To obtain an exemption from military service due to psychological disorders, you have to put in a lot of effort. Or you need connections. Influential individuals, you know…
If you say, “I have severe depression,” you’ll hear, “Who doesn’t these days?” If you declare, “I’m suicidal,” the response will be, “Who has the will to live anymore?”
I needed to prove that I was genuinely in a bad state and unwilling to serve.
I knew overweight individuals could obtain exemption certificates. But could underweight people get one too?
I did some research and found out they could. However, you had to be seriously underweight and prove it, because the medical examinations for fitness to serve weren’t conducted properly.
The Christian Bale Diet
The actor Christian Bale, who lost weight for The Machinist, came to mind. I checked his height and weight during the movie. He wouldn’t have been fit for military service. Or rather, he would have required “a doctor’s examination.”
I looked up his diet: one apple, a cup of coffee, and whiskey.
I don’t drink alcohol. Apple and coffee would suffice. Unfortunately, I’m not someone who can stop eating altogether—I love food. Naturally, I consumed more than just apples. Even so, eating less than usual, I started losing weight. Besides, I was already someone who struggled to gain weight no matter how much I ate. I had already given up on exercise due to burnout and wasn’t eating properly anyway. I was already thin. I started the diet at around 55 kilograms and dropped to 52. It took a few months. Afterward, the weight loss slowed down and eventually stopped. That’s when I began researching again.
I discovered a condition called anorexia. It can crudely be explained as a fear of gaining weight. It’s typically seen in women—driven by the desire to be liked, etc. Considering we live in an equal world, I figured I could also have a desire to be liked. So, I started a stricter diet.
I significantly reduced my meals. One spoon in the morning, one at noon, and just exercise in the evening. Initially, I was weighing plates of food; later, I began weighing individual spoons. Since I was doing this in secret, I’d take a plate of food, pretend to eat, and secretly return to the pot to dump it back. My family couldn’t know. They’re always so supportive of my decisions…
During the first days, I felt like fainting. I even had a few food binges (see: mercilessly spooning yogurt). But then I got used to it. The calories I consumed kept dropping—from 1,000 to as low as 300. I was cautious not to put my body into starvation mode. I won’t go into detail about what I did because I don’t want to encourage anorexic individuals toward dangerous behaviors. However, I can say this much: it’s not worth it. Depriving yourself of good food out of concern for appearance is ridiculous. Gaining people’s approval is meaningless. No one is worth it. No human being is worth enduring such torment. If the person who doesn’t approve of you is yourself, remember this: you are also human. So, it’s still not worth it. Is that too confusing?
I didn’t go as far as eating cotton or inducing vomiting. Still, just in case, I carried laxatives with me. I didn’t want to constipate myself while losing weight. I went to the bathroom maybe once a week. Despite that, I never had to use the medicine. In one month, I lost six kilograms. For the next 15 days, I maintained that weight. I reached 46 kilograms. Just to be sure, I lost another kilogram after that. I looked like a skeleton. My stomach had practically adhered to my back.
I was skeletal, but I was a living skeleton. Energetic, in other words. You can research anorexia and understand why. People were looking at me with fear. They’d ask if I was eating. I was finally ready. I went online to cancel my deferment. It didn’t work. The system gave an error. I went to the recruitment office. I had to act quickly because I was looking at food like a starving animal. The officer said I already had an active application. He suggested I join the November draft. I smiled and accepted. But there was something I didn’t know. Once you apply, no further medical examination is required. Also, underweight people gain weight in the military, and overweight ones lose it. It wouldn’t be an issue, apparently. And besides, military service was now only six months. Or so they said.
Let me tell you: once your application is processed, you can’t change it anymore. You can’t defer again and reapply. Once your training location and rank are determined, there’s no turning back.
I thought it was for the best. Apparently, they don’t grant exemption in a single session. At least three medical evaluations are required. In civilian life, these evaluations are conducted a year apart. I couldn’t stay underweight for that long. The idea of repeatedly gaining and losing weight wasn’t healthy either. It made more sense to join the military and undergo three evaluations a month apart. I canceled my deferment, took a COVID test, received my draft papers, bought my ticket, and packed my bag. Since I’d applied before, my travel allowance had already been deposited. I collected my money and set off.
What psychological disorder I have?
Wait! Before setting off, I had done extensive online research. They wouldn’t just say, “Okay, you’re very thin; you’re exempt.” They’d want to know why, subjecting me to tests. Like a standard citizen of these lands, I found past years’ test questions online and studied them. Not silly quizzes like “What psychological disorder do you have?” but real tests, like the MMPI with 566 questions. Finding the test was easy; figuring out how it was scored and interpreted was harder. Unfortunately, search engines prioritize ad-heavy sites over the information you’re seeking. But if you ask the right questions, you’ll eventually find what you need, even if it feels like wading through a garbage dump.
After gathering everything, I sat down and took the test. Then I evaluated my answers. I’d overdone it with exaggerations. According to what I read, this could lead the evaluator to think I was lying. Yes, I was lying about anorexia, but I was truthful about my burnout (and perhaps a little paranoia). I retook the test repeatedly until the results chart aligned with what could get me an exemption. I memorized the critical answers and set off.
Since I hate long bus rides, I decided to take a bus to Ankara first and then travel to Bilecik by high-speed train. In this age where everyone is glued to their phones and addicted to social media, I reject this trend and spend most of my time playing games, watching anime, listening to music, reading books, and writing. I don’t greet neighbors who gossip about me or whom I gossip about. I avoid unnecessary closeness with relatives I meet once in a blue moon and share no common ground with (aside from blood ties). I also don’t let my family pressure me about being a “typical” Turkish child who gets nagged by their family about similar things. Because of all this, my family thinks I’m a bit of an idiot. They say my intelligence is on par with that of a three-year-old.
