Despair and the art of prevarication

I am not suicidal. The trouble is that I live in so much emotional turmoil so much of the time, that I can't truly say I care if I live or die. I would never kill myself. Not my style. A girl can wish though. I'd sleep most of the time if it weren't for the nightmares.

I'm just so fucking tired of it all. I'm tired of the panic attacks and the agoraphobia. I'm tired of always being on my guard around people. I'm tired of dealing with the VA's bullshit. The only thing I never seem to get sick of is smoking cigarettes.

Changes are terribly traumatic for me these days, but the monotony is killing me. I'm afraid, and I'm angry, and I'm tired of not being in control. I'm actually starting to envy certain members of my family for their alcoholism. Oblivion is so damn tempting. The idea of something like deep space, just a huge empty void is my happy place right now. No feeling anything necessary. No self-awareness. Just the great nothing. These are the kinds of fantasies that are going to get me put away if I don't watch it. It's a damn shame when you can't even enjoy a good imagery without worrying whether you've finally taken a stumble over some invisible psychiatric line. The depression gets disturbingly morbid sometimes, and I get tired of trying to think happy thoughts. The good doctors will just change my meds again.

I should probably quit before I talk my way into a padded cell, but it makes it a little easier to bear to just rant once in a while. I'm way too frightened of people to say the whole truth anymore. It's always just a little too much. Not to mention I don't trust anyone that works for the VA. I swear to tell the truth, not the whole truth, but nothing but the truth.

Oh what a week...

I had another round of drama with the VA. I had to be evaluated for Individual Unemployability. Since I can't work due to my disability, I needed to apply for this extra benefit. I completely forgot that I'd applied for this months ago.

I had to go to a civilian clinic contracted by the VA, and according to the internet these folks are infamous for screwing over veterans. Of course, the VA said they use them to get a fair independent opinion. Pshaw and other noises of disbelief.

At any rate, I had to be evaluated by a male psychiatrist. I found out that I don't respond well to male psychiatrists. I don't know who I feel worse for, me or him. I was already freaking out before I even got into his office. I could not look that doctor in the face while I answered his questions, and I could barely speak above a whisper. By the end of the appointment I had covered my face with the clipboard of paperwork so he couldn't see me. I have rarely felt so pathetic in my life. I had already taken anxiety medication by the time I got there, but I was still having panic attacks. It makes me tired. So unbelievably tired.

I find myself fantasizing about finding a small dark hiding spot to cower in for a few days. I gave serious consideration to leaving town for a few days. I know I can't outrun my disabilities though, so I didn't bother. Still, it's tempting.

I've let my short attention span run rampant lately, and I've started a few projects. I started a short story, smutty and ultimately tragic. I also started cleaning out some closets. It's always a bad sign when I start organizing things. It's how I try to work out a really good mad. It's also probably a metaphor for trying to straighten up my life. Later, I'm going to start throwing things out again. Good times.

You don't know, because you can't see me, that my working space is cluttered beyond all reason. I like it that way. There is a pile of stuff on my right and on my left with just a small space around my computer that is reasonably clear. I have a ridiculous and unnecessary collection of office supplies. My favorites are sticky notes and pens. I have post-its for any and every occasion, and I start getting edgy and anxious if I don't have enough pens. "Enough" in this instance being approximately a metric fuck ton. I have pens in jars and drawers and little cubby spaces. I've also got a stash hidden in my filing cabinet somewhere I think. Another stash in my purse. I also get unreasonable when my boyfriend starts borrowing my pens and not putting them back. I'm neurotic okay? I regularly sweep the house for stray pens and tuck them back into my little stashes. I hate it when I find pens in little baskets full of miscellaneous junk. How are you supposed to use a pen if it's buried under all kinds of crap? So my desk is the default position for finding a pen to use. Not to mention he always goes for my "good" pens first. I'm very particular about pens. I have strict standards for pens. I once spent months trying to locate the perfect pen. Succeeded too eventually. I have my regular, boring, ink pens. Those I don't mind other people using so much. I have my almost awesome pens, which are gel pens, that are reasonably ergonomic. I have my colored ink pens, which I use exclusively to annoy people with and to distract children. I have my perfect pens, which are expensive, and which no one, not even me, uses except for special occasions. I also have a collection of other pens that I got during my search for the perfect pen, which I don't mind other people using. It's the perfect pen because it is precisely the correct width, both in the tip, and to fit into my hand. It doesn't jiggle or make noises when you shake it, and the gel ink is smooth and perfect.

