Category: Health

The Catholic Church Conspiracy

I toured the Vatican.

But it is smaller than I had pictured. The guide (s) took us to different places and threw enough monologues at us that I grew very sleepy.

Mostly it was rooms, different ones where sections were defined by those velvet ropes on brass stands. Some woman I couldn’t see kept interrupting the guides to ask leading questions about this or that. She had her own instructional monologues. One man (Drink Coke Zero) who smoked (Camel) unfiltered cigarettes with us smokers on a break in a small courtyard (Buy Blue Bunny Ice Cream) had a good voice for his section of the tour and once when I sleepily went from one section to another and left my pack of (Camel Filtered Cigarettes) at the table, he silently went behind me to the next section of the tour and made sure I got them back. He smiled solicitously and made me sick.

The tour of the Sistine Chapel was something I looked forward to (“Anticipation” by Carly Simon plays over a ketchup commercial) and it was taking forever. We were warned in advance that no smoking was allowed and I’m thinking “No shit, lady, us smokers ain’t allowed to smoke nowhere anymore,” because people choke and cough for miles away and I swear you can hear them, or, if they see you light up, they whine, “Oh no, I’m allergic to cigarette smoke,” and you look and they’re all the same, morbidly obese women with suicide blonde hair, yoga pants and a fucked-up attitude…

We were also not to carry any cell phones (Get the new Samsung 360 for only 2,300 dollars and a fifty-five-year contract while this sale lasts), paper clips (Office Depot) or pens (Paper Mate Wright Brothers Pens available in Eckerd’s, Dart Drugs, Read’s Drug Store and Montgomery Ward) and oh jeez shut up already. What did they think we were gonna do, graffiti Michaelangelo’s shit? Make paint chips fall off the walls with Wi-Fi signals? Steal panels by paper-clipping them inside our coats?

The subject of some obscure dead dude who predicted all the names of the popes ending with Francis came up. The theories that Pope Leo XIV is the last one and the third prophecy of Fatima were being discussed at sleep-inducing length. I thought, this was supposed to be a tour.

Instead I was getting half-history, half-conspiracy theories poured straight into my brain by an opening in my skull I never even knew was there ((Ask your doctor if Ketamine is right for you)).

But (((Get Boar’s Head deli meats!))) whatever I was hearing, it seemed like I could never see the speaker. Their voices were always behind me. That just didn’t seem right.

Then, in a section marked off with large white ribbons or crepe paper (Party City has everything you need for your next indoctrination) hundreds of school children on some sick field trip were filling steel fold-up chairs in front of us. One youth was carrying an Igloo container full of grape (Yeah, Kool-Aid’s here, bringing you cheer) drink. He offered a cup to a kid who did that weird punk shrug in defiance. I decided I hate kids on the spot. Rebellious wastrels with a diminished respect for free speech who then turn out to spout the worst, most mindless crap you ever heard because they watch Tik Tok all day and eat shrooms (Fresh Portabello mushrooms at your neighborhood Giant, only 10.99 a pound!) or sneak (Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer) into their bedrooms and brag in school the next day that they drank a six pack last night even though one can of warm hick beer had them puking for an hour. They’re stupid. They’re limpets mom will never see move out.

Sometimes things don’t work out. The tour ended without the Sistine Chapel.

By then I was so weary that all I wanted was a smoke (Come to where the flavor is. Come to Marlboro Country!) and some sleep.

I did, however, find myself in a small connecting corridor looking for the Men’s room. I had to go.

Now, I don’t care for conspiracy theories, which is why I lampooned the really sick ones about The Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island, so if you want, you can read those. Conspiracy theories are a waste of time because they’re usually absurd and paranoid in nature, and can neither be proved nor disproved because people don’t listen to the truth, they’d prefer a lie any day.

Faked “evidence” is all over the place on the Internet and stacks at libraries, if there are any of those left.

The recent flood of conspiracy theories including the resurgence of the Apollo moon landings make me sick. Look, if you don’t believe they happened then that’s your decision. Remember, though, it’s a choice.

And remember that we have all chosen to believe lies before. Sometimes, we just didn’t know. But sometimes we were staring straight down the throat of the truth, and along came some Fox TV special about mysterious black boxes in cars that made them crash or lead police into high-speed chases. And of course, the one about Stanley Kubrick faking the moon landings with NASA.

