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If ONLY somebody had fucked warned us!

I have the flu, so I'm on my frickin' phone, feverish, getting a headache from trying to focus my eyes, so don't expect italics or any fancy shit right now. Also, I fuvking HATE being sick. I have a new caulk gun. I know there's a few peoople who could use a rectal caulking but leave that to SNL, I guess.

So, fuck your protest vote. I don't care if you're a woman.

When a SCOTUS seat and peoples' basic humanity is at stake, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A PROTEST VOTE.

And now LOOK AT US.

You happy now? Got enough attention?

There was never any Uranium One. The emails were bullshit, as was whining over the war vote, because Bernie voted for a LOT of war-related stuff. Oh, but he didn't vote THAT ONE TIME FOR THAT ONE THING and when she says she regrets it it's because she's lying? Do you realize how Trumpian that is?

The sexism on the Left is worse than the sexism on the right because at least they're honest. The left is not. 2016: "Oh, I'd totally vote for Warren if I could!" 2019: "I just don't like her, she's not....likeable." While she has that vagina, you mean. While she's of an age where she doesn't fit in with any of those acceptible roles you have for women: young hotties you should feel guilty about,
potential dates, hot professors, maybe that divorced neighbor, that coworker you might fuck if you're given a chance....but any woman older than THAT? Older than you? Ew, disgusting, that's my mom's age, get it away!

And as for the lefty women who joined in that dogpile? You can throw as many other women under the bus you want, but you're still going to wind up there yourself. There's a lot of guys who tell themselves that they're not driving the bus, so they're not at fault for all those women, but they change the oil, fill the gas tank, rotate the tires, and pay the driver's salary.

And they hint that if "you're one of the guys" you might get to climb on and have a seat, instead of chasing after. Yeah, that's a lie, but it's better than dealing with the truth, which is that more men hate women than not, and on the left, the hatred is hidden by denial and cries of "reverse sexism". Lefty men have learned that they need Reichwing men because that way they can keep the bar low. Instead of treating women fairly, you get, "Well, I'm better than Trump, aren't I?" ------and then he goes off on a spittle-flecked rant about Hillary Clinton is evil, somehow, in a way he can't put his finger on. But he resents you asking, because you're supposed to take his word for it.

Ever notice how a guy can have one bad experience with a women and it's totally okay for him to hate all women? If a woman has a bad experience with a man, it's her fault. SHE did something wrong. He's taken out of the equation, kind of like how NOBODY is suggesting in any of these anti-abortion states that maybe men should be punished, too. Men who refuse tou use birth control or sabotage it. Men who *pretend* to use birth control, but discard it. Men who rape. Men who tell themselves it's not rape because "she didn't say no." Men who have one political party when it comes to women: keep power. That's all. Keep power.

And now they've done it. See, the thing those nice lefty boys don't want you to know it, even if they engage in big‐S sexism like the Reich, they still benefit mightily from ut. There's no refuge for women where they don't have to fight every bloody day. Sexism that keeps the standards for men low means women have nowhere to go, can't ask for better, can't trust men. If men REALLY gave a shit about women, it would be WOMEN who mattered to them, not their hurt feelings. "You were mean to me, feminazis, so I'm going to vote for Trump!" is not something an actually ally would say. This was a guy who got caught loading up his plate at Craft Services and got angry when asked to show his swipe card.

And now? Look around. How many dead women are walking around now, not knowing that they are the next Savita Hallapanovar or Gerri Santoro or Becky Bell or Rosie Jiminez.

When Becky Bell dued, anti choicers attacked her and her parents, trying to deny an illegal abortion killed her. Now they just don't care. They dismiss facts as "fake news", led by that dictator cock holster they call President.

The Trumpies like hurting people. They like that aspect of abortion. Stop trying to educate them. They know all this stuff, they just reject it because facts are a barrier to them, not a stepping stool.

The fake lefty "allies" try to co-opt it, make it a cause they can wave around, even though they had the chance to end it three years ago and refused. It just didn't matter enough.

So now the fight begins. What are you going to do?

In other news....

So, hey, in a combination of "cheap date" and "how's THAT for a change of subject?" I just got a sink plunger and OMG this thing is amazing. I can hardly wait to try and use it on the other house's drains.

