I know what’s wrong with me. I don’t think right. I have an irreconcilable difference in processing. It seems like a small glitch, but the consequences are unbearable. I don’t believe in hurting back. I doubt I’m the only one with this flaw, but I’m sure it’s not a question others would answer. (I could write a book on things not to ask.) I’ve tried several times to understand people who murderously lash out at others after being hurt by them. I avoid the news, but stories of killers who take out ever-increasing numbers of humans in rampages often seep in any way.
I reach the same conclusion each time. These killers are hurting back as hard as they can. It’s illogical, sloppy futility, but it’s far from unusual based on my observations of people. The only difference seems to be the use of extreme violence. Most hurt back in far more subtle ways. They opt for a sneakier, socially acceptable manner: Psychological warfare.
The results don’t vary (from my perspective.) The hurt people continue hurting because harming others doesn’t heal their hurt; it only increases that of their target. Some may convince themselves they feel better after seeking revenge, but I don’t buy it. Self-deception is a sad religion. I’m an unbeliever. Worse, lashing out at others for hurting me increases my pain. It’s something I learned as a young child.
I’ve lived decades beyond that lesson, so this vindictive thought process is practically imperceptible now. But I’m occasionally aware of the petty vengeance going on around me. It sometimes amuses me due to its creativity, but I usually ignore it. I observed quite a bit when I used Twitter. It fascinated me for a brief time. The passive aggressiveness was stunning. I quickly recognized the depth of my unsophistication. It amplified my sense of alienation from humanity. I don’t think this way, and it makes me incompatible.
I feel almost like a perpetually deserving victim. I won’t hit back, which seems to be sufficient justification for being punched in the first place on this planet. E.T. phone home, please.
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.
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)
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. (Yep. I’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.)