Crisis management

“A Marine is never happy unless he’s bitching.” It’s a saying that holds true after 228 years of kicking ass all over the world, and in honor of that tradition I’ve decided to contribute my own recent gripes and complaints. This rant was spurred on by another J.K. on the other side of the world who sees the same problems I do, and yet I never slept with his sister…

This is for the boys out there on the tip of the spear, and all the crazy crap that just makes no sense. - Jayme

There’s a recent affliction sweeping the U.S today coined “quarter life crisis”. It apparently affects young people in their twenties and causes them to realize that, after four years studying [insert major here] and maybe a couple years or so working at [insert company name here], they realize they’re in the wrong career, working for the wrong people, doing the same old shit on the weekends and generally going nowhere fast. With today’s life expectancy at77.2 years old, a true quarter life crisis should occur at the tender age of 19.3 years old.

What I’m here to tell the medical boards is there’s a new bug out there ravaging us Generation Xers now approaching their late twenties. It’s an all-original term I’ve name “one-third life crisis”.

This crisis is a bit different, and from an active duty Marine Security Guard standpoint it’s completely uncharted and wholly under researched. Symptoms include, but are not limited to:

• Unpredictable sleep patterns.
• Reduction or utter elimination of time off.
• Nervous ticks and twitches.
• Increased bladder capacity.
• Paranoia associated with seemingly innocent offers of friendship.
• Paranoia associated with “curfew”.
• Paranoia associated with “guests”.
• Paranoia in application of self defense out in town for fear of creating a “international incident” and
  screwing every other Marine Security Guard’s liberty for eternity.
• Paranoia, all encompassing.
• Shame induced by public ridicule when attempting to speak the local language.
• Shame in explaining why you can’t have someone at your own damn house after 0100.
• Shame in explaining why you aren’t allowed to drive in country.
• Shame in explaining why you have to be home by 0300.
• Shame, all encompassing.
• Claiming citizenship of another f**king country so you don’t get your ass beat by simply being American.
• Loss of identity.
• Fits of rage induced by “work environment conditions”.
• Fits of rage induced by diplomatic stupidity/ignorance.
• Fits of rage, all encompassing.
• Caffeine addiction.
• Stunted growth (unrelated to the above).
• Mood swings.
• Inexplicable outbursts of swearing, violence, and destruction.
• Explicable outbursts of swearing, violence, and destruction.
• Cold sweats when the word “Days” is mentioned and it’s not a weekend.
• Countless hours “streamlining” everything in your world from soup to nuts to see it all changed because of one jackass’s recommendations who hasn’t done your job in at least five years, if ever.
• Faked smiles.
• Lost humor.
• Jokes you no longer find funny.
• Hate directed at your job and the people who withheld information to get you to do it.
• Hate directed toward the thankless assholes you protect every day, 24/7.
• Hate directed toward “off limits” areas because some dipshit from another country, with nothing to do with you, got jacked at an ATM in 1992 and now you’re paying for it, when it all actuality you’re more suited in defending yourself than the pigs it was really designed to protect but who aren’t heeding the warning and are continuing to get jacked.
• Hate directed toward bells, buzzers, whistles, alarms, cameras, lights, monitors, buttons, levers, handles, switches, clipboards, turnover binders, funds, assignment letters, guard school, contact reports, react training, language training, SAIs, CVs, Days, Eves, Mids, key control, AES panels, selectones, TCUs, phone trees, badge control, classified control, self control, Lonetree, diplomacy, politics, civilians, ignorance, and so much more shit it’s blowing my mind.
• Dating 18 year olds.
• Dating 35+ year olds.
• Loving.
• Leaving.
• Mind numbing, meaningless, fleeting relationships based on money, power, social status, sex, and greed.
• Binge drinking.
• Binge eating.
• Binge sleeping.
• Binge training.
• Demotivation.
• Uncontrollable laughing.
• Uncontrollable swearing.
• Uncontrollable bowel movements brought on by aforementioned binge drinking.
• Uncontrollable sobbing.
• Discontent.
• Discontent.
• Discontent.