Yeah, I know, I know....

Two more utility bills arrived this week for HER, and P wants me to somehow find $200 for Greyhound and $250 for Uhaul to come down next week to do more cleaning.

It just keeps going on and ON.

I'm worn out and I have a really bad cold that makes me cough a lot.
I mean, I assume there's one where cats exchange tips about that "sucker over there who's really embracing the old lady without fucks". Why can't there be a secret meeting place where cats can look at THIS?

Yeah, THAT is a suffering cat.

Here they are, again, "helping." I can't move certain boxes because the kitties think they make GREAT sunbathing beds.



.....so mysterious, aloof, dignified, inscrutable....


So, since about Saturday, I've been struggling with serious dizziness, to the point of having to hold onto things to keep from pitching over. That hasn't slways worked; I've had perhaps five falls since this began.

I went in for a checkup yesterday and they insisted on me going to the Er. Still don't know WTF is wrong, even after a CT. Vertigo? Some weird "corner" in one artery? Beats me. Still don't know. I associate this kind of dizziness with one of those awful headaches. There's also the fact that my family has a history of strokes. Soooo......
Let me get this straight. The Mueller Report totally exonerated Twitler, but he doesn't want it shown.

Yeah. Uh huh. That's like, "I TOTALLY have a hot girlfriend. She lives in....Canada. Yeah. You wouldn't know her."

Today, Stephanie Ruhle pointed out that one in six judges will be Twitler-appointed. Judges like the guy who released a school bus driver who raped a 14-year-old girl because there was only one victim. So, rape somebody, the first one's free? With ten, what do you get? The Presidency, two SCOTUS seats, the end of abortion rights, and a coup because it's not like somebody warned us, was it?

I thought then and my belief has only been confirmed since that when the "Grab them by the pussy" tape came out, that really helped Twitler's chances, at least among guys who think sexually-assaulting women should be legal. There's no political party affiliation for that one, not as long as liberal dewdz judge themselves against Reichwing predators and think that stubbing their toe on THAT low bar means they were wounded fighting for womens' rights, where's their cookies?

Can we end the pretense of explaining shit to Reichwingers? They KNOW ending abortion will kill women. That's their goal. Once that seal's broken, she's damaged goods. Notice how punishing impregnators is NEVER on the table? Yeah, if they DID think abortion was murder, those guys would be getting their scarlet letters on their chests, too, for depraved indifference or conspiracy or accessory before the fact. The way the Reichwing wants it, women get themselves pregnant. Guess unless a star rises over Bethlehem we're all fucked.

The only reason the RW is trying so hard to kill women is because they can't just haul us out to the parking lot and shoot us there, like they do in Saudi Arabia. Plus liberals will say nasty things about them, at least till the uppity women are gone.


You're not progressive if you use sexism to falsely accuse women, knowing that women still cannot accurately men and not be hated for it. And if you don't know this, you haven't paid enough attention. Yeah, don't @me, Berniacs or Johnny Depp fans. (And, no, half of DV victims are NOT men. That's pure MRA trash, why are you falling for it? Only CTS studies make that claim. Thanks for playing.)

The liberal poseurs need the Reichwingers so they look good by comparison. Meanwhile, remember all those dewdz in 2016 who'd "totally" vote for Hartis or Warren "if they could"? Yeah, they can now.

And they're saying the same shit now that they did about Hillary.


Mamakitty came running and chatting to me the other day, just like she used to! Even Jackie came close and deigned to investigate my hand, though he found it wanting. Romeo is still hanging back, as if *I* bit him instead of the other way around, but still....it's progress.

The rest of the bunch are training vigorously for the napping Olympics.

May. 6th, 2019

Jeez, I had to get in a tug-o-war with Morgie to get my undies today. My life, let me show you it.

Apr. 30th, 2019

So Herself thinks "well, you had to have the heat on for the cats," is a reasonable excuse for not paying the $477 electric/gas bill she left behind.The cats who she treated horribly and who were not the ones leaving seven or eight lights on literally 24/7, because she knew she wasn't going to pay the bill.


