Helping Others Tell Their Stories

Darby being awesome!

I hope all of our readers have enjoyed all of our regular posts, but you might not know that Scott, Travis Martin, Michelle Monte, and myself all spend a lot of our time helping others tell their own stories. Writing helps us a lot so we try and take time to help others do the same. If you enjoy the regular posts here then there is no reason why will not enjoy our Blue Nostalgia.

It is free to read and free to join Military Experience & the Arts online writing workshops.  We are always accepting new submissions and you will never be turned down without someones helping you finish your writing. The most impressive thing about this issue is not how many views it has already received in less than forty-eight hours, but how everyone of the writers wants to continue participating in the online community. Even those whose writing never makes it online, often take advantage of online support groups and being apart of a community of veterans all going through the same things. I often think about the Military Experience & the Arts's online community as this generations version of the WWI expatriate writing community in Europe. We may not live up to that generation's legacy, but there is the same sense of community, and we are always welcoming and training a new generation of trauma writers. For me it is an honor to know all these people let alone playing a key role.

Military Sexual Trauma in Aberdeen, Last Part

Warning:  This article contains graphic accounts of Military Sexual Trauma. 

The person sitting next to me in school at Advanced Individual Training was a Sergeant there to train for a new Military Occupational Specialty. When I extended my arm to cut the inside, he noticed the cuts on my hand and wrists. He turned my arm and saw the other cuts. I smiled and said, "Doesn’t hurt." At break, he reported me for cutting myself. I was called to the office of the training school. I had a choice, either tell them why I was cutting myself in class or get charged with destruction of government property. I told about the rape and named the rapist. I didn’t want to get in trouble and wanted him to pay for what he did to me. I don’t remember what happened the rest of that day. I do know that Molina was arrested in class and carted off in handcuffs in front of everyone. And then my life went to hell, fast.

I had to tell the story to military police. When it was determined that the incident happened off post, I had to talk to civilian detectives. My chain of command decided to move me to another platoon so the rapist would not be removed from his support system and because they said it was easier to move a female. I was referred to alcohol assessment because drinking was involved. My rapist’s name was on the attendance list, but he didn’t show. I was sent to a military psychologist who wrote on the report that I had anger issues and should be in a rape victim support group and receive treatment for the trauma. I hand carried that report back to my company and never saw it again. The only support group I was sent to was a general support group and everyone there attacked me saying that I was lying. They defended him because he threatened to kill himself. I wished he had. They felt sorry for him, and I was the evil one bucking the system we lived under.

My female drill sergeant called me into her office with several other people to include some who where at the party and some who were not. She wanted to hear what happened and why the incident wasn’t reported. She told me, looking straight into my face, that because I had been drinking, I put myself in that position and asked for what I got. I deserved it. I was to stay away from Molina because he threatened to kill himself. I never went near the prick and someone should give him a loaded gun and be done with it. I’m the one with no support system. I’m the one being humiliated…again…in front of others.

My Drill Instructor proceeded to tell me that I didn’t act like a rape victim. She had a friend who was beaten and raped and her friend hid from the world, especially men. I was numb. I didn't know how to act or react much less what I was "supposed" to act like. I was trying to show her I was tough enough to "adapt and overcome" as the Army drilled into us. That didn’t change that I was raped. She had no sympathy for me and wanted me to stay away from everyone.

My class of 13 was moved to another company further separating me from the rapist. I thought I had a chance to start over. My new first sergeant immediately made it known that he had heard from my previous command about what happened and none of that shit was going to happen in his company. From the lecture he gave me, he was told and had decided that I was full of shit and a trouble-maker and liar. He immediately jumped on everything I did and I avoided him as much as I could. I avoided many things. I went on sick call so much that I almost got held back to the next cycle that was three weeks behind mine. I tried to be invisible. I tried not to do or say anything that made me stand out from anyone else. I just wanted to blend into the background and be lost.