I’m not going to bother with that crap. If you want to believe that hundreds of people kept those a secret, that nobody talked, goody. But it is truly stupid.

And another thing.

While subliminal advertising may have or maybe just once been rumored to exist and work, and could even be in use today, there’s no reason to believe it does work, or is necessary at all, when real commercial ads have you craving KFC at two in the morning when nothing is open and the only KFC you know of is 75 miles away.

Oh, and the Vatican tour?

About that: I don’t care about the archive rumors. I don’t care for Dan Brown’s novels. I don’t care about Catholic-Nazi collaboration in WW 2. I don’t care if the church made a deal with the Devil in Hell himself, if, in the end, it saved innocent lives, or even if it didn’t but was intended to, then I at least can understand that. Whether you or I approve makes no difference; it’s done. Long ago, done and over.

I think the Catholic Church does make one mistake, though.

In the grand trappings of the priests, bishops, cardinals and the Pope, there’s nothing holy. They’re just men, and Jesus never said for his disciples to stand out like that. He did pronounce words to the Pharisees, describing them as whitewashed on the outside but on the inside being full of dead men’s bones. That’s a pretty big deal.

His ministry was humble. Simple. He offered hope in a land where little was to be found under Rome’s hobnailed boots. He gave us all the promise that faith would be rewarded to those who believe and hold out to the end. But of gold and silver candlesticks, paintings and painted ceilings and walls with images, he would repeat that none of it was holy, none of it would get anyone into Heaven, and that works mean nothing next to faith.

Trappings of wealth or status are horrifying to me and that’s why I loved Francis. He didn’t live in Vatican City or wear the ridiculous Halloween costume (Party City has all your cosplay and Halloween party needs!) of tradition.

My tour of The Vatican was a miserable one. Maybe.

Or maybe I awoke at 03:47, accidentally ingested two Blue Bunny Ice cream sandwiches, chased them with a cup of Columbian brew, and turned on a documentary about the prophecy of the popes, put my headphones on and fell back asleep, forgetting about auto play and sleeping listlessly through programs about the Vatican, Nostradamus, and Catholic Church conspiracy theories.

No wonder the voices sounded like they were behind me.

So the next time you think you have it bad, just remember, you’ll sleep better with the TV off.

In fact, just unplug the bloody thing.

Have a wonderful weekend. I won’t. Because maybe subliminal advertising is real (I smoke Marlboro cigarettes, not Camels. But I do have the impulse to go to Party City, buy a Rambo costume, and hunt wild boars with a knife. And eat their heads.

Sure is a good thing ain’t no boar around here!

The nerve of this mutt.

I have a headache (Get Extra Strength Tylenol).

You love fortune cookies. You want to buy a whole case right now. You want to share them with all of your friends.

You do.

Diagnosis:Pending

The nurse helped me raise one leg of my jeans above my boot. She pushed her thumb into the skin and released it. The depression in the skin and muscle stayed. I’ve never seen anything like that. Then she asked what my symptoms were, and I told her. A week earlier, my personal health care worker had seen it with her own eyes. Not the leg, something else. The symptoms, the nurse said, align perfectly with congestive heart failure. My heart rate was low, and in the low 50s, blood pressure was equally low. I’d been feeling off for a while, had known something w1as wrong, but it didn’t seem serious. Fatigue, trouble walking, loss of appetite, abdominal pain, and severe problems breathing when lying down to sleep. It felt like a panic attack combined with a heart attack. It’s a pretty bad thing to have, and only when it hit that level of intensity did it become impossible for me not to see the doctor.

An ekg was ordered. Whereas I’d had a nuclear stress test done three weeks prior and no real difference was found, today the ekg was abnormal. I forgot which waves she said were affected, but it amounts to the heart pumping blood in okay, but not out. Congestive heart failure.

It’s treatable, but if nothing else gets me, this one will. I also could need open heart surgery,  but that’s not possible.  I’ll never survive that. I guess after the echocardiogram and lab results, I’ll know more. They suspect possible kidney failure, too.

It’s time for another recess period now. I need rest. Please pray for me if it should cross your mind. I thank you in advance.

Be back before you know it.

God bless you.