How, you may ask, am I able to make it hour after hour, day after day exhibiting these kinds of symptoms? Very carefully, I answer with a bitter taste in my mouth and an appetite for the dramatic.

I once prided myself in situations of high stress and extreme duress. I acted and reacted with minimum inner turmoil and ulcer production. “The program”, as it is popularly referred to, has changed all that. I wake up at nights to the sound of a ringing telephone in a cold sweat, convinced more pointless training awaits me that can’t f**king wait until after a decent night’s sleep. As an example of piss poor time off management, let me detail yesterday’s activities. It was my one day off. Keep in mind that, in this timeline, the clock is ticking. I will annotate accordingly when I had free time to do what I please.

• 0545 - Mids shift duty, which began at 2145 the night before, ends.
• 0615 - Pick up Gunny on the way home from the embassy.
• 0625 - Commence Marine house fire and evacuation drill, evaluating primary escape routes and rally points.
• 0745 - Drill is completed and I sit down for a bowl of cereal.
• 0800 - Cereal now consumed, I pass out on the couch in front of the T.V.
• 0810 - Awakened by fellow Marine, I trudge to my rack to catch some ZZZZs.
• 0811 to 1547 - Attempt sleep with minimal success as loggers in the lot next to the house run bulldozers, chainsaws, and other miscellaneous heavy equipment with apparently no mufflers the entire time.
• 1548 - Eat chow.
• 1620 - Language training.
• 1800 - Language training now complete, I have a sit down chat with the instructor on program and schedule changes.
• 1815 - Physical training.
• 1930 - REACT training where we cover operational plans such as Intruder containment, Internal defense, Fire, and Bomb.
• 2230 - REACT training now complete, I return to the house to complete a flyer for detachment polo sales.
• 2300 - Rack time.
• 0445 - Reveille (this morning) for duty.
• 0545 to Present - Standing in this damn fish bowl we call Post 1, listening to buzzers, alarms, dipshits about Visa applications and visitor access privileges, and other assorted crap that makes me want to slit my own throat if I could only find a f**king scissors in the f**king supply drawer.

How’s that for a fun day off, huh kids? That kind of shit happens all the f**king time. My only solace is that I’ll be gone, thankfully, blessedly, once and for all, gone come 30 June. It’s shit I’ve described in the last 1,000 words that makes Marines snap when they finally get back home, to the fleet, or their next duty station. In fact, it’s shit like this that makes Marines get out of the Corps and run for the mountains of Montana for freedom, sweet freedom!

Despite my rants and raves, there is light in this tunnel of life leaching oppression. I ride. I surf Hot or Not like a man with a mission, only I’m not. I workout. I ride some more. I stay as far, far away from the embassy as I can during my biweekly 17 seconds off.

But how can I possibly put what I’m experiencing into words? Let me throw this little scenario at you:

Take a trip to your local zoo and find the lion cage. Watch the new lions pace back and forth and chew on the bars with raw power and energy. Hear them roar in defiance of their captivity. See the spark in their eyes and their spirits. They are kings where they come from, not here, caged and gawked at and fed on a timely schedule. They want out.

Now look a little further back in the same cage and observe the other lions, the ones lying quietly under the shade of the trees. Their roar is silent. Their eyes gleam no more. They pace not. They are beaten creatures, once noble with a proud history of survival and tenacious fighting. Their spirits are broken and shattered at the feet of those who hold them captive.

Marine Security Guards are those same animals. We are killers from the air, land, and sea and have been winning battles for over 228 years. We are amphibious warriors with the capacity to kill, laugh, and love. We are the top 10% of the most elite fighting force the world have ever known, yet we too are caged. Our eyes glaze over with every day spent locked behind blast proof glass. Our spirits crumble under the weight of bullshit still rolling downhill from the actions of singular Marines from years gone by. We toil long, thankless hours in the night shoulder to shoulder with other captives who where proud once as well. Those we have sworn to protect look through us as smoke. We are of no consequence to them unless threatened, and suddenly we, the Marines, have all the answers.