Half the shit in my storage locker is *hers.* Went down last week and rented another van, and got a look inside. $172 a month.

I gave her notice to get her shit out of the locker and house and she thinks she can take over the locker account once I vacate it and not have to move her shit. But the management has to inspect it and it has to be empty. Plus I wonder if her friends are going to pay for her to Uber 200 each way? Sparkly fragile Munchausen-by-Proxy-Server-Princesses don't ride Greyhound. I can just IMAGINE her trying to tell somebody her absolutely fascinating life story to somebody on a Greyhound.

I finally ordered another trash can for the house because a dumpster would be too big and too expensive. I can put out the trash on trash day if fifteen minutes and have another full load in a few hours.

I found video of her bitching about me on the security camera and calling me a "fucking bitch" and saying something about the storage locker was me being "petty." I hear she's telling people that it looked like that when she moved in, which is odd, because I recycle obsessively, hate yogurt, carry out garbage, don't drink 2% milk, and clean litter boxes, and vacuum.

Another part of the video was her sneering, "Can you believe I paid rent here and she never gave me a key?!"

The day she moved out, she tossed the swt of keys I'd had made for her on my lap. You have to marvel at somebody who lies so easily and proficiently.She just says what works for her. The truth doesn't matter.

Her friends rented a moving truck for her and of course she manafed to make more mess on the way out. There were eight or nine empty containers of litter in her room, plus at least a half a dozen bags of dirty litter. I filled TWO vacuum cleaner bags on that carpet, and I'm STILL not done.

When I pointed out all the trash, she whined----in a very impatient, exaspersted, plantation princess way----"but there's bins outside!"

And HOW does trash get from the second floor to.the bins? Fairies?

She expected me to wait on her hand and foot. Do her dishes, wash her clothes, pick up her trash where she threw it, take out her recycling, take out her trash, pay her bills-----all the while with her whining and moaning about her "illnesses."

The security cameras tell a different story.

She strides around, bends over, picks up stuff, throws stuff, climbs over her mountains of shit, and there's nary a single moan or groan. And she calls me a bitch constantly, while she lies about me in the house she trashed.

I found THAT in my desk drawer after she moved out.

I had somebody comment that "This is the picture of depression and you're shaming her, posting these picturrs on the internet!"

Are you fucking KIDDING ME?

You know who's depressed at having her house trashed? THAT'S depression. Her chaos? That's raging selfishness and self pity.

I'm in the process of finding a new doctor. I was describing my headaches---flashing lights, blindness, light and sound cause agony, icepick stabbing pains----and the doc straightforward said, "Sounds like classic migraines."

I mentioned "levels", which is a reference to G.'s constant excuses: "I have a level 7 migraine today,"----while she plays on her computer, suts in the sun, reads her Kindle, snacks, (and then throws the peels or containers or tops on the floor), and watches TV----and the doc kind of shook her head like it was a stupid question. "No such thing." You either have a migraine or you don't.

Garbage day is tomorrow. She moved out three weeks ago. I'm STILL throwing out her trash, and just SCRUBBING. She better get her shit out of that locker by Friday, because the locker place requires notice. Who's going to sweep out after her shit? Who's going to MOVE her shit from my house? Are her gullible friends going to pay for that, too-----but not for the utility bills sge refused to pay?(She used to whine abojt how she had to repay the friends who rented the moving truck.....but not me. Never me. I guess once a mark exposes her for what she is, all bets are off.

Something else, too. I'm sure she has the aches and pains of age, but judging from the videos and lies, she exaggerates and fakes it only when there's witnesses. Oh, and she KNEW and approved of the security cameras because I kept having her adjust and reconnect them. She DID try and obscure them, though, as time went on.

She only sympathized wuth people to give herself a chance to talk about herself. We were watchibg a news story about those awful California wildfires and in seconds, she was talking about a flood that happened sixty years ago, in New York state, to HER. That means she changed the subject from one extreme to another, from one side of the country to the other, from the present to tge past, and from the many people being affected to.....just one person. Her.

I started bringing up the Cretateous Period just to see if she could make that about herself, too.

Every time I look at what she did to my beloved house----I love that house. And she almost literally shit all over it.

