Just another day in Paradise.

Today was really shitty. I slept til almost 11 am, dragged my ass out of bed. I've been down all day. Really short fuse. Yelled at my dog, which I never do. Carl told me I should try to write down my feelings, but when I'm this way, I don't want to do anything. Sometimes, I just feel like my whole life is a fucking failure. I've never done anything well in my life. Unless reading escape liturature counts.

Letters to my Shrink

Hi Carl.

I hope this email finds you well, and still gainfully employed <g>.  I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to get together lately. I always enjoy our conversations.  Something just recently percolated up from my subconscious, that I wanted to share with you.  I actually DID attempt suicide when I was in Vietnam.  However, like many things in my life, I made a dreadful hash of it.  

I was stationed at Phang Rang airbase in the Republic of Vietnam.  I was with an Avionics Maintenance Squadron supporting F-100 fighter-bombers of the 35th Tactical Fighter Wing. This would have been around October or November, 1970.

I was drinking heavily during my tour of 'Nam.  I wasn't particularly well-liked by my peers.  I think it may have been because I took my job very seriously, and was less than charitable to those who weren't as quick on the uptake, or as dedicated to getting the job done as I perceived myself to be.. (Of course, it could have been also that I just had no skills in dealing with people).  It wasn't unusual to start a 12-hr shift with 20-25 aircraft radios on the bench awaiting repair.  My shift team consisted of a (mostly) absent NOIC and three other technicians.  There was no time for anyone to slack off, and I was pretty tough on anyone who wasn't pulling his weight.  We worked six nights a week. 

When I got off duty each morning, I went to my squadron area, where I usually ate in my bunk (the chow hall was too big a target as far as I was concerned).  I then went to to our patio area, which consisted of a lean-to attached to the orderly room.  The furniture consisted of a pretty well built bar, complete with bar stools and a few tables and chairs stolen from the all ranks club.  It was open 24/7 so beer was always available.  

I usually drank  a lot (I don't remember exact amounts, but it was probably around eight to ten beers every morning.  Then I would try to sleep a few hours before putting myself together for another 12-hr shift.  Usually, on my one day off, I would go to the all ranks club and stayed there drinking and watching whatever USO entertainment happened to be available.  I remember one particularly bad band making heavy weather of "Inna Gadda Davida" by Iron Butterfly.  I usually stayed there drinking until the club closed, then I would return to our squadron patio and continue to drink beer til 3 or 4 in  the morning.

I can't remember the occasion, but the squadron was having a big barbecue, and booze-up which coincided with my day off. I was alternately drinking scotch and a rose' wine [Mateus, which seemed very popular in my unit].  I remember feeling pretty loosey-goosey, when one of my hootch-mates, with whom I had had trouble in the past got up in my face about something I no longer remember.  He was drunk, I was drunk. One thing led to another, and we starting swinging at each other.  

I guess I hurt him pretty badly, because a number of his friends started in on me about beating him up. Everything was crashing down around me. I had no friends, I was burning out, my drinking was getting worse. I had to drink more and more to get the numbing effect I needed to get me through the next day, the next week, month, until I could escape from this ugly place. 

I guess I snapped, because I ran up the stairs to the second landing of the super-hootch in which I was billeted, and I jumped off the railing to the concrete about 12 feet below. I guess there really is some power that protects drunks and fools, because I landed on my butt and hip.  I remember being in a lot of pain. I also remember the ring of faces looking down at me while waiting for the ambulance.  All I could see was judgment, disapproval, and amusement in their faces.

I spent three days in the base dispensary with a bruised ass and sprained back.  When I was released, I had to report to my C.O. for disciplinary action.  I got a pretty major ass-chewing, and my orders promoting me to E-5 were red-lined.  I was placed on a 90 day probation. If I kept sober and out of trouble, I would receive my promotion.  I managed to stay out of trouble, but I continued to drink heavily all during my tour.  I can only speculate my CO recognized how hard I worked, and how much my crew contributed to our combat readiness.  He was a pretty cool guy who cut me some slack when even I didn't think I deserved it.  

Carl, this memory, came out of nowhere only in the past two or three weeks.  I tried to dismiss it at first, as simply another false recollection, but the details, once remembered, have become clearer as I poked and prodded at them.  My service records will probably reflect the injuries sustained. I have tried a number of times to sort this out for myself, and it has been very difficult for me to come to grips with.  All this time I've thought of suicide, only to realize I have already tried. . .and failed.

Make what you will of this, I just needed to share it with someone I felt might understand.