“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.

“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.)

“I would be friends with Stalin if he had a ping pong table.”

Welp.  I’m in a dark place mentally.  Surprisingly, I confided in M., (probably because he’s my fiance now, and I’m starting to comprehend it.)  I showed him the articles from mainstream media sources demonstrating the police have been told to shoot blacks on sight.  It sounds unbelievable, but do a search, and you’ll find articles about a cop who held a black man at gunpoint for 9 minutes because he was black.

The black man handled the situation like a rock star.  He remained calm (on the outside) while asking the cop why he was escalating the situation by pointing his gun at the passenger of a car driven by a white male on a standard traffic stop.  The only thing this man did was ride in a car while being black.  The cop spent 9 minutes debating whether or not this non-offense justified murdering him.  I happen to know there’s more than one article, (because I’m black, and even I couldn’t fucking believe it without corroborating evidence.)

That’s enough for me to recognize cops have been told to shoot blacks on sight.  But there’s more.  Sigh.  A cop recently assured a white woman she could calm down and stop panicking because they only kill black people.  I shit you not.  Look it up.  So, yeah.  Cops have been told to kill black people on sight.  Needless to say, it’s led me to make some adjustments.  I think this is at the core of what’s triggered me.  I’m a black woman.  When I hear sirens, it’s not only rational but wise to prepare myself for impending murder.

I guess it doesn’t qualify to be called a trigger because my reaction is spot on.  It’s an early warning system.  I feel better about it, now.  I know in Sioux Falls, the police haven’t murdered any black people for being black in the recent past, (my lifetime.)  It’s good to know, but I also know Jeff Sessions hadn’t given them the green light to become consequence-free murderers at that point.   I nearly hate that lying, Elmer Fudd-looking fuckwad.  (Not enough to acknowledge his existence very often, fortunately.)

So in light of recent revelations, I’m preparing to walk away from my life.  Well…  Hopefully drive away, but walking is still an option.  I have a particular destination.  I’m going off the grid.  I’m unplugging myself from society because I don’t want to be murdered for the pigmentation level of my skin.  (What a fucked up reason to die.)  I can’t say I did nazi this coming.  I predicted 45 would insist on being the king, and do away with elections altogether back when Deez Nutz was the leading Republican candidate.  (I was half kidding.)

Naturally, I’m extremely pissed off.  While I’m mildly excited and see it as an adventure where I get to use the skills I learned in the Army, I’m angry I have to share this planet with hateful murderers who are willfully ignorant, and barely qualify as homo sapiens.  As I’ve stated in the past, I consider troglodytes expendable.  So much so, I’ll be carrying an M-16 A2 and two modified 80-round cartridges at all times in my new home, (just like the good old days.)  🙄

I’m pissed I had to buy a fucking weapon and ammunition while a citizen in good standing in an allegedly first world country.  This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.  I pay taxes so I can let the police and military deal with weapons.  I’m a civilian.  This is bullshit.  But I’m not going to die easily over bullshit.  I’m going to take out as many Nazis as I can, and I can hit anything within… I’ll keep that to myself.  Suffice to say, for someone who hates violence and primitive behavior, I’m lethal as fuck.  I know.  It’s weird.  (I was surprised by this, too.  And a lot uncomfortable.)

I have incredible faith in my training and a decade of practice.  There will be fewer Nazis when I go out.  You’re welcome.  I’m livid because I’m about to go on permanent guard duty because the GOP put a known criminal in the highest office (again, and several other governmental positions to boot.)  It was a deliberate act of evil based on greed and hatred.  Fuck the GOP.  It’s the KKK in different uniforms.  They don’t even deny it.

I knew I was a short-timer.  My body has been insisting I’m ending soon for months now.  I usually joke about it, because I’m still trying to adjust to evil being interchangeable with Christian conservative.  I did nazi that coming.  (It will never get old for me, sorry.)  I totally fell for Christianity.  I blame my forced indoctrination, (but who’s counting.)  I think I wavered so long because I know people who genuinely believe, and live like real Christians.  I love the shit out of them for it.  (It’s an excellent argument for belief.)

Unfortunately, the vast majority are fakes only interested in the status, not the lifestyle.  It’s a constant, loud, belligerent rebuttal.  Plus, Joel Osteen and his ilk.  (Holy shit!)  Most atheists were indoctrinated Christians at some point.  Ex-Catholics make up a huge portion.  Getting raped by your spiritual leader does it every single time.  Statistically, it’s ridiculous, and it makes me sad.

I wanted to be a Christian.  I live like a Christian, but I don’t believe.  (I just think Jesus’ word in the Holy Bible is a wise doctrine regarding how to avoid being an asshole on a crowded planet, sometimes.)  Plus, a lot of our laws are clearly based on it, so it’s a convenient way to avoid becoming a slave in a for-profit prison.