Dumpsters and Divas

So it costs $500 to rent a dumpster. This, if you're keeping track, is in addition to the $477 electric bill that Glinda is refusing to pay, or the water bill, or fixing the dishwasher----if it CAN be fixed. Then there's the fridge, plus the sheer mountain of cleaning bills.

Meanwhile she's calling me a fucking bitch but pretending to be nice on text.

That's the stove.

I could go on and on and on but I'm no delicate princess like her. She made such a mess of my house and is leaving me so many bills it might very well cost me the house and my credit, but that's okay, because I'm a big evil meanie for pointing out shit like this.


Can you share this around? I really need that dumpster but she's the sparkly fragile princess----not me.


It looks like she killed a brand new fridge, too. I'm just worn out.

I texted her yesterday to leave a certain porch door unlocked. She answered, then texted me further.

The door was locked.

I pounded for damned near forty minutes. "Buh---buh---buh----?" She asked

It's kind of scary when a bad liar keeps trying, even after they know you know.
. "I texted you," I said.

"I didn't get it."

"You answered."

"I didn't----"

"Stop. Just stop."

Still trying to get a handle on the filthy mess she made of my house. She broke my dishwasher. How do you even DO that?"

Well ......

Yeah, this sucks.

A few years back, I made a promise to a long time friend. "You'll never be homeless," I said. Several months back, she called in the promise. She described an evil new (probably) Republican building manager, who demanded she get rid of a certain percentage of her beloved books. It was almost cartoonishly evil. I now have very good reason to suspect it's enitely untrue.

The first day, she took.to her bed, leaving a couple of people to unload a 25 foot truck after sniffing that the basement "smelled." (Lysol sucks.) She was near tears and, well, and something about the display hinted it would only getbworse. The boxes were at least eighteen inches by eighteen inches and incredibly heavy, especially for someone with a torn rotator cuff, a bad back, and a weak meniscus. I finally rented a small storage locker. I got her out of bed to help point out where stuff went. At one pount, she came out to the truck to check on her stuff. Not us. Her stuff. I asked her to get me a bittle of water. She was scannung her precious stuff. *So-and-so will get it," she said.

That was the day she made her first suicide threat. It was over a computer. It was....troubling. You'd think when somebody takes you in, you'd be...
appreciative. Instead, she got emotional to the point of tears. She shouted that I WOULD call some person.....somewhere else.....who didn't own my house.....for huh?

To make a long story short, I was trapped elsewhere by the suckiest of bad weather. For months. I took sympathy on her after another complaint by her about her old building manager, who was unfairly holding onto her security deposit. With het sitting next to me, I asked her fie that ohone number. "I'm going to get your money back," I said. That was how I found out it was "nonpayment." Months later, she attacked me over that, rewriting it as a "boundary violation." That's something she does, quite frequently, along with the suicide threats.

She claimed she had migraines like I did, but she sat or laid in the sun, snacking, reading, watching movies, but moaning when the subject of chores came up. That was a pattern. Her illnesses----unlike mine----only curtailed her ability to do chores. She ordered brandy snifters and a fancy teapot instead of paying bills. She would scream and sob when you asked her to clean up her mess, crying dramatically about how she was useless. I got the impression I was to console her. Then later, she'd sing out gaily, "I'm useless, get used to it!" She slept till the afternoon, then got up, fed herself----using my dishes, which ahe piled in the sink and refused to wash because of some injury. She also refused to do anything for anyone else. She wouldn't do dishes, laundry, housework, and got furious when I pointed out that her "injuries" were causing me pain. It became apparent she would only permit you to say anything is she wanted somethibg from you.

I went back to the house a few days ago. She had refused to pay the utility bill. "But you said I didn't have to pay the utilities!"

"I said THE RENT."

She texted back, "So ....you didn't mean it. I guess I shouldn't be suprised."

That accusation was so extraordinarly dishonest and manipulative my jaw dropped. It implied that she was used to betrayal from me, that I had broken promises before, that she was inured to it. When I texted her back furiously, her response was also a master class in things that I can't even name. "I...whatever I say is wrong. Ditto saying nothing." How about the truth? How about stop this....what even IS thos shit?

