardy.