In 2003, horribly depressed from a marriage that had fallen apart and a company that was doing the same, I signed up for the US Army to be a Public Affairs Officer – career area 46 Quebec.
I’d aced the ASVAB, 96 out of 96, and had scored well enough on the DLAB language test to go to language school for a tier 2 language, but the only languages I was really interested in learning were Russian or Chinese which were tier 1, so this ixnayed Monterrey and linguistic school in California.
For reasons I won’t get into, I was required to sign up for 6 to 8 years of service, which limited the vocation area dramatically, and since I wasn’t interested in combat oriented roles, that narrowed the field down dramatically – to two vocations. Technical fields required a bachelor’s degree minimum in the US Military, so being an Officer wasn’t in my cards nor was leveraging my skills as a programmer and entrepreneur.
This didn’t break my heart. But combined with my own long term personal goals to obtain a degree, certainly acted as motivation to sign on the bottom line – as did the Montgomery Bill and the $1200 or so I’d get a month for school if and when I decided to pursue the degree.
So in February of 2003 (or 2004, I always have a hard time remembering which one it is here), I was selling all my household goods when a man who identified himself as a Green Beret and his wife stopped by to buy my couch.
“Oh I retired from the military, but as you’ll find out, it’s not really something you ever retire from, especially if you’re in some form of special forces like I was.”
He smiled and wished me luck.
If this was any indication of the types of people I’d meet while in the military, I knew I’d made the right decision then for making this choice.
Two weeks later I was at Fort Knox, Kentucky – which was infamous for being the most difficult basic training one can attend.
Now what I didn’t realize going in to this exercise was that it was more – so much more – of a mental training that it was the physical. The physical was an augmentation. An expectation that you respected the physical form and that’s why you were here to begin with, and that you were just receptive to new ideas on how to train yourself differently and diet differently than you might already be doing yourself.
Sure, there were those who’d entered with the idea that they’d be forced to be banged into shape.
But more often than not. I saw these guys washing out. There’s a latent expectation that you’ve already got good control of your body and levels of fitness by the time you get in.
Fort Knox, incidentally, is all male.
But the real trial – was something that wouldn’t hit me immediately.
The mind fuck.
There was an obstacle course with an area with barbed wire where you’re suppose to low crawl through, and throughout the course, at night, there’s tracers zooming across the sky.
The drill sergeant yelled “If anyone sticks their head up. I and the other drill sergeants are aiming right for you. We’re using live fire, gentleman, to simulate a real battlefield, and many of you imbeciles who are interested in testing our simulation I invite you to stick your head up and test us. The last thing that will go through your mind will be a 5.56 round. “
It was easy to play off as a joke.
And seeing the tracers overhead I certainly had the inclination to see if they were serious by sticking my hand into the tracer fire.
But if I was wrong. Getting shot was of more concern than testing them out.
I later had memories come back to me of being shot.
Standing up in the hail of gunfire and being shot square in the side of the head.
Not long after this, I broke my ankle on an obstacle course.
“That’s too bad, we’re gonna have to recycle you,” said the Drill Sergeant, unemotionally.
I took the Doctor’s notice that I needed to have light physical activity for the next 6 weeks while my ankle healed, and ripped it up. Despite running 6 miles a day on it, after the first week, the pain segued to healing where I was surprised how quickly the ankle healed. Although I had a limp I couldn’t shake for year afterwards.
In the gas chamber area, where the Drill Sergeants stand individually in a room filled with a wicked blend of tear gas with gas masks on, where I as a private am expected to take off my mask and breathe a full breathe of this stuff in.
I have flashbacks. Gas chamber flashbacks of Nazi Era world war 2.
I’d always wondered how and why so many people would willingly get into gas chambers in World War 2.
Was there more to all of this than meets the eye?
And then there’s Washington DC.
Where a Sniper went on a rampage right around the area I was stationed at and shot a bunch of people while I was attending advanced training at Fort Meade, Maryland.
I actually remember getting shot by the sniper.
And still have a mysterious scar where I remember the bullet penetrating that blew off the front of my head.
Since 2011, I’ve done a lot of soul searching trying to understand the origin of these – and many more memories. While the military helped provide unique perspective, the one thing I absolutely had to do was break free of this ‘one size fits all equation’ of not just how memories and experiences are stored, but for time itself.
I was getting tired of invalidating my experiences – labeling them as fictional, as drug induced, as sleep deprivation – the labels disassociating these experiences as ‘not being real’ were mounting and starting to feel like excuses than actual scientifically based explanations.
Put specifically. As I dove into my own life and started asking questions about where these memories come from and what precisely were the hallucinogenic experiences I was experiencing – I realized the reason these things were classified as fictional was because “that’s the story that was told”.
And if I can turn my computer off and on while playing an avatar in a simulation, where I may have died in the simulation, I can resume at the point moments before my untimely death and make a different choice which leads to my continuance of life.
The one thing I do question are the origin of the memories.
I’d be a fool not to question them.
But there’s too many extraneous events in my life which leads me to believe that while those memories may very well have been fabricated through a myriad of external sources.
There’s a great deal of memories I have which support the conclusion I’m arriving to.
The universe is holographic. Matrixes within Matrixes within matrixes. Simulations within simulations within simulations. My life, much like a video game I’ve played, reconstructed at points of death and in areas clearly not serving me (present moment included) to reinforce choice and simple desire.
The energy of reality is an abstract notion of thought and a means of control.
Within the fabric of the energy of reality, a disassociated form of mind, I can type on a computer system in a Starbuck’s knowing full well that this place is constructed by my own mind an abstraction from my own imagination.
There are infinite potential realities and timelines. But a finite number of Earths, a finite number of me’s, and a finite number of ways to construct reality with the means and knowledge this reality has privy to it.
I watch – what I once called fiction knowing full well that these realities are quite real to some, and fictional to others. Both answers and more – so much more – are correct at the same time. That’s the lesson behind an education in Quantum Mechanics.
The Matrix. Life in a dualistic based reality where it’s either one or the other. Off or on. Binary. You’re either in the Matrix or you’re not. Oddly never elaborates much on the subject of many alterverses.
What does the Matrix give me?
It protects my choice. It gives me control. It lets me become God if I want to or the Devil if I’m inclined. It separates me from you. And while that isolation is difficult, I get a close approximation of you that is ‘good enough’ for me to enjoy my life with knowing you – the ‘real’ version of you is off in another universe and potentially oblivious to me and/or my existence.
Is it a trap?
Reality. Existence is a trap if that’s the way you want to look at it.
For me I don’t look at it that way. I’m here. And I know I have to make this existence the legend of stories because it’s those stories which feed you and other versions of me. I know the stories I live have to be better and more entertaining – to me – to want to continue this thing called existence. And ultimately. I always get my way.
The way I look at it is this – I have a planet that I call home. I’d like to continue and continue on with this timeline until I am bored with it and life altogether. Being ‘forced’ to be bored as I am now isn’t an answer, as I know there are other options available to me, but those options are being artificially restricted and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt there’s external forces at work preventing me from living the life I want and deserve.
I have to know I’m not alone.
And that there’s a ‘God mode’ available to me in this thing I call reality.
And something else currently has that control, or I’m simply unsure and/or uneducated on those controls myself.
As for others.
If you don’t like a reality where Trump’s elected, let me show you the door to a universe where she is.
If you don’t like a reality where I’ll wind up married to two women at the same time, let me show you the door to your own universe.
And just in case you didn’t know. I’m a wiener.