“Let’s go, Pop. White belt, white pants, white shoes, get in the back.”

What you gonna do?

Okay.  I had to let go of my rage.  I can’t afford to waste any more energy.  I do apologize for throwing all cops under the bus in my anger, knowing not all of them are racist pricks.  None have ever abused their authority with me (that I know of.)  My fears, although rational, are frustrating because I can’t identify a racist by sight.  Unless they’re wearing a MAGAt uniform or something, that is.  (No hesitation to say that with confidence anymore, dontchaknow.  The bridge pic in front of a youth indoctrination center in my last post did it.)

I decided I’m not going to respond to the letter.  If the police show up, come what may.  I’m not thick enough to answer the door.  I’m not likely to forget I’m black.  😂🤣  Yep.  I’m bitter.  I think it’s because being hated doesn’t grant me the ability to hate back.  Heather was a racist by age seven.  I don’t think it’s fair I can’t even fake it.  We had the same freaking environment and were only 13 months apart.  This can’t be my planet.

I told M. to give me a week before we talk about him coming back.  You know why so many veterans succeed at committing suicide?  It’s because we’re trained to only attempt that which we’re sure to acomplish.  We instinctively include redundancy, and don’t shy away from gruesomely violent methods.  We’re also more likely to own weapons.  Twenty-two veterans will commit suicide today, according to statistics.  (Google it.  I’m cranky.)  And tomorrow.  And the day after that.  You get it.  (I’m being morbid because I’m hurt, offended, and not trying very hard to adult.)

I think the veteran suicide rate is by design.  Mostly because it makes fiscal sense.  If you’ve read more than a few of my posts, you know I analyze the shit out of everything.  Why the hell do you think I joined the Army?  Sure, partly because I was an arrogant, spoiled rotten brat an inch away from rationalizing my way into some white collar crime that wasn’t technically invented yet, and I didn’t truthfully want that easy, easy path in life.  But mostly because I wanted answers to several questions, am impatient, and didn’t understand what fear meant yet.  The shortest distance from spoiled rotten brat to adult was surrendering to Uncle Sam’s ironic call for volunteers.

plastic soldier

Oddly, it had to be either the Army or the Marines.  I did my research.  I didn’t do enough joint operations with Navy or Air Force to narrow down why.  Coast Guard seemed a silly choice for a Dakotan.  I didn’t consider the Marines at all.  I’m pretty confident I would not have lasted another two weeks in boot camp, thankyouverymuch.  (Failing basic is usually because you changed your mind, or you got hurt, in my opinion.)  The only hard part is acting despite fear, staying awake on fire watch, and living with 49 other children experiencing the same trauma.  If you want it enough, you graduate.

I came too close to a meltdown today, so my brain is defragmenting.  I’m amazed I’ve stuck to something resembling a topic this long.  I’m operating on dark humor and cynicism.  (I don’t mind this phase of the process because it mostly amuses me.)  This weekend is ruined, though.  I can tell I won’t be sleeping anytime soon.  I can’t even work on my song because the Muse won’t acknowledge my existence when I’m carrying around negativity for no reason. I already forgave my cat for continuously thwarting my ability to off myself without going through the agonizing mental exercise first.  (I haven’t needed a plan in years.)

Yep, I’m that weird.  I don’t care.  (You wouldn’t either if you were me.)  I forgot to eat today.  +10 for remembering before midnight.  Although, I broke a tooth from grinding my teeth too hard a bit ago.  Thanks, Prozac, you evil, dry-mouth causing bitch.  Even when I’m just recovering from losing my shit, I’m still aware I have an indefinable bond with my healing sisters, (Stevie Nicks, Amy Lee, Lorde, etc.)  It’s probably why I’m able to talk shit while my CPU is under such a heavy load.  I’m as strong as I am weird, now.  I bet that scares you.  😂  (No, seriously, I hope not.)  I’m going to go eat before I type something even more regrettable.  Seeya.

“If I like their race, how can that be racism?”

Look.  I’m telling you three times not to read this post if you’re not in a safe place mentally right now.  💜

 

 

 

 

 

I didn’t sleep last night.  I just lay in bed grinding my teeth.  It’s not nightmare avoidance, though (for once.)  I got a letter from the VA.  Part of me is in shock.  All of me is pissed off.  It’s not often I find myself wondering how the hell a person can be so clueless.  (I’m too used to being the one who causes others to think it.)  It’s the first time I’ve felt the desire need to resume using F-bombs liberally.

