My insomnia started in September of ’79. I’d been in the Air Force for four years and was discharged in March. Re-adjusting to civilian life had been a horrible experience.
I had a great enlisted career started. I made rank quickly, being selected for promotion to E-5 (staff sergeant, four stripes) before I completed my first enlistment. I enjoyed my job, and my work and attitude impressed officers and NCOs alike.
I would’ve been promoted on 1 July 79. But, I chose to leave the service and its financial security and embarked upon a civilian life in an automotive teaching/repairing/hot rodding career. Little could I see of what was about to happen.
I’ve always been a “gearhead” in love with the American automobile, hot rods in particular, and knew that I wanted to teach automotive technology at the college level. My plan when I left the military was to get my associate’s degree in automotive technology and my bachelor’s in vocational education, all at the same university.
Shortly after leaving active duty, I found a job in a Chevrolet dealership as a mechanic. About a month into the job, I sat on my creeper seat pounding on the left, outer tie rod end of a Chevy Impala. With a five-pound hammer I swung with both arms until the rod end broke loose from the knuckle, sweat dripping off the tip of my nose, grease covering both hands, making a few cents above minimum wage.
I realized at that moment I’d made a mistake that would last a lifetime–swapping my Air Force job, security, and income for that of an auto mechanic. But there was nothing I could do about it; I’d made my decision and now had to live with its consequences.
I continued with my plan, however. In August I started college at Southern Illinois University-Carbondale, enrolling in their automotive technology program. Two weeks into the semester, the same feeling came over me that I’d felt in April at the dealership–further reinforcing within me the grand mistake I’d made of leaving the military.
One day while standing in the auto shop’s lab, I leaned back against a workbench, stared into space, and thought, “Here I am. This is reality. I could be wearing my staff stripe, making money, and still living in Tucson.” I was so frustrated with the decision I’d made. I hated myself because of it.
Two weeks later I suffered my first night of insomnia. I’d never had a problem falling asleep. I lay awake until 2:00 a.m., tossing, turning, covering, uncovering, looking at the clock, wondering what was happening.
I didn’t understand why I couldn’t fall asleep. I didn’t like it, whatever was causing it. As we insomniacs know, the day after a bad night is miserable. I could barely think. What I remember thinking mostly was, “I hope that never happens again.” Two nights later, guess what? It was back in all of its mind-crippling horror.
In short, I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be wearing my fourth stripe and studying for my fifth. But the pull of the hot rod was too strong. It’s been 31 years, but I remember those events as if they happened yesterday.
After all this time, I still love the American hot rod though I no longer do any hot rodding. But I loathe automotive repair. I haven’t worked on a car for money since October 15, 1992, when I sold all of my tools and left the business for good.
I continue to suffer from the insomnia that developed because of my love affair with hot rods. Strange, I know. I’ll work on my own car and truck now if it’s something simple. But that’s rare. I don’t even change the oil and filter anymore.
For some reason I’ve not been able to write about my insomnia until now–31 years later. It feels like a weight being lifted off of my shoulders. I’m now able to put into words the thoughts and feelings that have been brewing within me for all of these years.
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