The Costs of Reducing Human Contact

Sometimes, we, as PTSD survivors, have difficulties with different things. These are as varied as the experiences that caused the condition in the first place. For too many of us, those traumatic events are prolonged or repeated again and again. It makes no difference how much time has passed between events, nor how prolonged such things were. We are usually affected considerably for the rest of our lives. Treatment is essential; it can not be avoided. Going through life without help is to live in hell, and I don’t care how many victims or “experts” say otherwise.

Sure, you can get by, but there will always be symptoms that cause problems, and that is true with patients in treatment or not in treatment. Those who seek help and can afford it are likely to experience relief. Dialing in the right medications is important. The wrong ones can make you worse, while the best ones for you should have you telling your doctor about your feeling better. The process is sometimes hard, but it can be done.

Therapy is a subject I’m personally exceptionally bitter about. It’s difficult enough to find one that you’re comfortable with, and covid made everything worse. During the worst part of the initial outbreak, many left the occupation or moved away from their patients’ areas. The shutdown caused the necessity for telehealth sessions, which I detest. You have to pay, but there’s no contact, and that’s unreasonable and unrealistic.

AI: Already A Problem

AI has replaced even triage for certain physicians. Everything from height and weight to blood pressure is monitored by a computer, and I find that to be an expensive startup for medical groups, but an attempt at eliminating jobs. You see this elimination everywhere, especially when you go shopping.

You know exactly what I mean: self-checout at supermarkets, the CVS, Walmart, and more. And it is a real problem, too. First, because it costs jobs. The Harris Teeter supermarket I go to always had this but recently renovated the section to accommodate more registers. There are a bunch of cashier registers, and I’ve forgotten how many. That’s because I have never seen all of them open. Sixty percent of the time, only one is open. I’ve seen this store decrease its employees over the years, and it’s sad. Ones hired as cashiers can often be seen picking orders for customer pickup. They may be seen stocking shelves and even going out to the parking lot to bring in carts.

Those employees may be thankful to have their jobs, but may also resent their use as utility workers. There are employees who work shopping cart detail. The store does a lot of business, so when the cart detail lags behind or takes unscheduled breaks around the corner, it becomes a pain that customers have to get used to. Go inside, and you may not see any carts at all. Seeing workers not hired for cart detail doing it reflects low employee morale and store mismanagement.

The second problem is much worse: theft, or “skip-scanning”. This is when self-checkout customers properly scan and bag some items but not others, stealing expensive ones like steaks and prepackaged deli meats, or ring one donut or bagel when the paper bag really has five. Shrimp and even staples like condiments or butter can also be tucked into a bag without being scanned. One employee watches this section but is rarely attentive. It’s boring, tedious work, and often, they have to leave the section to go to the customer service counter.

There is, to make it all worse, no security except for cameras. A room with tinted windows marked “Security” is obviously empty. Nobody goes in or comes out, and in ten years of shopping at various times of the day or night, I have never seen anyone detained for theft. It may happen, but you’d think that a decade should never have passed without me seeing an HCPD cruiser out front. A woman managing the customer service desk once told me when I reported a panhandling offender outside of the store, “I live in Baltimore City. You think I really care about who be outside?”

Except the fucker in question who once told me his name was “Travis” when he asked for a dollar, is a problem. He knows that most people carry no cash. He also knows that, should he ask anyone who does carry cash, he will be unlikely to get one dollar. More likely, it will be at least a five dollar note or maybe more, and he constantly lurks from one end of the shopping center to the Harris Teeter. Last week, before Christmas, he was back. He asked me for a cigarette and I said no. As soon as I finished my coffee and put the cup in the trash can near a letterbox, I turned around and he was urinating on a brick pillar under the overhead in plain view of the store’s doors. I guess nobody from Baltimore City would even blink at that shit. But it’s indecent exposure, urinating in front of a minor, and you can probably add a couple more misdemeanors to that. I didn’t have anyone to tell, either. That lady behind the counter would likely have said, “Come back when you catch him usin his junk for somethin a lil worser, honey.”

And I couldn’t call 911 for an imbecile that brazen who’s left behind no evidence except piss that will be dry before cops get there, and yet the act might have been visible on a security camera if they had it active and if they had security, and if anyone in the store gave a shit.

