Justin Nizza - The Machinator: An Autistic Navy Veterans Critique of Normality

THE MACHINATOR

THE MACHINATOR

AN AUTISTIC NAVY VETERANS CRITIQUE OF NORMALITY

JUSTIN NIZZA

DEDICATION

To Mariel Baladon for loving me as much as I love her. To everyone that mistreated me for inspiring me to write this book. To everyone that was ever patient with my crazy ass to consider me a friend, despite my insanity. To all my Navy brothers and sisters, still in the suck, keep your head up. To all of my fellow Aspies and autistics, dont let it hold you back.

Copyright 2020 Justin Nizza

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13

Fire

Smile, be polite, and forever peaceful; hide the fire raging inside your heart and mind. This fire can destroy everything if you let it control you, so you must control it. This fire will never go away because you have internalized the chaos of your past. Remember that nobody hates you; your life is full of love now - embrace it. You are not alone, that is only on your mind. People are not evil; you can trust them - you've bore witness of much evil, and it became hard for you to look away. Nobody looks down on you, and not everybody is trying to use you, this is all in your head. Let go of all of the hate, stop letting it destroy you. You have nothing to be afraid of. Remember that this fire is the one thing about you that people can never truly understand - it beings to you only. Only you can truly understand its strength, internalize the passion and lock it away deep inside of you, remembering that if you ever need it, you have more strength than anyone can fathom. Let it burn. Let it rage. - The Machinator

*

My dog died on my first birthday, my first inkling of tragedy occurring before I could express or fully understand thus anguish. I learned through hardship. I was raised through a succession of soft tragedies. The concepts of dogs return to me now as I ruminate in my close quarters. Dog zebra, dog watches, dogging down doors. The dark red light isolates me and brings me to the point of ruminations. It makes me feel like somewhat of an NPC from younger days; a gruff sailor will an illuminated mind. - The Machinator

Cold metal ships are no place for god. Not even phone signals can penetrate their chilly gray exteriors. Disconnected, you forget yourself, and your dreams become dead. You become defined by their process, forgetting yourself. You are a cog in the mission, and this mission is presenceTik Tok.

2015

I've been here for seven years; now I find myself looking over the bay yonder. The night sky stares at me oppressively as its stars twinkle invitingly. I know this wharf well. I am kept company by the Navy ships, two of which I spent five combined years on sailing to and fro on the very waters upon which I now gaze. Yokosuka, Japan.

I made it through my sea duty, thought I was free, yet for the first time in my life; I feel wholly backed into a corner. This time it is not of my own doing. I've finally brought my behavior under some semblance of control, yet I'm being pulled back into chaos by the very person I'm supposed to be able to trust the most. I lean against a stone pillar and ask myself, "How did I end up here, and where am I going?"

A lesser man would be contemplating suicide, but my solutions could never be so simple, so I'm just thinking - decompressing. All these years I've spent trying to fix myself, guided by the general belief that I am an inherently damaged individual - goaded by the voice in the back of my head. Who is this voice?

2019

A rule of thumb I developed over the years is that people can forgive almost any quality - except for that of being different. Different I am, and different I will always be. I have always been, not by choice - but by my design. This difference is my identity.

A person can be self-serving, as long as people can understand them. A human can be narcissistic, as long as they can be understood. They can even hurt somebody, as long as their intentions are understandable. However, if a person shows one thread of aberration from what is considered "normal", they WILL be regarded with a sense of suspicion and distrust, if not outright hatred.

I'm reflecting upon my life and how I came to this very moment. How did this all happen?

November 2008

The hustle and bustle of a plane flight can be quite draining, delaying the wonder of a new place. I realized long ago that these moments are where the magic lies, a feeling you don't process until it has already passed into memory, so fleeting.

It took me about 30 minutes to realize I was in Japan. Smoking a cigarette while watching taxis filled with people that spoke a language with phonology and syntax, I had only glanced over briefly from a summary list in an orientation package I received six months prior. The airport is busy, yet impeccably clean and orderly - much different

from the airports I had grown accustomed to during my year-long crash course in domestic flights. The sights and sounds are a blur to me now as everything within earshot, and my field of vision was too new and overwhelming to process in succession. Everything just walloped me in a unified roar.

The Nihongo signs were indecipherable to my novice mind, and I was years away from even trying to understand them. I was 20 years old and too focused on drinking the canned Chu-Hi in my hands while I watched all the pretty girls walk and giggle in soft hushed voices. So exotic in my mind - to me, every single one was an angel too divine to be understood. I'm sitting outside a kiosk with an American contractor that has just misplaced all of his diving equipment, yet still maintains the sanguine composure of a consummate professional. Ambassador.

He made my young heart palpitate in a joyous rhythm when he reminded me I was old enough to drink alcohol in Japan, and I wasted no time. I had guzzled down an Asahi beer and was now working on a Suntory Chu-Hi, belly filled with an airport hot dog. I was still enough of a neophyte to feel somewhat of a buzz off of this minuscule serving of ethanol.

The bus arrived about 2 hours after I did and I was far too tired to stay awake for the three-hour ride, little did I know at this point that this was not the only time I would ride this same bus. Life leads you to all sorts of places you don't belong if you're too afraid to take control of the process. That was a lesson that took me years to understand. I had to define my role for myself.

*

I was stationed in Great Lakes (nicknamed Great Mistakes by my sea brethren, both past and present) for the majority of my technical training. During the last few months of my tenure, there was a rash of drug-related incidents, which amounted to a nine o clock curfew for everyone on base. Thankfully for me, I was a hermit while I was there, so I had almost no social life to impede. It was n t so easy for other people.

There was already a base-wide accountability system in place that required sailors to sign in and out every time they left their respective barracks, which were referred to by the endonym ships. If people really acted up, the ship would go underway, and nobody would be allowed to leave. Some people were so desperate to gain a sense of autonomy that they would resort to drastic measures. A popular method was signing out to smoke while wearing civilian clothes under their uniforms. The next step was to trek through the sewer system toward the shining light of liberation. Many people were caught and had their liberty further restricted.

It was a breath of fresh air for my cohorts and me when we arrived in San Diego. We were so institutionalized at that point that we were bewildered when informed that we did n t have to sign out when we left our halls. We were only nine months removed from our civilian identities, but not far enough removed from boot camp to comprehend such magnanimous freedom as this. Not everyone that was in boot camp with me was still in the Navy by that point; a little bit of freedom was too much for them. Thankfully for me, I had a friend from high school who was stationed there and supplied me with all the alcohol for which I could lust. Unfortunately, the juice was n t enough to make drinking sessions to the backdrop of their Dungeons and Dragons campaigns any less frustrating. Especially while sitting in a stuffy little brown living room, only thirty minutes away from the beach.