The porch was jammed with Amazon boxes, and I found, bags upon bags of dirty cat litter. It took hours to break down them all. Finally, I went inside.

Beside the front door were two garbage bags full of rotten cat food cans.

In the corner of the living room was my grandmother's chair. My little Egyptian inlaid mother-of-pearl table was covered with...things. The floor was worse. I saw smeared paper plates, discarded clear plastic takeout containers, small square takeout boxes from some restaurant VERY far away, fast food takeout bags also from faraway shops, smeared glass dishes, discarded metal and pkastic forks, sticky smears on the floor itself, Amazon paper packing material, empty Amazon boxes, drink cups and soda cans everywhere, fruit rinds and large areas of crumbs and discarded chips. There were pudding cups, yogurt containers, their lids, and that plastic film that seals the container. I found the tops of ice cream containers I had bought. The floor crunched and rustled as I walked. Later on, as I collected three bags of trash, I'd find cheese and a hard, partially peeled orange.

The parlor was entirely blocked off by Amazon boxes. In the dining room, garbage bags stuck to the floor and the drift of bills and dishes and empty cans and newspaper ads prevebted one from getting to the window.

I had found her an apartment to live. April 1st. She was supposed to be packing. Instead, she was using a cat tree as a shelf for tacky fast food souvenir glasses.

I pulled one of the garbage bags off the floor.

It contained three of four rotten milk bottles, swollen and leaking. The floor beneath them was moist. I saw a plate upside down on the floor.

In the kitchen, the stove was piled with cooking pabs, including a turkey roaster I was genuinely afraid to open. The counter next to stoce was piled with those little brown grocery bags. The stove top was itself sneared with several differnt colors.

The top of the little fridge was crowded with more swollen milk bottles, a broken bowl of mine, open packages of cheese and yogurt and dip. The fridge itself could barely be closed.The table nect to it contained a sausage, a package of corned beef that required refrigeration, packages of bread, more soda cans, and God knows what else. There was also a milk bottle dated early December and lsyered in several strata. The top one was nearly clear. I spotted more milk bottles in the wrecksge, along with more soda cans, yogurt containers, cans, can lids, yogurt lids, and a package of cheese. Aparently when sheq opened or finished a container, she tossed all the componebts on the floor.

That was my little antique formica table. My ex neighbor gave it to me. It wasn't glamirous but I loved it.

The kitchen sink contsined two inches of brown, indescrible-smelling brown fluid, and heaps of rotten meat. The counter was piled with my dishes and crumbs, ripped pieces of packaging plastic, and God knows what else.

I noticed a handle sticking out of the cupboard. Perched on my plates was a frying pan. It contained two rotting and green pieces of chicken, plus two desdicated pieces of bacon.

The floor in front of the kitchen sink crunched under the feet. There were black and brown smears everywhere.

On the side porch was s knee-high pile or rotting cat food cans.

I can't even describe the center of the kitchen. The garbage can had apparently bern for weeks.

In her room, cat shit and wet black litter were scattered on the hard wood floors and my Persian rugs.

"You need to clean this up, you're damaging my floors!"

"Get used to it, Laundry Maid," she said from the bed I will have to burn. It was at least eight o'clock, and instead of corralling the foster kitties, I was trying to clear a path through the house.

In the center of her room was ! mounnd of clothes snd catalogs and bedding and delapidted....things. My desk and Indian chest sge'd been using were caked with filth, and cat food----dry snd wet----were ground into the carpet by her bed.

The ferals' litter boxes were surtounded by swathes of lit and were full of solid cakes of litter. I had been paying a girl $15 a day three times a werk to scoop litter boxes.

"Get used to it, Lsundry Maid."

So. This is what I have to do. She owes $477 for gas and electric, $67 for water, and God knows how much it will take to haul away the trash. Oh, and I found a kitchen-sized garbage can outside her bedroom, filled witj at least another five or six bags of dirty litter.