At the same time that I wanted to go unnoticed, I also wanted companionship. In the new company, I had a roommate I got along with. She already had friends and tried to include me but it wasn’t all that I was looking for. I did want friends and appreciated her being there and not judging me. I was sure no man would look at me or want me considering what happened. My only course of action, in my mind, was to take the dredges I could get and pretend to like it and want it just to not be alone for a few moments. I wanted someone to put their arms around me and tell me that everything I feared would not happen and the fears themselves would go away. I wanted someone to put their arms around me and tell me I was safe. I wanted too much, so much more than I felt I should expect or deserve. I wanted the fairy tale I thought in the before was still possible and in the after I didn’t stand a chance of getting.

This state of mind is how I ended up with my first husband, Steven. I think he was as desperate as I was to be loved. He said he didn’t care what happened. Looking back, I think he just didn’t want to be alone.

My parents didn’t want me to join and this was their big "I told you so" moment. If I had only listened and not joined that damned Army, everything would have been fine. My mother never said those exact words, but I still can easily hear them in her voice in my head.

Eventually I was able to leave Aberdeen and return home. It took a Senator’s intervention to make it happen, but I was home. Steven was so insecure about who I was talking to at the same time talking about a woman he had met, I made the assumption he was cheating and projecting his guilt onto me. I worked in a factory surrounded by men so Steven made me quit my job. If I was not home for his calls, he gave me the third degree as to who I was with and if I talked to any men and who and how long and what did we talk about.

I didn’t believe a decent man would fall in love with me and want to be with me. I believed if anyone was with me, they had nothing better going on and were settling. When my marriage to Steven fell apart, I had an affair with a nice, married, sergeant from my Army Reserve unit. It started out with just talking, some flirting, and then I fell back into not saying no even though I very much wanted to. I talked to him because he was married and I thought he was safe and wouldn’t try anything. He was a serial cheater. I was the fourth and not the last. I didn’t want in that relationship but there was one more thing I wanted, and he was willing to give it and walk away. I wanted a child. By that point in my life, I knew as fact that I would never find a man who wanted me.

I got pregnant, he walked. I told Steven, we got divorced. I went on to marry ex-husband number two. We were friends for three years. I liked him. He liked me. He was lonely and had been single for three years. I was damaged goods with a baby on the way. I thought it would be a good idea to build a relationship with a friend, he agreed. Joe took my daughter as his. We had another daughter. We had a boy. Then we had another boy. One day, Joe threw our two-year-old son across the room for bumping into him with a butter knife. And that was it. The marriage was over. I got out and started a new life. I got married again.

The way my therapist explained it to me, I had buried Aberdeen under a mountain of problems. Some of the problems were mine. More often I took on someone else’s problems to keep myself busy and my mind occupied. When I remarried, I married someone I loved, not just friends. I didn’t have to worry about burying my problems to deal with his. He was financially stable, lessening another worry. My kids were getting older and needed me far less. I had overwhelmed myself with work and volunteering but cut back because of the stress on myself and our family. With more time to myself and less of other people’s garbage on my mind, I had uncovered the trauma I had never dealt with. I was now in a safe environment where I could deal with these issues and my mind decided I had to whether I wanted to or not.

There had been signs something was amiss for a few years. I had a really great job as a Training Specialist for the same military trucks I drove and repaired in the Army. That job also meant I was around military men. Subconsciously, I resumed the defense mechanisms I needed in Aberdeen because of the rape in and my Army Reserve Unit because I was a woman. I was antisocial, critical, cynical, and obnoxious. I was fired after nine months.

I fell into depression and blamed it on losing my job. That was when the infrequent nightmares became nightly. That was when singing along to the radio in the car became dwelling on every minute detail of my experiences in Aberdeen. That was when I started taking closer looks at people, first the men that resembled the rapist and then at everyone paranoid that they new I was anxious and damaged. That was when my world shattered like a mirror into thousands of shards that only showed a small piece of who I was and none of them fit back together.