I have digressed. As interesting as my many eccentricities are, I had a point. Oh right, the week from hell. The experience at the doctor's office was traumatic, and has left me even more moody than usual. I'm alternately completely exhausted and full of nervous energy. I don't want to eat or sleep, and my concentration is shot all to hell. I'm restless and chronically dissatisfied with everything imaginable. Nothing pleases me. Nothing soothes my badly battered nerves. I might have to give up my morning coffee this week if it doesn't settle down soon. That would be bad. There have also been some minor family drama, but that is nothing new. I think there is a countdown in my head somewhere, counting down the seconds toward a royal tantrum of one sort of another. I hope I get it together before then.

All it takes for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing

I am still having trouble adjusting to Washington. There is more than a little culture shock, and I'm not sure if it's because I was in the army or because I grew up in the south or both.

Once I took my brother and his girlfriend to see a movie. A homeless woman came up to us begging for money. My brother's girlfriend was young and not used to dealing with panhandlers. I gave the woman some change and tried to usher her away from us. The girl pulled out six dollars, a five and a one, intending to give the woman a dollar, but before she got her hand all the way out of her pocket with the money the woman grabbed the money. I grabbed the money before the woman could take off with it, and refused to let her have all those she was shrieking and spitting in my face. There were cops across the street having a coffee break, and when we finally got the woman to leave we went to tell them what happened. They totally didn't care. I was baffled.

Another time my boyfriend and I were getting coffee, and a homeless guy pulled out a crack pipe and starting smoking crack right in front of us. I made my boyfriend tell the barista to call the cops but she just kind of shooed the old man off. I was indignant, because the man took off with his crack and started panhandling a block over. So I followed him while my boyfriend tried to get the cops on the phone on a non-emergency number. I followed him until I saw a police cruiser. I flagged the cop down and pointed the guy out and told him that the guy had crack on him and what happened. The cop sighed and rolled his eyes and said he would keep an eye out for him.

I find shoplifters, I keep an eye on them and tell the store manager. Once I caught a woman trying to use a stolen credit card, and I had the store call the police and I wrote a detailed statement including their car plates because I followed them out to their car.

When I see someone doing something to make my neighborhood unsafe, I can't let it slide. People tell me things like "Why'd you have to ruin that homeless guy's day?", or "Why didn't you just walk away?" and I am completely baffled. Why would I allow someone to get away with using dangerous drugs, or trying to rob people, or steal in my neighborhood? If they get away with it, they'll just do it again. Dangerous drugs like crack mean there are dangerously unstable people in my neighborhood and that doesn't make me feel safe. People who steal one way will try and steal another way, only maybe next time they try and steal from me. People who try and mug young people outside of movie theaters ought to be arrested.

I can't get anyone to see this from my perspective. There are all these weird "urban survival" rules, where everyone pretends not to see bad things happening so they don't have to get involved. Like it's such a big deal to watch from a safe distance and remember what you see until the authorities can get involved. These people drive me crazy. It's like they want their neighborhoods to be unsafe. I don't want that crack head to hurt some kid because he goes crazy on a bad batch of crack. Not if I can point him and his illegal and dangerous behavior out to the cops. Even the cops are like "whatever". C'mon. This is sad. I don't have a superhero complex, and I don't do anything that endangers me, I just pay attention and let the authorities know what happened. It takes like half an hour out of my day. Well okay, I do know surveillance and counter-surveillance techniques, but really all you have to do is stay a safe distance away and watch while pretending not to be watching. I don't recommend anybody go following dangerous drug dealers down dark alleys, but you can see which alley they went into and point it out to the cops.

I think my training makes me more likely to be able to provide accurate and specific information, because I know what information the cops need to know in order to be able to catch the guys. I don't know, maybe I'm crazy and the rest of the city is sane. Maybe I'm just in a unique situation, but I don't seem to have the ability to deliberately turn a blind eye to things like that.

The VA kept telling me I should get a job in law enforcement and I laughed at them. My obviously debilitating disabilities make that an unsafe and unhappy career path for me. Plus I don't take orders really well, despite my five years in the military. The cops are restricted by way too many rules, which is mostly a good thing, but it sends them out fighting with one hand tied to one of their feet hopping towards a gun fight. Then the prisons are overcrowded so bad guys get out in a quarter of the time they should have, often leaving more dangerous than when they went in.

Our society is way screwed up. We spend way too much time, money, and energy protecting criminals instead of protecting their victims. Everybody else is just trying to justify living in dangerous areas by pretending to be deaf, blind, and mute when anything bad goes down. Those same people throw hissy fits whenever something happens to them! Why aren't the cops doing their jobs? Why did you let this happen to me and what are you going to do to protect me? I love the hypocrisy. I really feel the urge to cackle madly when I hear that kind of stuff. People cling tightly to their ignorance, don't they? I don't understand why people won't do simple things to help make the situation better for everyone?

