Enemy on Two Fronts
by Mark Antony Rossi
Of all the secrets I was duty-bound to keep, only the bouts of depression weighed heaviest on my soul. The guilt I deadened with distraction found its dark face in sleepless dreams. My worst secret was not supposed to be kept according to regulations. I was expected to confess and face the fury of an establishment fearful of mental health. In the scheme of things, I refused to be punished for a condition the military gave me! Never that. As per the Nuremberg Trials, I cannot be compelled to follow an order against my conscience. My reading of their findings is not out of context. It would be a crime against humanity to arrest and imprison me for being different from others. I have committed no offense but the breach of a prejudicial procedure.
I will not have my life ended by their dispassionate hands. I fought against personal demons while successfully taking the fight to the enemy. There were days I loved the job more than I loved myself. But in a strange twist, becoming a workaholic prevented me from being an alcoholic. Catching spies before they wreaked havoc was a major motivator. And my talents were a deciding factor in rolling back the wave of Eastern agents sent to learn our plans, locate our missiles, and liquidate our liberty.
There were periods when I felt I was fighting enemies on two fronts. Inside my mind, I conversed with ghosts of doubt. Inside the community, I sensed sympathy for the East. Both fronts fueled insomnia to the point of banishing meaningful rest. How do you fight two enemies on two hours of sleep? A regular diet of bread, cheese, and tranquilizers did the trick. This was an unhealthy routine to stave off mental decline. Yet the creative anxiety produced was a potent weapon making it possible to predict agent provocateurs through behavioral profiles. Their frequent capture and questioning expanded to be a full-time department.
Depression is by definition debilitating and physically wears down the sufferer. The fatigue. The negative thoughts. The insomnia. The bad dreams. Symptoms of personal distortion register on a psychological palette of pain. The worst of these destructive traits is isolation. By nature and occupation, I am a social person. Depression is anti-social, it attracts dysfunction, and it’s a disease of internal distrust. You don’t trust yourself, which ultimately drives you away from others. I started going out less and staying in more. My friends were gone. My girl moved away. My bottle of brandy didn’t talk back. A few rounds of drinks and a few packs of cigarettes kept me company on a naked night.
I was never afraid of being alone. I was one of those latch-key kids whose parents worked opposite shifts. You grew up faster because you had to handle more than most without supervision. But I was happy those days were over. I prefer the company of peers. I loved loud rock concerts at night. The roar of jet engines made me feel alive. Now my dark mood demands quiet. Almost like the presence of others could detect the condition. But I know that’s not the truth. Isolation is desired because you can let your guard down. Dealing with demons requires a lot of energy and space. And putting on a front only encourages them to come at you harder.
I treated this passage like a sabbatical. And like a religious ritual of recovery. And while it may involve smoking, drinking, and cursing, it also contained praying, learning, and resting. I’m now of the opinion that a voluntary moment of silence should be pursued by all soldiers and spies. The preservation of our mental hygiene may depend on it. Mine certainly did.
I will not ignore seeking a Higher Power. God is not a stranger in my life, only in my chosen line of work. But I cannot be accountable for my actions with a sober conscience if I expect heavenly absolution every time I hit bottom. So I pay the price of my service until I run out of value. I hope that day will be my last day on Earth. There’s nothing worse than believing in a cause that might not believe in you.
