My Hiking Origin Story, Part 2: Navy Knee
If you haven't read Part 1, please click here first:
Jason Evangelho
Now let's do some time traveling. More than 30 years back to Pensacola, Florida.
The Year Is 1993...
Before I was Jason Evangelho, Forbes Tech Reviewer or Jason Evangelho, Podcast Pioneer or Jason Evangelho, Linux Evangelist, I was a Seaman Apprentice in the United States Navy.
After I wrapped up high school in 1993, my complete skillset amounted to knowing 14 guitar chords, a few French phrases, running a decent 800m in Track & Field, and writing acrimonious lyrics laced with self-loathing.
So at the ripe age of 17, I adopted the horribly cliché, decidedly premature stance of being uncertain what I could accomplish with my life and joined the U.S. Navy. It wasn’t so much a decision I made after weeks of deliberate and logical thought as it was an impulsive – and in my teenage brain, necessary – action that guaranteed a paycheck for the next several years.
Because absolutely none of the military-driven career paths pitched to me by my recruiter sounded interesting, I arbitrarily chose “Electronic Warfare Technician.”
What do EWs do? They operate high-tech systems that evaluate various electronic signals like radar emissions, track surface and airborne targets, and sometimes work with classified materials in support of national security. They’re one of many layers of technical maritime intelligence
My recruiter crudely framed this job as firing missiles at the enemy.
I’ll never actually know what it felt like to perform these duties on a Navy carrier or frigate or destroyer, because following boot camp, and about 5 months into my schooling at NTTC Corey Station I suffered a knee injury during morning PT (Physical Training) while participating in a 5 a.m. pickup game of basketball.
I went up for a jump shot and landed on some guy’s foot. I felt my right leg bend in a way that seemed entirely awkward and unnatural. And very painful.
The result was an ACL tear. The ER doctor on duty told gave me a pair of crutches, 6 weeks of light duty, a prescription for 800mg of Motrin, and the uncaring order to “carry on.”
The U.S. military – at least in the 90s – operated within very black and white, cut and dry principles. After those 6 weeks had elapsed, I was expected to hang up my crutches and get back to daily PT, which normally consisted of running. Running was something I spent 3 years doing voluntarily in High School, so this was hardly a form of punishment.
But my knee was not healed, and after 1/4 mile at a light jog it gave out on me, resulting in excruciating pain. At first, I politely requested to be excused from morning PT. Then I politely refused. Then I adamantly refused.
Here’s the thing about refusing to do anything in the military: It’s considered disobeying standing orders and is subject to NJP (non-judicial punishment). There’s no listening to reason, there’s no entertaining that the doctor who diagnosed you might be wrong.
This is the same military where getting a sunburn is considered damaging government property.
In the Navy’s view, I stopped wanting to cooperate, and the only way to rectify this was to subject me to hours on end of swabbing the quarterdeck or standing at parade rest for 8 hours at a time. My protests, regardless of how persuasive I considered them, fell on uninterested ears. Repeated X-Rays indicated my knee was fine. Discussion over.
One morning as I was mindlessly cleaning the quarterdeck, I overheard a discussion about a fellow EW-in-training who had threatened to kill himself. The hushed conversation indicated that he was processed and discharged – albeit dishonorably – within weeks.
I wasn’t suicidal. But I was desperate. Weeks of being stuck in this holding pattern without a resolution resulted in depression sticking its toxic hooks into me. My previously pristine record was now marred with instances of NJP. Even if a doctor wouldn’t tell me, I instinctively knew my knee would never be the same.
A way out seemed impossible. But as the days dragged on, I started hearing more whispers of this concept known as suicidal ideation. These fragments of rumors and overheard conversations eventually formed a complete picture, and that picture led to a simply plan: All I had to do was schedule a meeting with the base chaplain and divulge that I’d been constantly plagued by suicidal thoughts, and that if I wasn’t discharged immediately, I’d have no choice but to end my life.