I did two things to fight this. First I fell back to trying to be invisible. I had to split myself into the public me the private me that hid tears and anxiety and paranoia that people knew about the nightmares and insomnia and knew about my hyper vigilance and new about the rape. And then I tried to bury that second self and make the images in my head go away. It has been fifteen years. I should have forgotten. I should be fine and normal. And I couldn’t feel farther from all of that.

In September of 2008, I attended a weekend conference for women veterans. I sat in on a session about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of Military Sexual Trauma. I spoke to the lecturer who is a woman in the military whose job it is to educate the military on sexual assault in its ranks. She encouraged me to file a VA claim to get help and called a couple of times after the conference to make sure I contacted a therapist. Finally I did overcome my fear that talking about what happened would make it real and I wouldn’t be able to bury it and hide it anymore. I can’t bury this anymore because it is digging its own way out. I can’t hide it anymore because it isn’t my shame to hide. I was raped. It happened. I couldn’t stop it. I have to let myself believe that I am not weak. I did not ask to be raped. I did not deserve to be raped. I am not a whore, I am not worthless. I am not damaged. But right at this moment I don’t really believe it…yet.

Daily Dealings with PTSD

This week has been the worst in a while. I am in week 4of CPT. I am working 3 part time jobs to make ends meet as a single mom. I also volunteer some time as an editor and am taking two graduate classes.

If I were an alcoholic or on drugs, people would be right there with a program, sympathy, empathy, some kind of words of encouragement or helping hand. My addiction is filling my schedule and helping everyone else so I don't have the time or energy for flashbacks and nightmares. I numb myself with work and helping others. There is no 12-step program for that addiction. People don't look at me with the sympathy drink or drug addicts get. People respond to me with, "Are you nuts?" As a matter of fact, I am. I am also struggling to support my family.

I know I am in a bad place in my head. I requested Cognitive Processing Therapy would help me deal with the aftermath of being raped twice while in the Army. Now in week 4,  I wonder what I was thinking and why does VA jump all over this therapy as a cure. For the first time in years I have thought that death would be so much easier. Suicide is not an option for me, but death seems so inviting and easier than what is in my head. 

I look to the scars on my arms and wonder if I could explain new ones. while I don't mind being alone, it is a rare treat for me, I feel completely lonely. I see people with their friends and loved ones, particularly the ones who are in each other's arms for love and comfort and I die a little inside. Yes, I can find that comfort easily for a few minutes with some stranger or friend, but it is not the same as the nurturing and lasting love and understanding I long for and crave.

I am frustrated and angry because I was not always like this. Living with PTSD, I had my down days, but most were good days with at least one thing I could find to be grateful for. Since starting CPT, there are no good days. There are days filled with as much as I can pack in them to not feel the emptiness and loneliness and pain.

Military Sexual Trauma in Aberdeen, Part III

Warning:  This article contains graphic descriptions of Military Sexual Trauma. 

Molina walked me back to The Quiet Room and disappeared. I wanted to crawl into bed and go to sleep. I was still drunk and still trying to choke back what happened in the woods. A little while later, another group of people from base showed up to join the party. One guy in particular had heard I was there with Greg. John and I had gotten along, flirted and hung out together. He was possessive and didn’t like Greg much. The feeling was mutual, if I remember right. I was already anxious, drunk, and running on adrenaline. I talked to John in the hall and swore nothing was going on with Greg hoping John would go to the party room and stay there. He came to The Quiet Room instead. I thought I was keeping the peace by not sharing one of two beds with Greg, where I wanted to be, and laying on the floor with some blankets with John. During the night John wanted to have sex. Saying "No" didn’t work with Molina, so I kept my mouth shut and did what he wanted. The whole time, I figured it was best to go along with it, let him enjoy himself if it will keep the peace. No one takes "No" for an answer anyway. This is all I am worth. I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be up in the bed next to Greg who I knew was sweet and nice and liked me and would never hurt me. Anyone else who might have helped me or kept me safe was thousands of miles at home and wouldn’t want me after that night.

