Elliotte Frankie was one of the Royal Military College’s most promising pupils, on the fast-track for success and glory, when she was given a new pair of boots. She didn’t know it at the time, but those boots were the beginning of the end of life as she knew it.

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I knocked on her door. She was my boss’s boss. A fierce woman, of the type you often find in the army, with a tough reputation — but I was hoping she could help before it was too late.

“Yup,” she said from her desk, indicating that I could enter. I took one step into her office. My heart was racing.

This time, I was going to speak up for myself. I was going to request to be excused from a field trip into town for the next military college training task so I could ice my legs instead; something I did three times a day to ease the pain.

I was going to. But I took a step and crumbled. I sunk into the grooves of the carpet in her office, my dignity leaving me as tears poured from my eyes.

“Can you please help me?” I can’t remember if the words were coherent — they were in my head — but the sheer desperation of my tone caught me off guard.

I had never been overly emotional. It wasn’t natural for me to cry. And after four months of severe sleep deprivation, I was too tired to feign being articulate and too out of options to be more dignified in my struggle.

But if I expected special treatment, I got none. “Staff cadet, go back to your room and stop whining. You will be on that bus.”

That moment for me was the death of my life as I knew it.

I was training to be an officer at The Royal Military College in Canberra (RMC). Once graduated, I was to be a lieutenant, in charge of up to 30 personnel in a certain speciality: engineering, signals, infantry.

I did well during training so was selected to be part of an exchange program in New Zealand, where I was to graduate.

Though New Zealand’s training format is relatively similar to Australia’s there are some differences, which included a 12-month program over an 18-month program.

This meant I returned to basic training on arrival. But it didn’t faze me; I was a masochist when it came to physical training.

We were issued new uniforms and boots. I expected the uniforms to be thicker and the boots to be heavier to account for the tough weather conditions and terrain we were going to endure that year. My field boots didn’t seem right at first, but I thought I just needed time to adjust.

I noticed something was incredibly wrong when I returned from the navigation assessment. We trekked over 14km of countryside slopes and tussock, a task not foreign to me, but the burning in my shins didn’t equate. I tried my mates’ boots and found the culprit. Mine were not one but three sizes too big.

I raised my concern with my sergeants who advised they would put a uniform exchange request with the chain of command, but it may take time to process as excess stock had been sent back.

In the meantime, the on-base doctor advised to ice my shins as much as possible to avoid ongoing shin splints and to wear two pairs of socks until the issue was rectified.

For the remainder of basic training, I pressured my sergeants every so often but was told there were no updates. I had an Australian point of contact, but I assumed my issue would be low on the priority scale and did not want to seem like I knew better than my instructors.

I wanted to respect the uniform I was wearing at the time and knew other cadets had made uniform exchange requests as well. I swallowed my pride and took the medical restrictions as the pain worsened.

It wasn’t until I experienced drop foot and collapsed during the final exercise the severity hit home. After a four-day break I arrived at Officer College struggling to walk and learnt my request never made it to the chain of command.

An investigation took place that confirmed a communication breakdown, but the internal fight to remain in training and push past the pain stole my concentration.

I was later diagnosed with muscle compartment syndrome but was advised my symptoms didn’t fit the time frame of my injury.

I lost feeling in my feet, then my lower legs. I had permanent tingling, which became electric shocks zapping from my hips to my feet every time I put weight on them, making my body instantly fold to the floor like an origami fan slamming shut.

There were days where I couldn’t walk and a good six months where I never hit REM sleep, which is when your body and mind repair.

My pee turned brown, my body suffered the shakes regularly, and I couldn’t recognise my reflection.

I’m sure the doctors spoke to my superiors with updates, but for the most part, no one spoke to me.

I believed I was causing permanent damage to myself every time I tried to go to class or out in the field — and I did continue to try — and had frequent terrors about being paralysed for the rest of my life.

I had ice burns from over-icing to ease the pain and torn tendons from not noticing I was walking on the outside of my right ankle.

I filled garbage bins full of ice water every morning before roll call, skipped lunch to do the same, and I lay in an ice bath every night just to survive.

My legs were permanently swollen for over a year; I honestly didn’t remember what normal felt like.

I took the maximum daily dose of ibuprofen every day, but the most pain relief I received in the brunt of it was 3mg of codeine.

I became mentally unsound, and in an 18-month period, I have about six months of missing memories.

My relationship with my family and some close friends suffered, and still now, I don’t have them back.

All because of boots, three sizes too big.

“Did they know you were in that much pain and not sleeping?”

In one year, I spoke to a multitude of professionals — both army and civilian — funded and self-paid.

