It’s not been a good couple of days over here. Normally I’m totally down for a good thunderstorm. Blue-gray clouds, lightning zippering across a black sky or lighting it all up in 2 second increments, but not today. That electrical charge in the air put me on edge first thing this morning. Driving forever across the metroplex in a torrential stop. down stop. pour around and through the emergency response vehicles guarding the wrecked and injured, their lights coloring the slick roads – it’s all got to me. Welcome to HyperVtown . Population me. Cause the rest of you fuckers aren’t allowed in.
Sometimes when it’s dark, it’s the worst. Fearing sleep or wanting sleep to not deal with anything wars in my head. Sometimes daylight’s the worst. seeing everything in crystalline clarity and knowing theres nothing to worry, get upset, or get fucking pissed off about- but there it is. Like cat shit on the linoleum. Everyone can see the daylight crazy. No way to cover it up. No way to hide it.
The years press down on me. All the time I’ve been home safe and all the time I wasn’t. It’s acid. It just keeps eating away at me. Eating me away. How much more will it take before I wake up and can’t remember how to be me any more?
I’m OK. Everything’s fine. No, really, I’m OK. It’s my mantra. And most of the time it’s true. Tonight my skin doesn’t feel like mine and I want to kick a hole in something. But, I’m going to bed instead. Sleep it all away
Historically April is a bad month for me. All the reasons are sitting on my shoulders, leaning down and whispering in my ears. I do not need anything, I do not need help, I am absolutely physically fine. I just want say some pretty stupid things. I want to do some pretty stupid things.
I have a deadline for an anthology on the 30th and I don’t know if the pressure of this month will let me finish anything. I don’t know if I can make myself move, let alone be cognizant enough to write.
And still I think, what the hell do I have to be sad about?
I’m still alive.
According to Wikipedia April is for:
- ALS Awareness Month (United States)
- Asian Pacific American Heritage Month
- Celiac Awareness Month
- Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome Awareness Month
- Haitian Heritage Month
- Jewish American Heritage Month
- Lupus Awareness Month
- Mental Health Awareness Month
- Multiple Sclerosis Awareness Month (Canada)
- National Bike Month
- National Foster Care Month
- National Guide Dog Month (2008, 2009)
- National Mobility Awareness Month
- National Stroke Awareness Month
- Neurofibromatosis Awareness month
Looked down this morning to find my nose was bleeding. It happens occasionally. I overheat and then there’s a gusher. Been dealing with it since I was a kid.
But it’s been a long time – years even – since it’s happened.
Now instead of racing my bike up the hill by my house, instead of sliding across the goal into a post face first, instead of sprinting towards third – I’m not a kid any more.
Bloody noses are my first husband. They are his whispers in my ear, the sharp crack snapping my head back, the twisted image of myself that he gave me.
Really, it’s just blood on a tissue tossed and gone.
I’m a talker. I will carry conversations. Lately, all I’ve wanted to do is sit in silence watching Netflix or sleep.
I know that’s not me.
So my sig-oth said to me awhile back that it might be time for me to seek some treatment (again). That’s his way of letting me know that I’m regressing. I can feel it. I think it’s the great divide between the forward thinkers and backsliders that’s going on in the States. There’s not a safe space here. And I’ve looked at all the cat videos I can stand.
I’ve done cognitive therapy. You sit and talk with the therapist who assures you that you’re living a guilt-free life. That works for awhile because logic. Problem is that the tangled brain/emotion/thoughts come back and, for me, it’s hard to hear her voice. Sounds crazy, right?
Right. Mental health issues. Crazy. Labels are great.
There are other options: meds, family therapy, group therapy, and exposure therapy. Fucking all the therapy makes you talk and I don’t want to do that. Feeling like a little chicken-hearted punk because I know I need to go, but it’s sure comfortable in my little zoned out spot on the couch.
As a chick and a parent, I’ve said no somewhere in the billions of times. I’m talking about this:
Bugger continues, upping their game and laughing.
“No, stop. I’m serious.”
Bugger kicks it into high and taunts.
I raise my voice, lay hands, force a stop.
Bugger gets feelings hurt and accuses me of overreacting.
Brothers, boyfriends, friends, coworkers, even my dad. It’s been omnipresent in my life.
Never really thought much about it other than to be annoyed. Today, being home sick and bored to tears, I watched a couple of movies. Guess what they both had in common.
Scenario One: The woman tells the man to stop because she doesn’t want to get into the water. He chases her, corners her, forces her over his shoulder before throwing her into the pool. The whole time she’s screaming for him to stop. She’s MAD when she gets out of the water and the man stalks off because he thinks it’s NOT FAIR that she’s angry. She runs after him and apologizes.
Scenario Two: The woman has had a traumatic past that has not been disclosed to the man. He puts on a mask and stalks her around the dark house. The whole time she’s backing up, trying to get away, and screaming for him to stop. When she slams the bathroom door on his hand in an effort to lock herself in, he’s pissed. She apologizes to him and explains her traumatic past as a way to make him understand her reaction.
No means no. All the time. Every time.
No, don’t want to go out with you.
No, I don’t want to be tickled.
No, you can’t have a hug.
No, I don’t like to be scared.
No, I don’t want to have kids.
No, I don’t want to get my extensions wet.
And no I won’t apologize to you for the response your actions wrought.
TL;DR: Stop making this normal. Reject it and don’t fucking apologize for asserting yourself. Thinking men are too fragile to be told no is a Rook mistake. Let them deal with it.
It’s not enough that we have maggots. The Other Other One About the VA
Google auto fills “vet suicides at” with:
- Phoenix VA
- Denver VA
- Attempts per day
It doesn’t tell you about the one that happened in Albuquerque on the 22nd. Just like no one reported on James Ingram III setting himself on fire in a VA parking lot (The One About Ending It All) because apparently people pretend like none of this is happening.
All I know is what was reported by disabled veterans.org because there’s nothing else to find. I even checked the Albuquerque Journal‘s obit section and none listed the cause of death as a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head while standing at the doors of the Albuquerque VA hospital .
Reach out. I didn’t seek help – it was thrust on me. A friend made the appointment at the VA for me. It wasn’t my answer. Compartmentalization will break down. Seek help and/be the help. Anything less is a Rook mistake.