The next morning, Chris was in the other bed next to Molina. She was sleeping on her stomach in her bra and shorts. The back strap had been undone. She accused Molina of trying something while she was asleep. I thought I might have an ally in Chris. I spoke up. "You too? He raped me last night after saying you were missing and I had to help find you."

I turned out that Chris had been in The Party Room the entire night until late when she came to The Quiet Room to sleep. Greg didn’t seem to believe it. I knew he knew what happened with John and me and he just wanted to get as far away from me as he could. He never spoke to me again. Verch, the platoon leader tried to sort things out. The unanimous decision was for everyone to keep their mouths shut so no one would get in trouble and Molina was suppose dot stay away from me and Chris. I wanted to forget the whole night.

We all tried to act like nothing happened. Chris invited me to the post pool and loaned me a swimsuit. While swimming around the pool, one of the guys from another platoon hit on me and started making out with me in the pool. I let him. Saying "no" means nothing. It was better to let them do what they wanted and pretend to like it because that is what they wanted. Another guy asked me to a movie and I went. He wanted to mess around too. I gave him a hand job in the dark. It was what he wanted and I didn’t care about anything.

Turning into that was a way from me to survive and be invisible to most but still find a way to get someone to give me attention/affection even if it wasn’t real. I could be close to another human being although still feeling very alone. Being close to someone even for a little while and for all the wrong reasons made me feel like I was still normal though I clearly wasn’t and really didn’t feel it. If I could immerse myself in someone or something, I could forget. If I could get through the rest of AIT, I’d never have to see any of these people again.

Those that did know what happened stopped talking to me within days. I went back to class and sat across the room form Molina who laughed and joked with his friends like nothing happened. Fewer people talked to me and when they did I snapped back. I fell further and further into a dark hole in my mind. I could pretend anything outside of class. I could be tough, mouthy, and aggressive. I could be forceful and assertive. In class was totally different. I had nothing to think about, no act to put on. Just listening to lectures of motor pool safety and reading wiring diagrams. And I thought. I thought about every second of that one night. I thought about what could happen if anyone found out. More than thinking, I was so totally consumed with anger and disgust. He was right there, not more than ten feet from me and I could do nothing. I didn’t want to go near him. I wanted him to disappear. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to be invisible and in class I was…at first.

Time weighed heavily. I had weeks left before his light-wheeled class split from my Fuel and Electrical class for MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) specific training. We were still in the basic classroom curriculum everyone had to take. I felt angry sometimes and sad much of the time. Most of all I felt numb. I discovered that if I cut myself, I hardly felt it and mostly didn’t feel anything. I had bought a camouflage watch with a compass that I wore with my uniform. It was a buckle style and the pin that fit through the holes in the band was quite sharp. One day in class, I was absent mindedly playing with my watch and started scratching my hand. I didn’t feel a thing as the pin scratched away layers of flesh. It didn’t bleed much, especially if I scraped the skin wider instead of deeper. When the first scratch on he back of my hand at the webbing of the thumb and first finger started bleeding, I moved on to another spot below the knuckle on my thumb. I was enthralled by cutting into my flesh without feeling more than a light sting.

When I looked across the room or the memory of that night came into my mind, I cut a new spot moving from my hand to my wrist. I cut several one inch slashes on the inside of my wrist. When one started to bleed more than the others, I pressed it to my uniform and started on my forearm. This has got to hurt. This is sensitive skin, I thought. I scraped two longer gashes into the inside of my forearm. It burned a little but for the most part was painless. I started to worry that I might cut too deep. Who cares. No one sees me anyway. When I bled I grew concerned someone might notice and I would get in trouble. I kept cutting anyway.

