Autobiography of William Harrell

June 2019-August 2019

(As I'm typing this, it's April 2022, so there's a lot I'll try to pull out of my head and remember from here. This timeframe was a blur for me, and what I remember will be catalogued here.)

Shit hit the fan really quick. I was beaten, mugged, scarred, and dealing with all sorts of shit. I was alone in so many ways. I was on the other side of the country from everyone I knew, I was without a wallet, phone, or anything other than what was in my barracks room. The shirt I was in was cut (by the medics to get it off me, not from the attack) and covered in blood. Same with my hoodie I was wearing that night. Tensions were high with my fiancé, and I was totally without half of my family because of some petty bullshit over money. I failed out of  my original class and was being held back to the next. I was depressed out of my mind. I tried to stay hopeful and optimistic, but it was such a struggle to wake up every day. I wanted to die.

I'd get a couple of my biggest tattoos after this. On my birthday, I got a tattoo of Vegvisir on my back, opposite Yggdrasil (the world tree.) The tale says that Vegvisir (AKA the Viking Compass) would be etched into ships, and any ship bearing it would survive any storm it faced. 

Man, I could've used that about a week prior. 

After getting the tattoo, I met Monty and James in some pagan trinket shop across the street from my tattoo parlor. They asked how it went, and so I unbuttoned my shirt and showed the new ink. The woman in the shop was a practicing Norse pagan, and told me a little more about the history of Vegvisir. I distinctly remember her saying how much the rune would change me since it was now inked into my skin. Maybe that was some crazy shaman rambling, maybe it was true. I like to stay pretty open minded about religions and spirituality, so I just nodded and moved on. Later, I celebrated with James and Monty. We had steak, ribs marinated in Jack Daniels, and cake. James gave me a drink he called the "frag grenade," a typical drop-shot. Redbull, vodka, Kahlua, lemon juice, and something else. It was a fun little celebration. Made it back to the barracks just in time for curfew. It was a good weekend before the long weeks ahead. 

Early July was a roller coaster of emotions. In the first couple days, I got a package in the mail from Valerie with a necklace and an "I love you" letter inside. She apologized for some of her recent behaviors, and when we talked on the phone later that night, I made a point to apologize for mine. We were both immature teenagers, but were thankfully able to recognize when we were acting as such. We both needed to be better. 

I spent Fourth of July with James and Monty. We lit off some fireworks, almost set one of us on fire with a mortar, and overall had a fun time. I believed I called Valerie that night just to chat. It was a simple night. 

Two days later, I got what is currently still one of my favorite tattoos. Back in 2017, I saved up enough money to see Linkin Park live in Orlando. About a month prior to their tour arriving, the lead singer Chester Bennington committed suicide by hanging. Since I had listened to them for so long, I always said I would get a memorial tattoo for Chester. He was well known for his blue and orange flames going up his arms, and so I decided to get that with the Linkin Park logo added at the wrist. I've since added to it, and intend on finishing the piece as a full sleeve, but the original design my artist gave me will forever be one of my favorites on my skin. 

Two days later, Valerie and I broke up. 

It was unfortunately a bit of a drawn out process, trying to return each others personal belongings to each other. It was heart breaking in every sense of the word. She was the one who initially suggested the breakup, and I didn't disagree. I could've potentially tried to talk things out with her, but in the end, I didn't. We went our separate ways, and have been that way since. Our supposed Romeo and Juliet story ended; not quite as Shakespeare ended his story, but the idea of it was over.

(Nowadays, I'm thankful that things ended the way they did. Despite her being one of the closest people to me at the time, things just simply were not meant to be. She's off doing her life, and I'm doing mine.)

During my time as a holdover, most of my days were spent reading ahead and studying what I struggled on. The commander of the nursing program told me to submit an essay on a couple body systems. The GI system gave me the most difficulty from what I remember. Ironically, some of the most common information I educate my patients on as a licensed nurse now is based on the GI system. Early July, the new class would come in, and I'd begin academics again with them. Most of them I still keep good contact with. Some of them came with me to my first duty station. This is the class I would graduate with and earn the title of Licensed Practical Nurse with. 

This was also one of the most difficult months for me. When I went to my follow up appointment to get my staples from my head removed, the LPN in the clinic asked me "Have you ever experienced PTSD or had events happen you don't want to think about?" I responded with "I have things I don't like to think about, but I don't think I have PTSD." The LPN ran through the whole PTSD assessment with me, and according to the doctor who came in afterwards, said I scored about eight points away from being admitted to the Behavioral Health ward. Apparently, that's a pretty high score. The doctor recommended I go to seek Behavioral Health counseling, and I initially refused. I didn't want to risk being recycled again due to me seeking regular appointments that would take away from class time. There was also still a significant stigma against BH in the military, and I was just generally hesitant to seek any kind of mental help. 

Between mid-July and mid-August, I struggled hard with suicidal thoughts and depression overall. I was having nightmares, having difficulty falling asleep, and just jolting in bed. More than once, I'd find myself punching the air or flinching as though I was being hit. It was torture. 

On August 11th, I tied a noose. 

I had EVERY intention of killing myself that night. Make the pain end and be gone from this world. I don't know what stopped me, at the end of the day. Some call it God, some call it fate. I call it the "fuck it" complex. It works something along the lines of "Eh, fuck it, I won't kill myself because (insert reason here.)" Most of the time, it was a simple reason, like the fact that I'd take a simple nap over death. Any simple reason that would keep me going one more day. The night I was going to kill myself, I called the National Suicide Prevention Hotline. I talked with a girl named Mackenzie (or whatever million variations there are to spell that name.) We talked for a while about NF and what our favorite songs were by him. About his recent album and some video games we liked playing. She talked me down, I untied the noose, and fell asleep. The next day, I went to BH to seek help. 

Those were the darkest days of my life, and they wouldn't pass easily. But in the end, they passed, and I made it through.