I have a hard time accepting that I was never a full card carrying member of the organization. I couldn't pass their version of the polygraph.

It was always the same. A slightly fat person dressed in business casual would bring me into the room. The room was a perfect square, probably 200 square feet. Blank walls painted off white. A chair in the middle of the room facing the door. A desk behind the chair so the person sitting at the desk could monitor the person in chair.

I follow the directions and take off my shoes, pants, and shirt. The room is fucking freezing, the air conditioner vent is spraying down on the chair in the center of the room. While I take off my clothes, the polygraph administrator continues with the day's agenda. "A battery of questions designed to blah blah blah. Espionage blah blah blah. Suitability blah blah blah. Psychological endurance blah blah blah."

I sit down on the chair in the middle of the room. The chair is hard and the pad on the seat is a rubber force detector that monitors whether or not I employ the deception technique of clinching my butt cheeks. Believe it or not, a good kegel can throw off the polygraph machine. The polygraph administrator tightens one inch thick cables around my chest. These will monitor my breathing. Then he straps my arms and legs to the chair. The arm straps monitor my blood pressure. The leg straps keep my feet flat on the force plates that monitor my feet movement. If there was a head device, this would look a lot like the setup of an executioner's chair.

Once I'm fully restrained, the administrator puts two sticky electrode patches on the back of my hands. This monitors the salinity of my sweat. Believe it or not, stress sweat is different from calm sweat and stress sweat comes out when a topic makes someone extra nervous.

It was always the same thing. The administrator would finish the setup, take his/her place at the desk, fire up the computer, and start analyzing my baseline biometrics. And like clockwork, before asking any questions, the administrator would accuse me of employing deception tactics. They would say my stress markers were off the charts. They would get in my face and tell me it's time to come clean. They would ask me if I want a lawyer. They would leave the room. Leave me alone in a freezing cold room, strapped to a chair, in my underwear. They would come back after fifteen or thirty minutes.

Oh, one more thing, there is a camera in the corner, looking down on me.

They would come back and read me my rights. Then they would sit back at the desk behind me and start with the questions. First your name and birthdate. They would accuse me of being deceptive about my basic biographical information. They would get back in my face. Leave me in the room.

This on and off routine continued for 6 to 8 hours. The worst part was the dehydration. That's probably what made me eventually crack.

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It always ended when I was slobbering, crying mess, begging to get out of the chair.

You ask me, if I could go back in time, to 2006 when I applied to the organization, would I do it over again. Go through this polygraph routine again, I'd say yes.

After the first time that I couldn't make it through the whole session. God knows what success looks like. No one I know ever talks about how you make it through because to the people who make it through, its like passing a driver's training test. Simple. Routine. Obvious, embarrassing if you can't make it through that shit. Well, after the first time I didn't make it through, they assigned me to psychological therapy.

My first head shrink taught me how to meditate and how to use sauna sessions to wash away stress. Sauna therapy and cold bath immersion stuff. Way before Whim Hoff, Joe Rogan, and all the other cool kids caught on.

I failed to pass the polygraph three times before they decided that I couldn't be a field agent in the organization. They decided that I should be an analyst who used low risk infiltration methods to obtain data sometimes. And because I couldn't pass the polygraph, they couldn't ever give me an official position. They always had to employ me in some contract role or in a quasi military role. The pay was the same. The benefits were similar. It never mattered to me until it was over. Until I was set to retire.

I didn't have any official documents to prove who I served with. Prove my affiliation. The only thing I had was a big box filled with awards and some unclassified mission pictures.

Its too bad that my cunt ex-step son and ex-wife threw that stuff away. Its so ironic that they threw it away while I was at the bath house using the stress release techniques the therapist taught me. This time I was not there getting rid of the polygraph stress or mission related stress. I was at the bath house because my ex-step son and ex-wife, not yet ex at this point, had pushed all of my buttons, had me on the edge, coming at me from every angle, and instead of responding to their screaming and venomous words with more anger, I was at the bath house soaking it out. Going from hot tub, dry sauna, and then to the ice bath. Doing my 4-7-8 breathing techniques.

I came home completely empty of all emotion. Freshly plowed, fertile mind. Ready for a new season.

I went into the house. Everything seemed too calm. Too peaceful. The lady and her boy were not home. They had probably screamed each other out of the house. I went into my bedroom. My chair was moved out of my bedroom and out to the living room. Odd. I went into the walk-in closet. None of my stuff was there. My section empty. My boxes of books gone. My boxes of service records, gone. My grandpa's hat. My dog tags. My wedding ring. It was all gone.

I was still in a state of odd floating tranquility, removed from the stress of the situation when I texted my wife and asked her where my stuff went. She returned with a text bragging about how she threw it all away.

I left the house. Got in my car and drove away. I got a small room across town in an apartment designed for transient living.

About three hours after the bathhouse. 2 hours and thirty minutes after finding out all my material possessions had been throw away. Laying on the dirty mattress of my new living space, looking up at the ceiling, and my vision went blurry. I wanted to throw up but couldn't because my stomach was empty.

Hook me up to a polygraph machine again. Go ahead, you'll see none of this is a lie. Maybe now they'd let me all the way in. Now that I don't care about anything. Now that I don't have anything.