The lower tracks in the dishwasher are gone. They will have to be repaired or the dishwasher replaced. I don't know how much it will cost to much out tje house I'd hoped to sell-----and she KNEW I wanted to sell it. "Oh, by the way," she said casually one day, "You have to pay for my move." Originally, my idea had been to buy a duplez in a quiet small town. These expenses might very well force me into foreclosure. She is supposed to.move April 1st, but obviously is not packing or doing anything toward that end. I found her an apartment, but she's one of those people wh1o leaves dirty dishes in t1he sink,11 knowing others will finally need the sink. Oh, yeah, the sink. Jesus. (I partially cleared the drain, but....I'm not a plumber, and I suspect this is a job for a plumber.)

Under the table.

If you can help any, I'd appreciate it.



So Mike Flynn was plotting to kidnap Fethullah Gullah and render him to Turkey's Erdogan, who would certainly arrest and railroad him, possibly torture him, and quite possibly execute him.

For money.

Meanwhile Turkey is appalled that the Sauds murdered Jamal Khashaggi on Turkish soil. Why? Do they get a commission for every murder or something?

Where does one start with this? Well, for starrers, Flynn did not "make a mistake." Choosing whole wheat instead of rye is a mistake. Plotting to murder an American resident (for twenty years) for money and deliver him to certain torture and imprisonment by a dictator is a whole seties of decisions.

I don't even have tome today top enumerate all of Flynn's "mistakes", but I might later.


They're together now. I don't know about heaven for people, but there has to be one for pets


Fred 2010--2018

Fred, in the sun, with bunneh feetz



Well, Fred has cancer. It could be a week, it could be....who knows. I'm giving him what amounts to kitty morphone for the diarhea pain. He had to get the cone of shame again. I just.....He's six. The bills are....huge. letting them go at twice that age is hard enough, but this? I just want some time to cuddle him and spoil him, but there will be no chemotherapy. That would terrify him, make him feel awful, require him to go to The Sharp Place every week, and for what? Pure selfishness on my part to take that route.

No. He gets chicken and tuna and snuggles and naps in the sun. When the time comes, it will be at home.


Keep your fingers crossed

He's home. I finally took the cone off and put on the baby onesie. Now he feels better enough that he's getting on my last fucking nerve--------trying to chew his way through the vetrap. Sigh. If he doesn't watch himself, I'm whipping out the pink fluffy flower collar.


You guys should know, whoever's still reading, all seven of you.

Fred's in the hospital. He'd started to lose weight. They found a tumor. They had to remove part of his intestine. My two regular vets told me they'd either A.Call me; or B;be around so I didn't have to go to the vet. 5,000 dollars later.....both of themcan go fuck themselves.

More than one kind of bomb

Well, fuck it.

I tried to kill myself a few times. The VA had turned me down several times, my untreated panic attacks had turned into agoraphobia, I had lost my job because of said panic attacks, and I didn't know that what was happening to me was PTSD. The VA was not eager to diagnose this.

The signiture weapon of that war was the IED, the Impromised Explosive Device, usually concealed at the side of or in the road itself. Lots of veterans came back from that war flinching at trash bags, mailboxes, or stranded vehicles. (The Hurt Locker, which was set in the time and place where I was, is utter trash, by the way.)

I felt fine for the first few months home. A big kid came charging at my back door one day and I lefted the Iraqi officer's sword I'd just unpacked and unsheathed it as far as the doorway allowed. That distinctive ringing of sword rattling against the scabbard made quite the impression. He about-faced like a humingbird and disappeared. The refrain, "What are you going to do, shoot me?" Started to pop up in conversation. Been there, done that. Tee shirt.

Then the time changed and I started going home at night on the bus. That had been my decompression time, relaxing mindlessly till I got home. One night after getting off work, I started having tunnel vision, difficulty breathing, distorted hearing, a feeling that there was a belt around my chest. I got off the bus to throw up in a MacDonald's restroom.

It didn't happen every time. For a while. Then it did. It seemed to take hours to get home or get to work. One day I splurged on a cab. Then again. It worked for a while. Then it didn't. Then I had a panic attack at work. I passed out. The boss stopped returning my calls.

Only later when an NCO saw this did anybody tell me these were panic attacks. The city buses at the time smelled and sounded exactly like an armored Humvee, a sound I hear in my nightmares.