I’m 99% certain the person sent it because they were required.  I subtracted 1% because it’s possible I’m mistaken, and they’re not clueless at all, just vile.   I’d prefer not responding at all.  It’s the most logical, adult thing I could do.  However, I’ve done this dance too many times not to know what’s next.  If I don’t respond, they’ll send the police and call it a health and welfare check.  (Pressing every button on my F*** box; best toy ever.)

Here’s the thing:  I’m a POC with autism and mental illness, living in what was dubbed The Whitest City in America.  Jeff Sessions is the (pressing buttons on best toy ever) Attorney General.  Here’s a lovely photo of a bridge just outside Sioux Falls Christian school.

racist grafitti

Sending the police to my place is more dangerous to my lifespan than lacing a snail mail letter with ricin.  It’s hard to imagine it’s not intentional.  I’m trying, but the benefit of the doubt got tired after the fifth time they did this shit.  (Pressing buttons with feeling.)  Frankly, it would have been more compassionate to add ricin to the envelope.  It would also surpass the effectiveness of any “treatment” they’ve offered so far by a longshot.  It would cure my autism, mental illness, and skin condition.  I’m black; there would be no repercussions.  Here, let me hold up the edge of the rug so we can sweep me under and be done, already.  Win, win whatever.

M. has enough sense to recognize he can’t stay here for a while.  He’s upset because he read my medical records, and knows I’m going to get the (pressing) out of South Dakota as soon as I finish ticking off my (button) already-prepared-because-five-times-checklist.  I’m not kidding when I say it’s 1960 in South Dakota.  If I don’t run for the border and leave my mobile tracking device phone behind, I’ll be handcuffed in the back seat of a cop car again before I can say (remixing like DJ Guetta.)   I’ve been handcuffed (and leg shackled) too many (button again) times for someone whose rap sheet solely consists of a single traffic violation over a decade ago.

Health and welfare check my ass.  Let’s call it what it is, eh?  A microaggressive Get Out note.  Do you want to know what’s rich?  Good, because I’m going to tell you.  It’s the person in charge of suicide prevention at the VA, pretending I can’t read between the lies.  The same one who flat out told me I should move to the east coast because “they’re more compassionate about mental illness there.”  That’s a Get Out note, too.  Get Out notes are what clandestine racists send to POC.  It’s for our health and welfare, see?  (all the buttons)

North American porcupine

It’s not the first person at the VA (in the mental health field) who sent me one. (When it didn’t work, they sent the chaplain in to suggest I meet with the only other black person he knew at the VA.  (Not even a medical anything, IIRC.)  It’s in the manual, I think.  If they don’t bow down, send them to The Other One, so they can explain the rules and nip this in the bud.  (YepI’m that (press) pissed.)  This issue is a part of white privilege I hate with a (button) passion.  I have Caucasian expectations.  I expect at least minimal consideration from other humans for also being human.  I know this is a dangerous attitude for black people on earth.

The Election showed me it’s irrational.  It broke my heart, but whatever.  There’s a furious, mean part of me that wants to move to Plan B, and initiate Operation Knock Knock.  It’s infantile bullshit, but it’s typed up and stored next to my bugout bag all the same.  I’m not literally clueless.  I know how to push the issue and stop this dance.  I think about it when I can’t sleep all the time.  I can make any American cop shoot me in the head.  (It’s a superpower of the oppressed, here in the land of the free. If you want to test it out, tell a cop you’re a different gender than you appear to be ((to the ignorant and hateful.))  I think it would be (press) evil to deliberately pass on my PTSD to a cop as my last act in this reality.  It (button) with them when we make them do what they secretly want to do anyway.

More shit I’ve learned since The Election, that.  It makes me regret being a veteran, sometimes.  I didn’t think anything could do that.  I (press) get it wrong a lot.  (I got rose-colored eyeglass frames so that I can remind myself how I used to view my country.)  You’d think after being in the Army, I’d know better.  But nope.  I thought we at least gave a shit about fellow Americans.  Why was I (all the buttons) risking life and limb for a country where a third of the populace is furious I’m not a slave!?  In my defense, they did show a lot of propaganda videos on the only TV channel we had in English when I lived in Germany.  (Fraud. Waste. Abuse.  It’s your duty to report it!)  Stoners would probably love them.

It snowed again which means I can’t drive (open my eyes wide enough to see outside) until the new snow is dirty.  I’m going to go dry heave for a while.  (One of the lovely perks of insomnia.)  I’ve set a new record for the duration of my fury.  I usually see something shiny by now.  (last press.)