An eternity ago, in December 2001 when I reported to my first post in Pretoria, South Africa, I wanted to change the world. But time and time again I saw the same result of my efforts: revision, reversion, or all out rejection. How, after 50+ years of the program, could things still be so f**ked up? How can I pass an inspection with no discrepancies and six months later have a f**king laundry list of shit I need to fix when I never changed my operating procedures? How can any man worth his rank tell me that a battalion order need not be followed but used only as a reference? And how can I possibly be hit on a format pulled directly from said battalion order? How can raising the drinking age for 1,100 Marine Security Guards overseas to 21 years old possibly be justified by one Marine’s mistake? Where the f**k is the release form stating

“If I have a dirty tramp in my room and she steals my shit, I will not hold my Detachment Commander, Company Commander, Battalion Commander, Commandant, God, Allah and/or Buddha responsible. In addition, if the same dirty tramp steals any other Marine’s shit or in any way causes damage to property, I will reimburse the victims fully and then dump the dirty tramp regardless of how much she “loves me” or whether or not we’re getting married in another two f**king years when I’m off the program so we can live in a trailer park and breed like rats, thereby infecting the U.S. population with little bastards who are taught by their mother to hate everything American, while I slave away as a night stocker in Wal-Mart (because the dirty tramp wanted me out of the Corps) to support her prescription medication and Home Shopping Network addictions.

I also swear that, if I get too drunk and stay out too late to make it to duty on time for my 0600 shift the next morning, I will deal with the hellfire and brimstone accordingly, whatever that may entail, but requiring me to be home by 2300 to “ensure I get enough sleep prior to duty” just doesn’t make any f**king sense to a grown f**king man.

In addition, I also swear to stretch daily in order more easily grab my ankles and take it in the kazoo like a good little Marine should when he’s being given the Big Green Weiner by any one of over a dozen different bosses.

I will continue to try and excel in everything I do until some f**kstick comes along and requires me to change whatever the hell I did because someone else told me to do it that way to begin with.

Regardless of any effort I make, I will resign myself to the fact I will have to re-do all my hard work every three months in addition to jumping through hoops for every f**king diplomat who even thinks about flying near my post, when in actuality I don’t really give a shit who they are, what they “equivalent military rank” is, how long they’ll be here, what their itinerary is, who they’re here to see, or whether they think we want a picture with them.

I finally, and wholeheartedly, vow to continually smile and greet embassy employees with enthusiasm every single f**king shift of every torturous, f**king month I’m out here as an “Ambassador in blue”, even though I’m dying inside.”

Where the hell is that release form, Mr. Policy Maker? Huh? Why do I have an entire command trying to think for me, make my decisions for me, wake me up and put me to bed on time, and telling me who I can and can’t date when I’ve been making those decisions on my very own (novel f**king concept) since day 1 in the Marine Corps and have made it this far? I have successfully negotiated the most rigorous selection process the Marine Corps has to offer to become a Marine Security Guard. I waded through mounds of paperwork, intense security and background checks, a school with the highest attrition rate in the Corps, and have successfully completed 87% of my tour overseas, and yet I’m only allowed two f**king
nights a month where I’m not required to sleep in the Marine house, assuming I get the proper approvals and authorizations? Bull-fucking-shit!

Do the right thing up at Headquarters, boys. Let’s cut these motivated, hard charging Devil Dogs some f**king slack out here. Treat them like men and they will act like men. Deal with incidents on a case by case basis, and for f**k’s sake don’t base policy off the actions of one dumbass in B.F.E. who got his watch stolen by a transvestite hooker at 0415. I’m not a betting man, but I’d wager much more than a paycheck that morale would go through the roof.

I was once told that, as an enlisted man, we simply live policy that others make. My journey to become an officer is quickly transforming into a mission to free those caged lions and put the fire back in their eyes. We are meant to roam free on the land, taking what we want, breeding with whom we see fit, and sleeping wherever we choose. We, as United States Marines, are the kings of the world. We should be treated as such.