For those who just thought to themselves, “She doesn’t act like a Christian because she drops f-bombs like there’s a prize”:  Fuck you.  Fuck is a great word.  It’s not taking an imaginary entities name in vain, (which I don’t do out of respect for those who believe.)  It’s the only curse I refuse to use.  Welp… I won’t use the C-word either.  Ew.  I’m fortunate because my fiance insists on going with me.  I have to admit, my heart melted into a puddle of love when he informed me.

If I weren’t black, I wouldn’t be doing this with a weapon.  I’d still be going off the grid, but while maintaining a presence in society, and communication with relatives.  The richest force behind this coup is Putin’s desire to be the oil god of earth.  He’s not going to do it with my assistance, thankyouverymuch.  Hence, fuck the grid.  Solar will suffice until I finish designing me-powered gadgets.  Finally, my incessant pacing while stressed will pay off, when I hack my new hallway with piezoelectric transducers.  It will take time to get set up, so I’ll post updates that aren’t too risky.  (I don’t think many read my blog, so I’m not overly concerned.)

So that’s how my day has been.  Fucking yay.  I’m off to beat my drums like an angry black woman.

 

But I don’t wanna be a pirate!

I’ve devised a new bribe to get myself to exercise.  If I run on my treadmill, I can watch music videos and interviews.  I just need to go a bit slower to prevent vertigo.  I don’t have a forgiving space to land in if I go flying off the back.  I have a credenza full of quilting supplies.  (It would probably only hurt my ego.)  I have an oddly shaped room over a stairwell, (which is the only reason I don’t feel guilty about running in my apartment.)  Nobody uses that stairwell, anyway.  My near-neighbors are funny to me.  I’ve seen most of them working out in the gym, at the pool, on the bike trails, etc., but they all use the elevators religiously.

I’m going to go ahead and apologize in advance for the length of this post.  I’ve been living in my head all weekend because my niece is visiting.  She’s the niece that’s older than me and used to beat me up, (because isn’t that fucking hilarious.  🙄)  She asked me earlier why I never seem to relax.  In my head, Michelle Obama and Lisa Bloom both looked at me and mouthed, “Don’t answer.”  So I’m bugging you instead.  Nope.  They didn’t say, “Don’t blog.”  🙃

LAS VEGAS, NV – MAY 26: Drummer Mick Fleetwood of Fleetwood Mac performs at the MGM Grand Garden Arena on May 26, 2013, in Las Vegas, Nevada. (Photo by Ethan Miller/Getty Images)

Mick Fleetwood looks a lot like my dad did now, which is an awful lot like Santa Claus.  Cool.

Oh yeah, I promised to tell my cocaine story.  In the Army, when you get promoted to SGT, you have to dump all your friends who aren’t SGT’s.  When I got promoted, the woman who dropped me as a friend when she got promoted became my mentor while I made the transition.  I was delighted to be able to hang out with her again.  She’s probably in the top five coolest people I’ve ever met.  Anyway, the night of my promotion, she invited me to hang out.  I accepted.

I didn’t even realize the NCO’s (non-commissioned officers) were coming together to celebrate my promotion until they brought out the cake.  It was the point where my being upset over losing my few friends became, “Oh wow, I’m an NCO now.”  It felt pretty good to have them acknowledge my achievement.  The only thing I’d ever actually said to most them before was, “Yes, SGT.”  Soon, bottles of beer were passed around, (and I passed because I don’t drink.)  No problem, no pressure, yay.  We listened to music, and they shared stories while I sat listening in awe.

After a while, the SSG (who totally looked like an Ewok, and made me dig a 6′ x 6′ x 6′ hole for pointing it out,) started passing around a picture he took off the wall with lines of cocaine on it.  They passed it around to everyone.  Everything seemed to be in slow motion to me, as my brain sorted through what was going on.  By the time the picture came to me, I knew the wisest choice was to follow suit.  In hindsight, I think it was a test.  But I’m not sure.  Anyway, my ignorant ass took the rolled up dollar bill with shaking hands, arranged a neat line with the razor, and blew it all off the picture.  Sigh.

There was a pause.  To me, it was excruciatingly long, but it probably wasn’t in reality.  Then my mentor punched me in the shoulder while they all laughed weirdly.  (Look.  If you’re not supposed to blow it, then why the fuck do they call it blow?  Which is more logical?  Snorting it up your nose?  Or following the obvious instructions in the nickname?  I still haven’t managed to live it down…)  I just wish more care was taken in naming things, that’s all.  So that pretty much ended the party, but the cake was delish.

