"Instead of decompression, we had, so to speak, 'repression', or in army slang, simply 'tightening'." Diary of a mobilized AIT soldier — about pseudo-recovery and former peaceful life

About decompression that became repression

In a very short time in the army, I learned not to plan even a week ahead. More precisely, I came to terms with the fact that everything planned, hanging on a thin thread of probability, could at one moment break and shatter into pieces right at my feet. I was just thinking about how to get out of these wild and risky combat zones, how we would be taken out and we would return to the unit with the entire small battalion. But it was too early to relax.

In the army there is such a period as decompression. In simple words, it is a time for the restoration of personnel, both physical and psychological. This includes consultations with psychologists and the medical company, and a set of health-improving measures (ideally, in sanatorium-resort complexes, or at least with specialists at the location of the unit); for some it is treatment in a hospital or rehabilitation center. Instead of decompression, we had, so to speak, «repression», or in army slang simply «tightening».

First, we took about 5 online psychological tests to detect PTSD, various psychopathies, aggression, general neuropsychiatric stability, fatigue, nervousness, and everything else that military service «gives.» From the medical company, if you are somehow sick, they asked you formally and wrote down what was bothering you: «Well, I understand, you have nothing serious, right?» — after a long writing down my diagnosis on the board, the sergeant from the medical company asks the specialist. — That’s right, — I answer with disappointment.

Instead, there are early morning wake-ups with movement, uniforms, outfits, strict restrictions due to multiple «avatars» and no freedom of movement. This attitude has caused real indignation, especially among those who have been fighting since 2014 or 2022 and voluntarily signed a contract.

Moreover, a real orgy with documentation and reporting began, in which the clerks had no easier time than during the fighting, and maybe even harder. By «hard,» I mean the usual «hard» type of burnout at work, not the «hard» that falls to the lot of combat positions. In any case and under any conditions, no matter how surreal the Ukrainian paper army was, I would not trade one for the other.

It reminded me of peak workload at my company, when a couple of months flew by behind firefighting calls, endless correspondence, and reporting that could have been packed into one big stupid DAY, until the pace slowed down and you woke up tired and a little miserable.

Parallels with captivity

Shortly before my busification, I had the opportunity to read three autobiographies of people who had once been in captivity and survived. Different circumstances, gender, age, social status. Three different fates. The most important and most surprising thing for me that I saw in common in their experience was a concentration on the present. It would seem that this is the worst approach imaginable. It would be clearer and safer to hide in a warm, free future, to build your life «after» in your thoughts.

But the paradox is that in order to preserve their physical and mental «I», in their then and now this «I» was relatively small. In the abyss of suffering, where hunger, cold/heat, emaciated body and fatigue remind of themselves every minute and demand absolute attention and self-pity, they chose care and love for their neighbor (sometimes to their own detriment) as a way to alleviate pain, inner freedom, a decent life in unworthy conditions, the struggle for humanity, which cannot be imprisoned and destroyed as long as there is will.

In the works of art of the past, authors did not shy away from the metaphor of captivity: how many heroes lost themselves in captivity of love, hatred, or the lust for money and power? Especially in the era of Romanticism, the symbol of captivity became not something external, but something that imprisons a person from the inside, in the heart and mind. Invisible shackles.

I’m sitting in the yard, staring at the baked-on mud on my boots. The poppy is baking me. I’m putting my face up to the sun. I’m somewhere on the Mediterranean with my wife. I miss the sea. I forget everything bad. We’re starting something new, good and bright, that will one day become our family. We all need something family, no matter where we are. Amid the noise of the waves, you can hear the branches cracking. The black cat in the bushes is probably not even a year old yet. I call, I stroke it.

I remember again that I want to take a local kitten with a wound that is wandering around the area, and that I haven’t seen for a long time, to the vet. How is he? Is he still alive? I don’t want to think about him, to see this small, defenseless body, this wound, before my eyes again. Why didn’t I take him to the medical center right away? I ran somewhere. Could they do anything about it? They definitely need surgery. I think about him too often, I know he’s in pain and that I didn’t do anything. Does anyone else think about him?

I don’t want to get attached to anyone, but it won’t be me anymore. I have to find him. Does he need me, or do I need him? Maybe we need each other. How many of us are there? Where is this poor kitten? And where did the Mediterranean Sea go? I’m sitting in the yard, staring at the baked-on mud on my boots.

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