Two Weeks Into CPT

I recently attended my third session of Cognitive Processing Therapy. Week one was difficult as my assignment was to write about how my trauma has affected my life. I know that sitting down and thinking about the physical, mental, and emotional manifestations of my trauma will set me off. Immediately I went into self-preservation mode and struggled to figure out how to write this requirement without losing control of my emotions. The directions asked for one page. I hand-wrote one page. There were specific areas to focus on: e.g. relationships, security, physical, etc. To minimize my reaction, I wrote the page at work where my job will certainly distract me from getting completely sucked into a flashback or crying jag.

The assignment for the second week was to take my trauma and two other instances and examine what happened, what I thought, and how did I feel. Then I had to look at what I told myself and determine if those thoughts were realistic. In my case, I was told so many times by people in authority in the Army that because I was drinking, I deserved what I got. I believed for may years that if I had not been drinking, I would not have been raped. Is that realistic? Maybe I wouldn't have been raped if I was sober. Maybe I could have fought back if I was sober. Likely it would not have made a difference because my rapist was on a mission. Regardless, I did not deserve to be raped and I will never know if drinking or not drinking mattered. It is a struggle to remember that my drinking made things easier for my rapist, but likely didn't really make a difference in the outcome of those nights.

This week, Week Three, my assignment is to write about my traumas. I have already written about my rape in Aberdeen in 1993. This time I am supposed to focus on my rape in Germany in 1994. The second trauma is one I had only vague memories I didn't want to put together. After seeing Invisible War and years of therapy, I remember too much. That is the trauma I haven't faced and now am being forced to, in my opinion. One day after getting the assignment, I am fighting it. I don't want to remember despite being sick to my stomach, being more depressed, being more anxious, and the continuous smell of the basement I haven't been in in 19 years. I know those symptoms should lessen if I deal with this, but I can't deal with this. I don't have time to deal with this now.

Another thought has come to mind to follow me everywhere. Who will I be without these constant reminders and relivings? Who am I without my traumas hidden away inside of me?

Military Sexual Trauma in Aberdeen, Part II

Warning Trigger Alert: This story and its subsequent parts describe my experience as a survivor of Rape in the military. It also describes my experience with Cognitive Processing Therapy.

We got as far as the steps to the door with Molina shoving the cup at me the whole way saying, "Drink." And I did if it would keep him happy. When we got to the steps, he said that he thought the pool was around back and that we could get into the hotel that way but should at least check to make sure Chris wasn’t by the pool drunk where she could get caught and we’d all get in trouble. There was that word again. The last thing I wanted to do was get in trouble over a stupid party. I told him we could take a quick look and then I wanted to go back to the room. He handed me the cup again and said, "Here, take a drink."

We walked along the wall of the hotel. Straight ahead was some woods that were not very well lit. Around the corner was supposedly the pool according to Molina. At some point, we should run into the other guy that was supposed to be helping to find Chris. Molina isn’t going to do anything if the other guy could catch him. My anxiety level was through the roof. I could feel my pulse pounding in my head and I felt like running back into the hotel but knew I was too drunk for that. The best course of action was to continue following Molina, don’t piss him off or say anything to give him ideas, and find Chris so we all don’t get in trouble.

We made it to the corner of the building and I started to turn to walk along the back assuming we would find the pool at some point very soon, I hoped. Molina took my hand and started pulling me toward the woods. It was thick with bushes along the grass line and looked dark and dense with saplings and a few larger trees. Little light penetrated. I was panicked. I couldn’t get my hand away from Molina and tried to talk him into looking for the pool. That was what he wanted, so let’s find the pool. I tried to talk him into go the other direction. I didn’t want to check the woods. I didn’t want to go into the woods. I didn’t want to go anywhere with this guy. I didn’t want him to hurt me. I didn’t want to get in trouble. In my mind, in the Army, I would be the one in trouble.