The reason I knew I had to go along was this:  These men and women were the backbones of my unit.  They literally ran it from day to day and kept us prepared to deploy to war with 72 hours notice at all times.  Accusing them of using an illicit drug, (a career ending mistake), wasn’t an option.  Fortunately, I was fresh out of leadership training and was able to recognize it immediately.  The unwritten rules.  Had I refused to go along, I would have separated myself from the NCO’s, and become a pariah.  When I was a private, my instinct would have been to refuse and report.

If it was a test, I passed, (but barely.)  I’ve never actually ingested cocaine.  That’s the only time anyone ever offered me any.  Oh no, wait.  When I visited the aquarium in the inner harbor in Baltimore, some random guy waved at me to step outside, so I did.  Then he asked me if I wanted some crack.  I didn’t understand the question, so he walked away.  Now I know what crack is, so that’s my only other experience with it.  I’m a weed only woman.  I’ll vape cannabis, but no on the rest.  (And only in states where it’s legal, because the consequences are out of the question, and a cop could stare a confession out of me in five minutes.  Okay, less.)

It feels like aliens poking at my body.

CW:  suicide, PTSD symptoms (Skip it if you’re not positive you’re up for it. 💜)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today has been rough.  I had the math isn’t real nightmare again last night.  It fucks me up every time.  It usually means my sleeping mind has penetrated my defense system, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better.  Yay. /sarcasm.  These are the times I wonder if testing medical cannabis for PTSD might be a good idea.  I know what’s coming and I’m trying not to wig out.  I’m trying not to let four letters defeat me.

When I first entered mental health services at the VA, I was told the only way to overcome PTSD was to talk about what caused it.  It sounds simple, but talking about it means thinking about it.  Thinking about it means visualizing and reliving it mentally.  Reliving it mentally means willingly stepping into the hell that fucked you up so badly, it altered the structure of your brain.  And do this with whatever mental health professional you’re assigned.  Side note:  You won’t see the same provider more than once for the first five years of your recovery.  Good luck!

I read an article in Wired magazine suggesting the retelling of traumatic events that caused PTSD retraumatizes and worsens the condition.  I gave it to the nursing staff on the mental health ward at the VA.  It aligned with what they concluded for my situation.  They weren’t surprised.  There have been visible changes at the VA since then, many improvments.  For example; the VA now acknowledges the fact women also serve.  (I mean more than just saying they do.)

They still have a way to go before the number of veterans who opt for suicide goes down.  It’s around 20 suicides a day right now.  It makes me sad, but I understand it.  When you’re the one who gives everything you have to the military, and suddenly you find yourself in a hospital, being told you’re no longer fit to serve, (because something that happened while you were honorably serving your country was more traumatic than your brain could process,) it makes a lot more sense.  It made perfect sense to me when I was told I had to go through hell again to get out of hell.  Everything within me said, “Fuck that, I’m out of here.”

I came very close to succeeding at offing myself.  My memory of the event is spotty.  I won’t go into detail, but what I remember most is the suicide prevention counselor telling me the police were surprised I survived.  It stuck with me and helped shake me out of my tunnel vision.  I was (final) acting on only my initial perspective of my situation.  It was bleak as fuck, don’t get me wrong.  However, I tried to bail before going through the entire mental exercise.  It didn’t cross my mind I might be playing tag with PTSD.

My perspective broadened, and my situation stopped appearing so black and white.  I remembered I’m a survivor;  Of course, I can handle whatever PTSD throws at me.  It’s sometimes painful, I’m rarely well rested, I startle like the calls are coming from inside the house, and I can’t watch anything with suspense or would frighten a five-year-old.  Additionally, July 1-July 10th, I have to wear noise canceling headphones all day, and earplugs all night.  I used to love fireworks.  Now they’re torture.

It’s also best for me to get out of town when the airshow is going on.  I was in Air Defense Artillery for the first five years of my service.  Nothing moves in the sky when I’m outside without my noticing (and identifying it as friend or foe.)  Probably for the rest of my life.  I used to participate in wargames at 29 Palms, California.  It’s basically the most incredible game of laser tag on earth, (tracked vehicles, copters, aircraft, huge teams,etc.)  While it’s easily in the top five most exciting things I’ve ever done, it also scared the shit out of me several times.  Let’s just say showoff pilots who do flybys of ground troops who are under camo are assholes of enormous proportion.

I know what’s coming, and part of me wants to curl up in a ball and cry.  Sigh.  Instead, I’m going to dig deep and find what I need to get through, even if it’s by the skin of my teeth.  (Who thinks of these?)  I have my Wanda Syke’s: I’ma Be Me DVD if things get too bad.  I’m going swimming with some neighbors soon.  They’re Muslim and wear suits that are quite modest.  They gave me one when I asked where to get them.  I have super nice neighbors.  I have it on now, and I like it.  It’s too humid to run outside, which sucks.  But swimming is better for me anyway.  I’m off to focus on fun like there’s a prize.