In total, I saw four doctors, every nurse available, two sports specialists, six psychologists, two psychiatrists, two pain specialists, six bosses, countless of their superiors, three military chaplains, my close friends and my family.

I asked for help in 2am text messages, rehab meetings, at least four medical-related appointments per week.

I asked for help with the large bags under my eyes from my nightly panic attacks, the crying that followed me everywhere I went, whether I was in uniform or not, in my inability to leave bed most mornings, and in the phrase “I don’t want to live like this anymore”, which I so bluntly responded to the psychologists asking: “Do you want to kill yourself?”

I asked for help, but no one listened.

Instead, I was told by friends I should go to the media; I was told by psychologists it wasn’t a question of whether I was going to get better but if I was going to get worse. I was told by acquaintances I was damaged anyway because I suffered anxiety those years before joining the armed forces. I was told from most others I just shouldn’t have joined at all.

All this while I was ticking boxes off a chart I made because I was so incapable of living. I needed to record when I ate and drank water.

Time was a concept I became detached from, and at times, remembering my own name was embarrassingly impossible.

“It’s so good that you got medically discharged: free money and free healthcare!”

I left New Zealand seven months after I arrived to return to RMC to rehabilitate. There is a running joke on base about free healthcare — you get what you pay for.

There are services available to use on base, however they are frequently understaffed and overbooked. It wasn’t unusual to wait two weeks for a physio appointment that lasted 10 minutes.

A medical discharge provides you with a white or gold card for ongoing free services, but there is a misconception about how obtainable they are.

The application process for compensation is also not an easy feat. It is lengthy, confusing and, in the end, I had two professionals who I had never met quantify exactly how much my experience had altered my life.

I understand objectivity is paramount in the situation, but my score was based off a templated questionnaire, and I was compared to a regular person — not the athlete I was prior to joining.

My free money was helpful, though. Without it, I would have been unable to pay the medical bills because the Department of Veterans’ Affairs — which funds my compensation and salary — does not cover all types of treatment.

I also wouldn’t have been able to afford to put myself through two other courses to get myself on track and into a new career. I had a car full of basic goods: clothes and books, so without funding, I wouldn’t have been able to buy furniture and create a new home.

Still, sometimes snide remarks were made about a new pair of shoes I had purchased or if I offered to foot the bill in a small group of friends. I often made jokes I wasn’t the one paying, the army was, to ease the shame of receiving “incapacity payments” without ever wearing the uniform in a real-time capacity.

I didn’t dream of going to war, but it was a reality I signed up for. One I had mentally prepared for. I was also hopeful of being involved in humanitarian missions, too.

On paper, I fulfilled whatever equation was necessary to receive these payments. More than that: I required it. Some days I was left blacked out and paralysed, dependent on friends to take off my shoes or put me to bed, unfit for any type of work.

These are the days I felt I deserved it. In reality, though, I also felt angry, even guilty for needing it.

I wasn’t a veteran, yet I had lost almost everything. When looking at those who make comments about my spending habits, they don’t know I’d trade it all for my career, my relationship with my family, my prior life.

I’d give it all back to be in uniform with my lieutenant pips. I wasn’t ungrateful for the financial support I was receiving, I felt misplaced in the category, in a state of limbo.

I hadn’t yet seen active combat, but I was covered in the scars of war. I was 27 and incapacitated.

“This is just a phase — at least you can get your life back now.”

It’s a large assumption it is possible to just slip back into the life I had before. This phrase has been worded in so many different ways comparing my army life to now.

The naivety in their statements reflects their unwillingness to acknowledge what I have lost and, in turn, makes me question whether I achieved anything in two years. It’s not so simple to just move on.

My sense of urgency to progress to the next thing in my life teeters between desperate rushing and stagnant hopelessness. It’s an uphill battle. I did have a life. One that I chose.

I gave up everyday liberties to be part of something bigger than myself, and I have now found myself belonging to nothing and feeling unnecessary.

The person I had built from scratch was taken from me, and I need time to build a relationship with this new person. One that has a new perception I am still trying to navigate. A new body that has tantrums I am unacquainted with. They’re not better, they’re not worse … they’re just foreign.

I am learning resilience is not always as punctual as the exercises I endured and there is no set time frame for healing.

Sometimes I walk out of the gym holding back tears because I get lost in the memories of my former self and wish I appreciated the strength I once had.

Sometimes my friends expect me to jump at things effortlessly, like the yes-man I used to be, only to be met with social anxiety so great my world turns to static and blurred pixels.

Sometimes I just need to be still and quiet to try and process, to gain energy to hustle for a new job. I feel fortunate to be afforded the time and funding to heal, but they do not remedy the person I have lost.