It's not my job to fix these problems when I see them, but who else is going to do it? If it obviously benefits me to do something about it, then damnit I'm going to do it. People are stupid! These little things that can be done to ensure the neighborhood is a little bit safer, are avoided like the plague. "All it takes for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing."

People suck

Ugh. I'm tired and cranky. The fireworks will not stop. To many things going boom all the time, have me on edge. I'm clenching my jaw again painfully, so I guess I'm going back to the muscle relaxers. The puppy is about to turn one year old, and he's decided he doesn't have to listen to anyone anymore. He's lucky he's so cute ;)

I'm less than thrilled about the new therapy thing. I have to identify all the thoughts and feelings that I have that are inappropriate. Oh good. Let's play "How many ways am I wrong?".

I have been more than a little morbid lately. Some days I feel like I should just paint my face black and white and start writing hideous poetry. The disconnect is back again. Am I a member of this species? I can't identify with people, and I don't really remember how to try. I definitely can't identify with the female of the species. I know a few girls who have this problem. Girls play twisty-turny, vicious, and sneaky games with each other, where the winner is the one who inflicted the most damage on the other girl's self-esteem. Guys seem to have a better system, although it makes me tired trying to play that game also. Social contracts are just games people play with one another. I've found myself trying to justify humanity's existence to myself, which is a pointless and depressing endeavor. I'm not really qualified to judge, but based on my experiences, at least half of the people in the world suck to one degree or another.

Reaching out to people is not my best thing. Asking for help is my worst thing. Trying to make friends is torture. I can't keep living in my head. For one thing my brain likes to give me nasty surprises in the form of horrible nightmares. Vicious circle.

Arguments

It's that time of year again. People are shooting off fireworks. I used to love fireworks back before they gave me panic attacks and flashbacks. They sound like gun shots and artillery to me now. I spent last night hiding in my bedroom, and had to take a calm down pill. I've taken to carrying around stacks of books to read. The less attention I pay to the noises the easier it is to deal with. The problem is I'm a smoker, and don't smoke in the house. So when I go outside I hear a boom and freak out. When hiding doesn't work, I yell and cuss at the neighbors from my living room. I can't confront them about it, so I vent my futile anger safely inside.

I've been trying to find other things to occupy my mind. I started working on a table runner for Christmas three years ago and still haven't finished it. I also need to patch some quilts that are fraying. Every time I sit down to work on my novels, I get distracted. So I'll get to it when I get to it. I don't have any reason to rush it.

It's finally summer in Seattle, and it's really nice outside. I have no interest in going out in the nice weather, but it's nice to out the window.

I've been reading tons of Heinlein which is probably at least part of the reason I haven't felt like writing. I spend hours wandering through wikipedia re-reading stuff about ancient philosophers that Heinlein borrows from for his characters. My favorite is Diogenes the Cynic. It's entertaining. Also I know I'm a total nerd, meh. I like how Socrates and his disciples gave Roman society the finger in so many different entertaining ways. I always approve of intelligent rebels. I was excited to take Symbolic Logic and Quantitative Reasoning in college, but was ultimately horribly disappointment. The Socratic method sounds like a hell of a fun way of annoying people, by constantly challenging their premises. The class was all Aristotle and Boole though and that was totally lame. I don't math and predictive calculus sucks the big one. Plus my therapist says my treatment is going to start using Socratic questioning, and admits that she will be frustrated because I'm likely to argue everything she says. Her problem though. To me it just sounds like a dare. I learn best from arguments. Plus its fun.

Testosterone driven dick-headism and election year politics

In light of the release of the Invisible War documentary, I've been reflecting on the whole of my experiences so far. From the rape til the day I finally got my settlement from the VA. Other than it being a catastrophic disaster of epic proportions, a great deal of the crap I had to deal with was totally unnecessary.

The VA didn't have to make my life hell by hanging that axe over my head for two freaking years while I waited on some stuffed suit bureaucrat to decide my fate. When I sent in the paperwork, I included about five pounds worth of evidence from my doctors, and from my friends even. My doctors all worked for the VA, all you'd think it would take would be a freaking email from my doctor to some idiot in a suit, and it could have been handled in like a week. Nope. Maybe they hate trees? I was traumatized all over again every time I had to call them, or fill out more paperwork, and every waking moment for two years. It is one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life to have to sit down with strangers and tell them about the most horrible thing I have ever been through, over and over and over.

