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
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.
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.