Another time, I had the same symptoms at home. I rushed through the house, aware enough to realize something was wrong. I happened to catch a glimpse through the front door. Out in the street, a road crew was filling a pot hole. What do you think it smells like when a bomb blows up under soft asphalt at about 6,000 fahrenheit? It's not something you notice at that moment. You're too busy concentrating on other things.

The nightmares were indescribable. I would relive things I experienced in Iraq, except I would either see certain death approach, or have to watch other people would die. The more fond I was of them, the more horrible were their deaths. I served with human beings who didn't strut around like movie heroes. Well, okay, there was one guy who approached our sardonic XO one day. "I just lifted more weights than I ever have!"

"I don't care."

There's an intimacy in nearly-getting-killed-together that erases a lot of barriers. Shakespeare was so right that I sometimes wonder if he were a soldier. "We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us."

It is always unexpected, the way you get a quiet moment during a battle, and find that the person you once hated now benefits in comparison to those currently trying to kill you. People show aspects you never would have seen before. That new appreciation for these men and women made their nightly loss the worst, intimate shock.

To make it a total horror show, the dreams felt utterly real. Nightmares are no big deal, right? That's what I got told. I wonder how many other female soldiers got likewise dismissed. You women are so hysterical and dramatic.

I got treated really shittily. I discovered that prowar rah-rah-rah types hate the troops who point out that war isn't glory or conquering shit or that the enemy isn't evil. "It's not like you're the only person who went to Iraq, you know!"

That was a relative.

"You just have ONE tour in Iraq, I have TWO college degrees."

That was another relative.

"I don't care about Iraq, you're not as funny as you used to be."

That was a former friend.

The Army had a clever trap for returning troops. There was a questionaire in Kuwait where you were asked if you felt you had any symptoms of PTSD. If you answered yes, you didn't go home. You would be placed on a medical hold indefinitely, in Kuwait. If you answered "no", that was used against you later.

"Well, you SAID you didn't feel bad....."

Nobody felt bad at that point. Instead you felt an indescribeable bolt of confidence from surviving that year. You had lived. That lasted a few months. I went to work and literally went toe to toe with the occasional cop. When you know you can take some guy's gun away, it adds a certain spring to your step and a gleam to your eye. So much for that "good guy with a gun" bullshit, too. You need to worry about that woman you didn't look at twice because you're the sort of asshole who thinks A: women aren't in combat, and B: that "I-like-the-ones-who-didn't-get-captured" thing is either acceptable or didn't happen.

I got so little sleep that I could barely stagger from one end of the house to the other. My legs felt like they did when I finished a long, fast run. I heard voices that whispered to one another that I was still awake, that wondered if I knew they were outside my window, peering in. I was on the second floor.

I suspect certain people will deny it, but our society thinks women should shut up and take care of other people, not need help themselves. And what if you get UGLY? Facebook won't let me repeat certain things. PTSD is hilarious! Look at that crazy.....female dog.

There's stuff that happened in Iraq that I will never talk about. There's things that happened when I came back that fall under that, too.

I was absolutely convinced I was a terrible burden. No, asshole, telling somebody to "ignore it" only works for the scumbags imflicting the very crap they want you to ignore. If you fired a gun at somebody, people wouldn't tell you to ignore it. Why----especially when the target is a woman-----do people just-----oh, wait, never mind. Because women are supposed to be society's punching bags. And other women often do the punching for men because it's easier than fighting injustice.

Guys face different barriers that get ground in before they're aware of it. We give baby boys toy footballs once the umbilical's cut. My dad told funny, ironic stories about WWII-----but I know he fought in the south Pacific for at least part of his time in the war. He was a paratrooper who jumped out of planes. Fifty years later, he'd get up in the night and drive, sometimes hundreds of miles. I was too stupid to know what it was. When Alzheimer's finally stopped his nightmares, the sweet, betrayed boy he once was surfaced. My paternal grandmother was a woman who should never have had kids.

The VA refused to help me for years. They turned what should have been a simple, basic case of PTSD into what felt like psychosis. I just don't want to repeat all that. Just in the past year they finally identified those vivid....experiences.....as flashbacks. Ten years. Eleven years.