This was the early 90s, remember, so engaging in an internet fact-finding mission was difficult. You relied on what your friends heard from their friends. You relied on what your superiors conveyed directly to you
I didn’t know how long the process would take, and those fragmented truths floating on the wind between various students suggested the discharge would be Dishonorable. I didn’t care. This road I was traveling had come to a dead end.
During this process I was told plainly that due to the nature of my discharge, I wouldn’t be eligible for reenlistment. I wouldn’t be eligible for any VA benefits like health insurance or disability payments. I was shamed for choosing this course of action, while simultaneously coddled and reassured that life was still worth living.
Within 3 weeks I was on a Greyhound bus back home to Central California as a civilian. Back to a directionless life with no structure. Full of anger at the military and full of contempt at myself.
It’s taken me years to realize that I can be overly trusting. At 19 years old I accepted what my peers and superiors in Pensacola told me as fact. Free-thinking had been gradually eroded from my daily routine. I had no expectations of compensation from the VA after becoming a civilian. And thus, I didn’t pursue it.
At a certain age we stop accepting the reality we’re presented with. I hadn’t reached that age just yet.
Worse still was what I’d accepted about my body: That at 19, my knee would never be the same. I’d never sprint around a track again, never go for an early morning jog along the shore at Morro Rock beach, never hold a job that involved standing all day long. Irrational as these beliefs were, I allowed them to be cemented as inescapable fact. And as the years passed by, their weight dissipated until finally they integrated themselves into my daily life.
They became reality.
I accepted these things as truth. Regarded them as normal, standard, typical. I didn’t question them. I settled. If you’re reading this right now, I urge you to never settle. Never accept the reality you’re presented with if you didn’t participate in creating it.
Carve your own trail.
17 Years Later…
It wasn’t until a staggering 17 years later that my wife at the time – a woman whose profession relied on research – convinced me everything I’d accepted about this situation was bullshit.
I reluctantly called up my local Department of Veterans Affairs and scheduled an appointment, now feeling like a complete outsider. Like someone who had never trained to guide missiles to the enemy’s doorstep. Someone who still felt shame for abandoning what he signed up for.
A series of interviews and examinations both mental and physical led to revelations that shocked me.
It took several months, but the VA dug up my physical medical records from Corry Station and found something alarming. The very doctor I had initially seen following my knee injury had written something on my chart below the notes and Motrin prescription and light-duty orders. It was right there in faded black ink, in borderline illegible penmanship. But it was legible enough that four little words knocked the wind out of me: “Recommend for medical discharge.”
I never saw those words. No one ever spoke those words. No one ever presented that potential reality to me.
This was the only instance in my life where I’d felt a uniquely valid combination of rage, surprise, betrayal, and relief register in my cranium all at once. When you spend 17 years stubbornly, foolishly believing something as fact because you were gullible enough to take someone’s word, it fucks with you. But the parallel vindication I felt eroded just enough of that self-loathing to keep me stable. For a time.
Ultimately the VA gave me a 40% disability rating. 30% of that was attributed to my knee. The other 10%? “Mental disorders.” Namely, depression and anxiety.
Depression is not a choice.
No one in their right mind would wake up in the morning and willfully refuse to enjoy the multitude of events throughout the course of a day that makes one smile and appreciate life. That first sip of coffee, a good stretch, the loving licks from your goofy Dachshunds, crisp and fluffy waffles drowning in maple syrup, the invigorating steam from a hot shower, the opening notes of your favorite Pearl Jam track — the one where you swear your vocals can put Eddie Vedder’s to shame.
But those of us suffering from depression are not in our right minds. Because everything is wrong, and casually “snapping out of it” is as ludicrous a suggestion as spontaneously taking flight.
The worst part about depression is that it paralyzes you. Always mentally, and sometimes physically. Sure enough, I was always exhausted. And I had near-constant aches in my bad knee. At times it progressed to such a point that standing up from a sitting position frequently left me doubled over in pain. Sometimes walking around the block — or even walking around my house — was an exercise in painful frustration.
My doctor told me knee surgery was a realistic option, but one I should reserve as a last resort. I felt way too young for last resorts.
Coming up in Part 3: The first startling wake-up call that convinced me to reshape my reality, and convinced me to start hiking.
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