“Who leaves a country packed with ponies to come to a non-pony country?”

I made a terrible mistake in attempting to seek abuse-free care from the Sioux Falls VA.  I didn’t even realize I messed up until earlier today, roughly 24-hours before I was to meet with the Patient Care Advocacy Director and a Mental Health professional, to discuss my complaint of past abuse at the facility.  I sat down to prepare some notes on issues I wanted to address, and requests for reassurances the mistreatment would cease before I attempted seeking care again.

I didn’t get very far before I realized I was weeping.  My blood pressure spiked, and I was shaking.  All the memories I’ve spent years burying resurfaced and leveled me.  All the nasty comments I endured played out in my head all over again.  The hateful glares, the lies, the threats, and the relentless anger swept over me as if it all happened moments ago.  My resolve shattered into a million tiny pieces.

I sent the Patient Care Advocate a note, apologizing.  I told her I’m not as strong as I thought.  I feel horrible for wasting her time, but I’m unable to force myself to go back to the VA.  I’m a bit surprised by this revelation.  I’m also disappointed in myself.  I remember when I could (and did) endure anything that didn’t kill me.  I feel like I don’t know myself anymore.  I’m not who I thought I was.  I’m no longer a brave warrior who can fight through any pain or fear.  I’m the dog cowering and shaking in the corner after being kicked for too long.

car

I know I’m not the only person traumatized by alleged mental health professionals and staff.  I witnessed the abuse of patients at the VA, and have talked to others who confided in me about being mistreated there as well.  It led to a conversation about the apparent attractiveness of working in mental health wards for sociopaths and sadists.  I recall feeling validated I wasn’t the only one who noticed.  I’m relieved I know enough now to prevent further abuse.

I know never to open my door for the police.  I know if The New and Improved Depression Monster catches me to drop everything and get the hell out of South Dakota, (where it’s still 1960.) I know which questions to refuse to answer.  I understand being mentally ill is a crime, and asking for help leads to severe punishment.  Experience is an excellent teacher.  I know I’d rather die than go back to the Sioux Falls VA.  I guess I’m just another statistic, after all.

“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.