The fact that I got into university late and didn’t find a job immediately after graduation doesn’t help my case. And to top it all off, I don’t want to get married or have kids. For this reason, they insisted I shouldn’t make a transfer. You’ll get lost, you’ll be late, etc. I said okay but, of course, did what I wanted.
I don’t like giving details about myself, but I’m truly fed up with people, and every now and then, I feel like sharing tidbits to explain myself. One of the reasons I wanted to get an exemption report was this: spending six months in the same place, sleeping, eating, and living with all kinds of people. Please understand why I don’t want this. I’m truly sick of people. And think about how wise it is to hand me a G3 rifle in this condition.
After a long and frustrating bus ride (see: crying children, ear-piercing mask straps, the smell of urine, my phone breaking down leading to music-less hours, etc.), I arrived in Ankara. My phone had broken the moment I got on the bus, and throughout the trip, I sent positive vibes to the universe, hoping for a crash to end it all. When I got off the bus, life continued to drain me (whyyyyyyyy?).
I was already short on cash because I was unemployed, and thanks to our marvelous economy, I couldn’t even afford a second-hand phone. I left the terminal and started walking. Unfortunately, my sense of direction is even worse than Zoro’s from One Piece, so I walked in the opposite direction of the route I had memorized from the internet.
My plan was to wander around the city a bit. On my route was a coffee shop where I wanted to try the pumpkin spice coffee. Not pumpkin spice—pumpkin syrup. Whatever it is. I didn’t want to just sit around the train station doing nothing, especially since my phone was broken.
I walked, and walked, and walked. The uninspired, copy-paste architecture of this land only confused me more. I decided to ignore logic and listen to my inner voice—only to remember it was my inner voice that had led me down this path in the first place. Eventually, I realized this wasn’t going to work. I decided to return to where I started and hopped on a minibus. Then I got off because I didn’t ask if it was going to the train station. I got on another minibus.
While writing this, I’m starting to realize—I might actually be kind of stupid.
This time, I had the good sense to ask, “Does this go to the station?” The driver said yes. I got on and waited. Life! Why do you exhaust me like this? You know I hate waiting—why do you keep testing me? After a long wait, the minibus finally started moving. On the way, I watched with teary eyes as we passed by the route I had so carefully planned. At this point, I genuinely wanted to die and intensified the positive prayers and vibes I sent to the universe.
Near the station, I stopped at that famous coffee chain that everyone seems addicted to for some reason (peer pressure?). I ordered a plain filter coffee—no pumpkin options available. I paid a ridiculous amount for this non-local brew (oh, my dear Guatemala and Kenya) and burned my mouth on it. Yes, yes, they wrote “hot” on the cup. But this wasn’t just hot—it was molten lava.
Since I still had time, I wandered around the station a bit. On one of the upper floors, there was a Turkish delight shop. Thinking I’ve already walked enough, I ignored the extra calories and bought some. (Am I going to the military or on vacation?) They even had a little heart-shaped box of delights. (When I said I roamed around like a hungry beast, I wasn’t kidding. Though I’m starting to dislike that phrase. Let’s say “a bloodthirsty monster” from now on. It reminds me of Berserk.)
Then, I waited for the train.
High-speed trains are truly a blessing. They’re not as fast as the ones abroad, but they get the job done. During the trip, instead of sending prayers and positive vibes to the universe, I tracked the train’s speed on the monitor in front of me. Occasionally, I peeked at the man next to me, watching him monitor his cryptocurrency portfolio on his phone.
Before applying for military service, I had long hair that reached my shoulders. Curly/wavy hair is a pain for barbers—they wash it, blow-dry it, wash it again, attack it with scissors, and so on. It’s like they’re waging war on my hair. Because of this ordeal, and since I love long hair, I stopped going to barbers years ago. Instead, I cut my hair myself at home. Or rather, trimmed it. I grabbed the scissors and went at it. Mistakes aren’t very noticeable with curly hair—it’s a mess anyway. I figured the military could deal with the rest. But according to what I read online, not all bases have barbers, especially during basic training.
So, before reporting to my unit, I went to a barber. No issues with the military cut, thankfully. Despite my dislike of being touched—especially on my face—it felt incredibly good to have my hair cut and washed. But I can’t say the same for the shave. The barber absolutely butchered me! I barely had any facial hair to begin with, so I don’t understand how it happened. Maybe it was because he used a straight razor. My delicate face wasn’t ready for it, having only ever been shaved with an electric razor.
But the barber didn’t stop at cutting up my face. He also left cuts all over my scalp. Men will understand—when barbers pick up a straight razor, your beard isn’t enough for them. They feel the need to touch up your forehead, neck, and anywhere else they can reach.
When the shave was done, I finally noticed how much weight I’d lost. The mirror showed a skeleton staring back at me—a skeleton with cuts all over its face.
It was something like this.
A sight that made you wonder if a zombie outbreak had started or if there was a necromancer nearby. Or perhaps it was the physical embodiment of the economy. The examples could go on.
Bilecik is a small province. I left the barber in the center of the town and reached the gendarmerie in about ten minutes on foot. Along the way, there were stalls selling military supplies. I had already packed what I thought I might need into my backpack. I also had a bag in my hand. In any case, the military provides almost everything you might need during service. Anything not provided can be purchased at very affordable prices from stores inside the base.
And finally, the gates of the military base came into view. I stepped inside, and thus, my military service officially began.
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