“I feel like an out of work porn star.”

working woman

Today has been annoying, mostly.  At least I feel like I’ve accomplished something useful on this blog of late.  I worked myself free from a lot of things that were weighing me down emotionally.  Some may think I overshare by writing about hard things in my past.  From my perspective, I believe my understanding of the word privacy differs from that of most.  I’m not up to agonizing over the words at the moment, so that’ll have to suffice.

I hope nobody ever feels traumatized by my words.  I don’t think I’m blunt, but I’ve been told otherwise more than once.  For a long time, I couldn’t talk about those things.  I couldn’t say the word rape.  I didn’t talk about my ex-husband, and I fled the moment I thought someone was interested in me romantically.  I held back from any relationship because everyone dies, and I didn’t believe I could outlive someone I love again.

Things are different now.  I’m not even sure when it happened.  I don’t live under a rock anymore.  I shelter myself from news of the horrifying things going on in the world, but that’s out of self-preservation.  I guess I feel like I’ve healed.  Things that happened in the past no longer own me.  I usually celebrate everything positive.  Instead, I’m just going to listen to 24-Karat-Gold: Songs From the Vault by Stevie Nicks with my eyes closed, and think about the future.  Some victories are melancholic.

I haven’t gone to the office to work much this year.  I’m more productive working from home, but if I don’t go anywhere for too long, I start feeling like I can’t.  I’ve never allowed it to get to the point where I felt trapped in my home, but I’ve been close enough to see how it can happen.  It would be a steep fall downhill because it would mean no more running.  I don’t even want to pursue this hypothetically.  😂  I have a plan to prevent it.

It feels a little weird to tell my work partner all my secrets about running a software company.  But it’s the reason I’m his partner and not retired professionally, working some part-time job that allows me to use headphones.  There’s no need for him to repeat the trial and error I used to figure out my path.  He acts like he’s in awe of me for doing it, which is uncomfortable.  I told him it’s logical and lots of people do it.  Plus, I’m getting paid for escorting him into a meaner tax bracket.

In a few months, I plan on selling most of my interest to other employees.  I don’t think it’ll take him very long to integrate his new tools and develop confidence in his abilities.  I figure I’ll be itching to move on to something more fulfilling by summer.  The leader of the band I joined recently has been training me to become a “real drummer.”  He’s kind of an asshole about it, but whatever.  I can’t afford to turn down information.

I spent most of today at his studio where I set up a beat-to-shit drum kit precisely as instructed.  Then I tore it down, put everything carefully in these cases that look like giant hat boxes, and moved a foot in whatever direction he assigned, and set it up again.  Three times so far.  Then we left for the day, and tomorrow I’ll be back doing the same.

He said until I’ve done it 50 times, I’m not a drummer.  I’m a poser.  I said, “okay.”  See Alison grovel like a wannabe drummer.  I didn’t mention it’s the first time I’ve ever set up an acoustic kit.  I have to say, thinking before speaking is working for me.  I’m off to listen to Stevie Nicks.

“Do they really need the abuse of being compared to a rhinoceros on top of everything else?”

Art installation from The Burning Man exhibit, 2015.
Inner Child – art installation from The Burning Man-2015

M. gave me a gift today.  It’s an F*** Box from the UK.  It’s a grid of 16 buttons that play sound bytes of the F word being used in various ways (with feeling) by people with British accents.  I effing love it!  I need to hack it a bit to lower the volume, though, (this is the midwest.)  It’s the size of a deck of cards, and it now resides on my desk where I can press and giggle at will.

I saw a young woman speak horribly to a man earlier.  As I cringed, I thought to myself she should have served in the military.  It provides excellent training on how to treat humans, regardless of their social grouping.  I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t think of anything besides shaming her.  (I know from trial and error this isn’t a practical method for civilians.)

I used to be her.  Only for about a week, (because I was in the Army when I finally realized males aren’t disgusting after all.)  I trampled on a man’s ego as if it made me cute in earshot of a woman, once.  She corrected the shit out of my behavior. (It was terrifying to be a girl in the Army.  The women watch everything you do at all times as if every mistake you make halves their paycheck.)

I got kicked out of the barracks and had to move in with her and her three kids in military housing.  At first, I was in shock and had the gall to act like I was unjustly singled out and punished.  I didn’t even get a private room or bed.  I had to sleep with a toddler who wet the bed at least once a week.  I learned baby pee is no biggie, and they don’t take up much room.

Then I learned how to treat men by spending all my free time with two little boys and a toddler baby girl.  I don’t remember how long it took before I was allowed to move back into the barracks.  It’s not that living in the barracks was highly desirable;  more that I eventually figured out how shameful it was to be someone who couldn’t be trusted to live there without (verbally) abusing the 200 or so young men who also lived there.