By the time I tried to kill myself the first time, various people and treatment had turned me into a wreck. It wasn't like they didn't know, either. Some of them were VA staffers. I couldn't get to the main VA without a panic attack and throwing up, but they treated me like a potty training toddler. They dismissed my back and shoulder injuries as "arthritis." Huh. Combat arthritis, who knew?

What gave me some temporary respite was the shocking experience at the ER. The paramedics took me to a civilian hospital. I was shocked to find out that people who worked at hospitals were *nice* to people in pain. Even the security guard was kind and considerate.

The other thing was the realization that suicide was permanent. For a while, I felt a certain shaky sense of optimism. That lasted till I informed my shrink that the anxiety meds weren't helping. She casually told me to just increase the doseage. This was AFTER the first suicide attempt.

As an effort to stave off suicidal feelings, I started cutting. It felt like if I punished myself a little, it was temporary stay of self-execution. My shrink told me if she caught me doing this she'd involuntarily commit me. So much for THOSE office visits. Even after I finally won my case, I had to fight to get a new doctor. I told one shrink that I felt like a sniper had his sights trained on me when I went outside.

She asked me why.

I've called this number myself as recently as July of last year. If you have to take it one hour at a time to survive, do it. If it's one minute, do it. If it's one second, do it. I want to say so many things that I can't put into words. There are people who are far luckier than you and I are, or faster, able to lift more or less weights, or run faster or slower. That doesn't make you who are.

Depression will whisper in your ear. It will lie to you. It will tell you all your flaws, but fuck it. Do you know how *horrible* a perfect person would be? They'd be a robot. *Shakespeare* gets bad reviews. *The Bible* gets bad reviews.

That voice is strongest and loudest when you are exhausted, drunk, high, paranoid, or whatever. It kicks you when you are down. It is an undertow that grabs you in what feels like an inescapable grip, threatens you, lasts for what it tells you is an eternity.....but it's lying.

Here is the hard part. You have to stop fighting. It will take you.....but it will let you go. That is the lie. Live one more second. Grab that breath of air when you surface. It WILL release you. One more minute.

Talking helps. 1-800-273-8255 Depression is lying to you. I'm not going to tell you it's easy.....but it IS temporary.

And the VA strikes again

....The Va officially identified those "things" I experience as "flashbacks" within the past three months. Hallucinations, sense of smell, nightmarish dislocation of reality.....are those palm trees? No, can't be. Where am I? Oh, God, where am I? Can't be. Can't be? Where am I? Freezing and boiling hot at the same time. Is that cordite I smell? (Cordite is what you smell after lots of small arms fire.) Is that sand, dust, smoke? Shaking, shivering, where am I? How did I get here? How do I get home? No, can't be real. Can't be.

And then they have the nerve to get snippy with me about how wary I am about trusting them. You know what? Just thinkinhmg about these bloody things makes me feel dizzy.



Okay, okay, i need to blog more. This will probably happen whether I want it to or not because either I tore something else in my knee or the VA didn't bother to fix it all the last time they operated.

As for what's going with certain elected officials? Holy shit, I need to RANT, but I guess the oligarchs that now own LJ won't allow politics.

As usual, the PTSD has an effect, buuuuuttttt....I got on a bus! And then I did it again! (It took me three tries, but fuck it, right?) And I did it by myself. Good drugs make a HUGE difference.

I can't rant at great length here, but I think my dreamwidth needs to be broken in.
Yesterday, I did approximately 8,500 steps. That apparently dud the truck because except for a few nightnares, I slept really well.

So far this morning, I fed the cats, took out some garbage, scrubbed some of the floor, cleamed five litter boxes, and racked up 1,390 steps. Yesterday, about step 5,000, I realized I'd forgotten to eat. Whoops.

I have a cleaning product addiction. I need to get that organized. It feels like I see something new and my eyes get cartoonishly huge and lustful.

I've been puppy sitting a neighbor's bichon frisé puppy. Cutest little thing ever, and it gets me out of the house.

Now off to get myself caffeinated.

BTW, I'm going to be trying the move to Dreamwidth. It feels like I never get to sit down. That's not neccesarily bad.

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