I suppose I could have kicked him in the balls for it, but that’s no misdemeanor. That’s assault. It goes too far against my sense of right, wrong, and my code of honor. But he will be back. He’s no stranger to the justice system, and they always come back. And nobody will report jack shit. And, his mental health is off, so no judge really wants to see his name on a district court docket. There’s no law to force anyone to get help and take meds.

The indifference of underpaid, overstressed employees notwithstanding, underpaid managers are worse. Why go out of the way for a wage like that in a store whose corporate fatcats have a strict opposal to having employees organize or to have too big a payroll? It is a mistake. It makes investors orgasmic, according to UBS securities, which recommends stocks to portfolio holders. Parent company Kroger has some stores that are unionized but that has no bearing on Harris Teeter, a subsidiary. Those were, in September 2023, “determined to remain union-free” in a Q&A session of corporate dickheads and securities cocksuckers. Therefore, the stores have high turnover and newer employees making lower wages. That guarantees cash savings. This is important because stores operate with bank loans. To buy inventory, they secure loans. But there’s one drawback, and most chains will need another loan before the interest is paid and the principal amount can begin to be paid. To keep up, major chains keep costs low, from payroll to overhead to transportation.

But…

Between inventory and gross income, I’d wager that if the store doesn’t lose money, it is because of price gouging. In other words, they’re jacked up, passing the costs to consumers, earning fat profits. To do this, the variety of available brands keep getting eliminated, leaving customers less items to choose from. It’s efficient and very effective.

In Maryland, Giant and Harris Teeter are two of the most expensive of chains. Covid and supply problems made prices on things like coffee double. But the same can of Folgers may be 12 bucks or perhaps 14, and if you wait two days, that changes. Maxwell House Columbian could be high, but Folgers is down half on sale. That’s to turn over inventory to keep customers and nothing more. People may avoid items and let them sit until they’re on sale. As a result, taking a look at sell by dates on a ribeye on sale can be stressful. You see today’s date. It has to go right to the freezer when you get home.

Customers, therefore, steal. So do employees, some of which are caught, and you never see them again.

Or, getting back to self checking, they may skip-scan. So, saving money on payroll has a price. I can’t see how this store isn’t hemorrhaging cash. And if not for being union-free, it would have to be.

Bodycam footage on YouTube is enlightening. I’ve seen a few where Walmart security called in police who arrived before the thief could get away. If I were you, I wouldn’t steal from Walmart. I can’t bear the thought of stealing, and I don’t even like getting gifts. It makes me feel dishonest. Guilty. And those caught at Walmart are Brazen. Their cart is full. They were observed getting a purse, duffel bag, or the like, stuffing smaller items into it, then scanning the bag alone but with other items so as not to call attention to the bag. The alarms at the doors? If they still have those, thieves know how to evade them. For every person caught, though, who knows how many get away?

And this ain’t no joke: people are caught with $900.00 USD in merchandise they have not scanned. You may hate Walmart, but it is, on the whole, efficient, because of real people always on the floor, stocking inventory but watching everything. And they aren’t union, either. And real human beings man the security office as well.

This brings us back to the loss of human contact during medical care. Patients with trauma or serious somatic conditions like hypertension and heart disease can not be assessed by machines alone. First, how do you know they are calibrated and properly maintained? Or even sterilized? Answer: You don’t.

Telehealth was necessary during the pandemic, but even now, with it spreading again, it should only be occasionally used. Mask requirements have largely been lifted. Antivaxxers should be kept to ER visits or telehealth. Otherwise, we’re still better off wearing them in close-quarter settings and in large stores. It’s just safer.

Loss of contact during the shutdown traumatized people who had been stuck without their spouses, children, or friends. I’ll never forget talk shows aired from the host’s homes. They couldn’t even go to their place of business and do a show without an audience. Of them all, John Oliver seemed to weather the crises best. Colbert was never the same. He has turned into a real dick. Once you’ve turned into a dick, you have to be deprogrammed like a Moonie. Odds of that happening aren’t very good.

Most of all, trauma patients suffered in helpless silence. And that, folks, caused more trauma. No one but these patients know what it’s like. Because trauma patients are far easier to be traumatized again. And again. That’s the nature of the beast.