It's bad enough just talking to doctors. In the three years I have been getting treatment at the VA I've had five psychiatrists, two social worker interns, and one psychology intern. Every time I had to ignore the fact that I didn't trust these idiot head shrinkers and tell my story once again. This isn't counting the other random VA people I had to talk to, not to mention my advocates. My advocates, bless their hearts, handled the brunt of the paperwork, and just told me where to sign. I couldn't function because I was in the middle of nervous break-down at the time. My boyfriend had to lead me around by the hand to get me to do anything at all.

The army was worse, by far. The army was openly hostile about soldiers displaying any kind of weakness. The VA jerks all seem completely apathetic to the fact that they were causing me harm. I'd have an appointment to talk to someone, and I'd have a panic attack in their office and they'd just keep handing me forms to fill out like nothing was happening. Take a number and have a seat in the waiting area, someone will get to you eventually.

In the army I could just shout, start arguments, insult people, and generally annoy people, and this was still preferable to them over me admitting that war and rape had affected me adversely. The VA just ignores everything. Obviously, my doctors have to pay attention, but no one else there does. Not even the pharmacists give a shit. I seriously had to go to the ER because they weren't sending me my medications in a timely manner (the VA mails out the meds, I don't know why) and I suffered through discontinuation syndrome which involves nasty hallucinations. The clinic were they send traumatized women at the VA, is right above a methadone dispensary and homeless coordinator. What the hell is that shit about? We have to use their receptionists also, because the VA won't fork up the cash for our clinic to have our own. The "clinic" itself is a hallway with about 7 therapists and two psychiatrists working out of tiny shared offices, across from administrative offices. It feels like shark week every time I check in for an appointment. The waiting area in the clinic is a couple of chairs shoved back against the wall in the corner between our hallway and the administrative hallway. I resent the hell out of them, because dealing with my nightmare is just an afterthought the VA decided to add at the last minute but didn't budget for.

Have I mentioned lately that I hate people? Seriously what kind of messed up civilization do we have, that people who protect us are brutally assaulted and victimized, their perpetrators get away scott free, and then they have to suffer all sorts of horrible things in order to get help they need? This whole thing reeks of election year politics to me. Every now and then some politician will stand in front of a camera and dust this issue off to shock and horrify people, but no one ever really does anything to fix it. Frankly, my advice to people is, don't let your daughters and sisters and wives join the military. The government only cares about them as a statistic they can flaunt to the media anyway, "Look at how awesome and non-discriminatory we are!". They have no idea how to deal with issues that affect women. They have a policy that forces female soldiers to go to a gynecologist once a year for a pap smear and breast exams as necessary. Sometimes they even issue sports bras with equipment issues, but like all equipment, they only come in two sizes, too big or too small. They don't have body armor designed for female soldiers that fits us as comfortably as they fit male soldiers. They sure as shit can't protect soldiers from one another. They've cultivated a culture where women are afraid for their lives to report it when they are raped. I'm not saying women can't do everything that men can do (and in most cases do it as well or better), but why should we? What do we get out of it? Sure as shit don't get respect. If you survive it, your relationships have a greater than average chance of failing horribly (I don't know why that's true, I only know it is. It's like gravity. I don't know why it works, but I know if I go up, I'm going to come back down). Shit, when I went to basic training, my drill sergeants forbade females from smiling, and accused us of flirtation when we did even if there was no one around. I had to sit through a "Don't be a whore" lecture from one drill sergeant also.

I'm not saying I'm not proud of the things that I did in service to my country...but why? I did what I did, and I hope it helped, but any help I gave sure as shit didn't make any difference to the way I was treated. No matter how good I was, it didn't matter. I kinda resent that now. All I ever did was try to give my all to the army when they needed me.

Too much of a good thing

So I know I've been complaining about being lonely a lot lately. I should know better by now, really. My family came to visit me, stepmom, dad, and two sisters. I love them dearly, unreservedly, with all my heart. I'm going crazy! They've been here for a week and in the last seven days I've been to the mall, costco, outside of a navy base, the zoo, out to eat twice, visiting my boyfriend's parents, grocery stores, coffee shops, shoe stores, crafts stores, to a cake decorating class, and who knows where else. I'm agoraphobic, and usually I'm home alone for ten hours a day, five days each week, and leave the house maybe once or twice. I'm exhausted. To top it all off, we don't have enough rooms for all of them, so my sisters are sleeping in my office and in the living room. My boyfriend and parents go to bed early, and there is no place to read without disturbing someone. This is a big freaking deal to me, because I read daily. I'm always reading something. I want to kick everyone out of the house and hide in bed for a month with a stack of books. Hiding in bed and reading is what I do when I have reached the end of my ability to cope with stress. I'm so far out of my comfort zone right now it's ridiculous. So tired. Goody for me, therapy tomorrow.