I told him I thought I was going to be sick. I had a funny taste in my mouth like metal or blood. As I write this, I can still taste it in my saliva after twenty years of brushing and rinsing and spitting it out, it is still there. He handed me the cup now half full. I didn’t want to drink and said no. He still had my hand and pulled me into a small clearing between some bushes where the light in the parking lot couldn’t quite reach. He went in first so I thought I was still okay. He can’t shove me to the ground and do anything if I am at the only way out. I pulled against his grip, but he wouldn’t let go. He kept talking to me; reassuring me that he wouldn’t hurt me that everything was going to be okay. I said, "No." I tried to talk him out of whatever he had on his mind and I was trying desperately to find whatever words I could to get him to go back to the hotel. He jerked on my shorts. The button had not been buttoned from when I took the shower and the zipper dropped and my denim shorts followed. He grabbed my hands and sat back on the ground pulling me on top of him. I couldn’t roll to the left or right because of the sharp branches and bushes that dug into my knees. I tried to straddle him so I could push backwards and roll away. I kept saying no and he continued to try to comfort me that he wouldn’t hurt me.

I don’t remember his words anymore but I remember the tone. The calm, gentle, "it’ll be okay" tone mixed with insistence and "we don’t want to get caught" as if we were lovers and I wanted to be there as much as he did. I got my knees to either side of him and leaned back to get a hand hold. He grabbed my arm with one hand and tried shoving himself inside me with the other hand. I said "No" again. He kept pushing himself inside me and I tried to pull away and I tried to lean to the side only to have the bushes bite into my knees. He kept shoving and I couldn’t make him stop. He wasn’t all the way hard and was getting frustrated. I thought if I made a joke about it, he would give up. He didn’t. He tried to get all the way inside me and I did the last thing I could think to do to get him to let me go, I pretended to pass out.

I let my body go limp and didn’t respond. He shook me and then started to push me off of him. I acted like I was waking up when I felt him trying to get out from under me. I got to my feet. He pulled up his shorts. Mine were wrapped around one ankle and I put my other foot in them and pulled them up. He was talking again with that reassuring tone that was making me nauseous. I was trying to think what just happened. What would people say? I didn’t even like the guy. Why? What did I do to deserve this? I walked with my arms crossed tightly across my chest. Halfway back to the building I asked him not to tell anyone as if we had mutually decided to have a little tryst in the shrubbery. I was humiliated and sick to my stomach. I took all the blame on myself for something I couldn’t stop, didn’t want, and didn’t really understand. I had to pretend to be normal. No one could know. Especially no one back home and definitely not the Army.


Michelle Monte is a Professor of English and is working on several essays. She is an assistant editor for Journal of Military Experience 3. Michelle served in the Army and Army Reserve from 1992-2000.

Military Sexual Trauma and PTSD

Several years ago I was diagnosed with PTSD, Depression, and Anxiety Disorder. I am Service Connected Disabled (70%) and live with daily symptoms caused by two rapes while serving in the Army on two different posts, on two different continents. My assailants were both soldiers I served with. In another series, I am revealing my story. In this series I will address how I have lived with my experiences and symptoms.

Since considering posting my story, my anxiety levels have been through the roof. My hands shake, I am nauseous, I sweat, I constantly look over my shoulder, my legs bounce (tap?) when sitting... the list goes on. Most of the time I am able to deal with my symptoms and most people don't even realize I am having a problem. I have nearly 20 years experience hiding what is inside me.

Recently, I saw the movie Invisible War. Though the movie is excellent and needs to be seen by everyone, it set me backwards in coping with my experiences. I began to remember details I had worked hard to suppress. I remembered more clearly the second time I was raped and that was something I had buried deep as I could never tell anyone about it. After trying to get help the first time, there was no way I was going to put myself through the hell of being persecuted again.