I do remember what I did that got me in so much trouble.  A man who was in my battalion but not my battery, asked me out while we were standing in line for chow.  I was 18 at the time, and he was 25.  (Lowering my head in shame)  I said, “Eww.”  To his face.  In front of others.  And I didn’t realize I just kicked him in the nuts and set his hair on fire.  So I turned around and made the, Can you believe this guy? motion I learned from TV.  (And then assumed it was perfectly fine to go on living my life like I didn’t just do that.)

children

Whew.  I’m still paying for it in regret and shame.  My SSG told me whenever I look at a man, also see the cute little boy operating the man-sized avatar, because that’s where we all keep our feelings.  Spending time with her kids was a lot of fun, I’ll admit.  I adored them and still think of them sometimes.  The oldest was 13, and we were an even match in basketball.  (We spent more energy on talking shit than playing, though.)

The middle boy was 9ish.  It’s possible he was sweeter than Amelia Bedelia is now, and that’s saying something.  The baby was 3 or 4.  We used to watch music videos of The Boys, our mutually adored band, then dance in front of the mirror.  She was adorable and fascinating.  I was awestruck by how developed her personality was at such a young age.  She’s an incredible woman now, just like her mom.

It was the first and last time I abused a man.  It’s hard to see young women and girls make the mistakes I did and not intervene, but I’m nobody’s SSG, and this isn’t the military.  It’s easy to copy the behaviors and words we see on TV and in movies.  Especially those of us on the autism spectrum.  I couldn’t communicate with people if I couldn’t study actors to show me how and teach me the scripts.  Naturally, I assume everyone uses this tool to some degree.  🙃

Not everything we see actors do on TV is things we can copy, for many reasons.  There has to be a consideration in real life, because of real feelings.  No matter how someone looks on the outside, they’re still that adorable child (often operating their adult avatar.)  I don’t need help remembering anymore, but you know what I did.  I’m super thankful my SSG took the time to teach me this vital life lesson.  Hopefully, others can benefit as well, (without getting peed on.)

“It’s like a sauna in here.”

Robot hand holding disintigrating clock

I’m missing my brother, Steve.  He didn’t wake up after his fourth open-heart surgery in Rochester, MN.  It still hurts to think about the time surrounding his passing.  The year following was the saddest so far.  After that, I was able to function externally without weeping.  It’s been over a decade since, but it still feels like I left my life for that year.  I was a shadow and grief was my only sound.

The following year my mom died from colon cancer.  Two years after that, my little sister, Heather, passed unexpectedly.  Then my dad died several months later.  It was a rough five years, I’m sure.  Right now, I can only pinpoint the moment when my brain decided protective measures were necessary to maintain equilibrium.  I call it the Numbness Effect.

The moment is a mental audio file, now.  It’s the sound of a surgeon telling me he can’t cure my mom’s cancer.  I also remember my mom waking up and asking for me like she had a nightmare.  It was just before Thanksgiving, and my heart fell out of my chest and plummeted to the center of the earth.  Then all the things that were poking at me suddenly ceased.  The tag in my shirt, the bright lighting, the odors, and all the sounds.

I felt lots of things but wasn’t able to identify them.  It was as if they were too far away for me to see them with my crappy vision.  But mostly I felt numb and empty.  The place where my heart used to reside kept threatening to become a vacuum bent on sucking me up into nothingness.  I honed my automatic-pilot abilities to a micron-thin edge.  It was much like my final year of military service, only the university edition.

I’d make an excellent human robot.  Unfortunately, there’s no joy in it.  I won’t do life without it.  I enjoy making a little bit go a long way, but there has to be some.  I think this is a consequence of reading voraciously and observing more than participating.  And overthinking, but I haven’t discovered a non-invasive means of turning off my thoughts while maintaining the ability to turn them on again.  (I learned the hard gross way NEVER to perform self-surgery.)

We ordered in Chinese food for dinner.  The delivery was by someone I went to school with until junior high.  He was a combination of Owen Meany (from A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving) and Chucky from Child’s Play.  I was utterly fascinated by him: his voice, his cauliflower ear, and his coke-bottle glasses that were always filthy.  He seems to be a neat adult, unsurprisingly.  He remembered me.  We talked about Steve for a bit.  They were friends until he passed.  It was nice to see him.  I wish I didn’t tell him I thought of him recently, though.  I suspect it made it weird.  (I sucked at hiding the fact I was fascinated by someone in elementary school.  Pshhh.  I probably still do.)  😂  I’m off to color with M.

chuckyfinger