I have been angry and frustrated the last few months after seeing the movie. People close to me expressed that they noticed a change in me. My ability to camouflage is failing. Everyone I saw looking at me "knew." Every man was a threat. Every woman a judge of my dress, behavior, mannerisms, speech.

Being an educator I did what academics do best: I researched. I had heard about Cognitive Processing Therapy (CPT) but didn't really know what it was. After reading about it, I made the request to my VA therapist and started CPT this past week. Posting my story and my therapy online is to both help me heal and help others find their way.


Michelle Monte is a Professor of English and is working on several essays. She is an assistant editor for Journal of Military Experience 3. Michelle served in the Army and Army Reserve from 1992-2000.

Military Sexual Trauma in Aberdeen

Warning Trigger Alert: This story and its subsequent parts describe my experience as a survivor of Rape in the military. It also describes my experience with Cognitive Processing Therapy.

I joined the Army after I turned 18.  Though I graduated at 17, my parents refused to sign the papers I needed to allow me to join the military right out of high school.  I went to college for a year and then went to Basic Training in Ft. Leonard Wood, MO.  I did another year of college and flew to Maryland for Advanced Individualized Training at Aberdeen Proving Grounds.  Between Basic and AIT, I drilled with a reserve unit thirty minutes from my house.  I thought I had found the one place where I fit in and a career that I excelled at. The rules were simple, do what you are told and, for women especially, don’t go anywhere alone.  The worst thing in the world was to get in trouble with the Drill Sergeants or command.  I took that lesson to heart.

One night around Fourth of July, I was planning on going into Aberdeen from where my barracks were in Edgewood Area of APG to see a movie with a friend from my platoon.  Greg was very nice and I really liked him.  Before we could leave, Christine, another platoon member stopped me and invited me to a party off post.  I said no initially, but she didn’t want to be the only female there and I was the only female left planning on leaving post anyway.  I hesitated.  I didn’t really want to go to a party.  My head was in Army rules and I knew that Chris should not go alone to this party.  Our platoon leader was going to be there as were several friends.  Because were all in training for Maintenance jobs, there were very few women.  I talked to Greg about going to the party instead and suggested that we could see a movie another time. He agreed.

Our group stopped at the PX and those that were over 21 collected money and requests from those that were not and went in to get supplies. We took a taxi to a hotel off post and began drinking.  Back then I could drink a lot.  On my 21st birthday, more than a year later, I went out with friends to a bar after work.  I remember 14 shots of various liquors and 6 cranberry and vodkas.  My friends tell me I drank more after that.  I do know I puked in the bushes of a church down the street from another bar we stopped at that I don’t remember.  While I could drink mass quantities of alcohol, I wasn’t very good at it.

Our off post party amounted to two rooms.  One we called “The Party Room.”  The other was dubbed “The Quiet Room.”  After considerable drinking, Greg and I went to The Quiet Room to talk and share his Peach Schnapps.  After that night, I never drank Peach Schnapps again or spoke to Greg for that matter.  It wasn’t anything he did, it was because of something I couldn’t stop from happening.

An hour or so after we got to The Quiet Room, I took a shower to wake up and redressed in my T-shirt and shorts and nothing under because those were the clothes I was planning on sleeping in anyway.  There was a knock at the door and a guy from my platoon, Molina, and a guy from another platoon were there claiming to be looking for Chris.  I vaguely remember asking if she would be okay in The Party Room with all the guys we were training with.  Verch, our platoon leader, wasn’t drinking much and was a trustworthy guy.  He said he’d keep and eye on her and we were all supposed to be friends anyway.

Molina and his booblehead friend said that Chris got in a fight with someone else and stormed off all pissed off.  They were looking for her and asked if she was in our room.  I said no.  They asked if I would help look for her.

“She’s fine. She’s probably already back at the room.”

“No, she was pretty pissed off.  Even if we find her, we don’t think she’ll come back with us.”

“Guys, I just want to sleep. Go find her and bring her here to sleep.”

“She isn’t going to come with us. She’s pretty pissed off and really drunk. You should come with us. You’re a woman, she’ll listen to you.”

“Just go find her. She’ll go back with you. She’s probably already in the other room.”

“No, she’s not.  Come on. Come with us. We don’t want to get in trouble if she tried to get back on post all pissed up.”

They said the magic words in my drunken stupor.  “Don’t want to get in trouble.”  I was at a party I didn’t want to go to in the first place, under 21 and drunk off my ass.  I told Greg I’d be back after we found Chris and asked if he wanted to help.  He said he was too drunk and took another swig off his Schnapps bottle.

I didn’t know either guy I was with very well.  The nameless one was from another platoon; I don’t think I ever knew his name.  Molina was from my platoon.  I didn’t know him and really didn’t like him all that much.  I didn’t like getting in trouble more than I didn’t like him.  The guys were talking to me about looking outside the hotel because there was a pool and maybe Chris went outside looking for the pool.  I didn’t really care. I just wanted to find Chris and go back to the room.  I vaguely remember suggesting that one of us check the other room just in case.  Both guys vehemently assured me that Christ was not there and too pissed off to return of her own accord.  We got to a side door on the hotel and the guys decided to split up.  I would go with Molina and walk in one direction.  The other guy would go in the other and presumably, we would find the pool and meet up on the other side of the building, ensuring Chris would be found.

I was drunk off my ass for the first time in my life. That plan sounded reasonable to me, so I started walking with Molina.  He carried a huge, big gulp type cup filled with what I thing was Whiskey and Mountain Dew.  He kept passing it to me and telling me to drink.  I was drunk, so I drank more.  He was being very nice and grabbed my arm when I stumbled and talked nicely to me coaxing me in this direction or that.  He pointed to some trees on the other side of the parking lot and expressed concern that Chris might have started walking in that direct as post was that direction.  I figured we could walk as far as the trees and come back, so I agreed.  Once we got to the trees, I was too dizzy to continue walking.

“I need to sit down a minute.”

“Okay. Here, take a drink.”  And I took the cup again.

“What happened with Chris at the party.”

“One of the guys made some comments and she got pissed and walked out.  She didn’t come back so we checked your room and she wasn’t there either. We got worried and decided to look for her.”

I couldn’t really think too clearly and everything Molina said sounded reasonable.  He asked if I was ready to walk yet and I said I needed another minute.  He started asking me questions about different guys in our platoon and if I liked them and why.  I answered his questions thinking nothing of why he was asking except to make conversation.  He asked me what I like in a guy and if I could ever like someone like him.  A dull bell went off in my head from somewhere a great distance off.  Looking back, the anxiety I was starting to feel through the alcohol haze was a warning that something was not right.  I was too drunk to fully grasp it and it was easy to blow it off.  At the time, all I could think was don’t say anything to offend him. Be nice.

I told him he was a nice guy but that I really didn’t know him very well to give him an opinion.  He asked if Greg was the kind of guy I liked and I said yes, I really liked Greg.  Molina took my hand.  I thought it was to help me up. He stuck my hand down his pants.

“Is this enough for you?" The expression on his face was dead serious. The warning was louder now but I couldn’t put my thoughts together very well.  I pulled my hand back.  I told him it was fine but we needed to find Chris.  In my head I thought that if I said I didn’t like him or didn’t find him attractive, he would get mad and do something.  I couldn’t think beyond “something” to have any ideas of what he could do.  He laughed it off like it was a joke and reassured me that he didn’t want to make me do anything I didn’t want to do.  He passed me the cup, still two-thirds full.  I drank to keep him happy.  I said we needed to go find Chris and I got up and started walking toward the hotel doors.


Michelle Monte is a Professor of English and is working on several essays. She is an assistant editor for Journal of Military Experience 3. Michelle served in the Army and Army Reserve from 1992-2000.