How to Help Yourself

One therapy you can do by yourself that I find to be fun and helpful is to get out of the house. Take a walk, get a bit of exercise and some fresh air. You can get your blood flowing, decrease your blood sugar level, help reduce blood pressure, and relieve sore, stiff muscles. It’s a big help, though, not to let your mind wander. As PTSD patients, we know how unhealthy that is. You can avoid some of your visual and audio triggers by keeping your eyes busy. Look around, focusing and trying to spot things you missed while driving past them. Seeing something new is amazing once you spot it. This is something I call the “Sherlock Holmes” game. You can not fall into dissociative thinking when walking, driving, or almost anything else. It’s dangerous and fouls the mood with memories that are distressing. I’ve read pages of books, only to not remember what was written. I’ve crossed bridges and not remembered it. Accidents happened, and I got to my destination depressed, stressed out, and never known why.

This morning, as the sun was low but brilliant, I couldn’t face east. But I looked west and was surprised at the view. Tomorrow, the sun will rise at a slightly different angle. I will not see exactly what I saw today. The light and shadows allowed me to see some details in the background in beautiful relief, seeing depth that I normally can’t. Seeing at a longer distance with more clarity than normal. That’s magical. A gift.

Try to see new things, little details. Keep your eyes moving. Don’t stare because that’s when you fade out of the present. Focus, but keep the eyes moving. You’ll get better at it, so don’t give up. This is part of cognitive behavior therapy. Look that up. Study it on your own or ask your doctor about it. A counselor is the best coach for this. Avoid “life coaches” because they’re a scam like all of the self-help books from the 80s and 90s. They cost money and make you believe that you’re going to get better when the mere suggestion itself is an attempt to condition you to keep writing checks.

Between a good doctor, a licensed therapist, and a bit of work on your part, you can find peace of mind and a measure of recovery that you may not otherwise get to enjoy.

That’s if you can find the professionals that will see you. Because most of the cashier lanes… are closed.

R.E.M. Was Ahead of Their Time

1987. Oh, I know that year. I began to serve the first of 3 presidents, my Commanders-in-Chief. I wasn’t all that political about it. I could not afford to be. There was no room.

My wife became pregnant with our son.

And I had just done the impossible: gone through basic training and combat medical school with a disabling, pre-existing condition. I couldn’t believe it. But the real problem remained and trouble was coming. Could I know the half of it? Of course not. It was always one day at a time for me. Besides, I was not much for the news back then.

Had I been able, I’d have seen what these guys did.

The song goes fast for post-punk, but in the 80s, a decade full of okay music with some great masterpieces mixed in, it is a true standout. It stuns you, it goes so fast. But now, I can make myself believe that these lyricists knew something. A lot of somethings, to be honest. Watch the lyrics on the screen as you listen. Back then, this was dreadfully cynical and pessimistic.

Today, the general idea or theme is not so obscure as it once seemed.

I’ve been writing about mental illness as affected by multiple levels of harm done that were beyond my control. I’ve noted that healthcare is harder than drug ads or even ads for doctors or insurance providers make it seem.

Before this, I’ve written about industrial pollution, global warming, elitism, the looming failure of the United States government because of the Trumpian Party, racism, bigotry, corruption and greed, and the unscrupulous politics of organized religion.

There’s one line in the song about reporters being “trumped” and it has accidentally taken on new meaning.

The general idea of the song is that we’re all going to sit here and let the downfall of society happen, and how it happens won’t make a difference.

I wish I could have a better feeling about the future, because we had the means to escape the climate crisis we face, and we had the choice not to elect a lunatic for a president, and we’ve had power as a species to change to a different path.

But we have failed. We have abandoned the righteous cause of women’s rights, we have resorted to giving voice to violent criminals who should have been outnumbered by law enforcement and righteous citizens on January 6th, 2020. We care nothing for the sick, the elderly and the poor, we don’t protect children, we have elected leaders who give their souls for money and power and have made dishonor seem normal, and we’re not stopping.

People don’t care. Sex crimes are ignored and victims scoffed, shamed and left to themselves. Guns are far more valuable than an owner’s own child. Public safety is a joke with whatever disgusting tagline you care to attach to it, and here we all sit. Not caring, not doing, not helping.

I know that the impeachment of Joe Biden sounds like a joke. That’s McCarthy and MTG sitting around and fingering each other. But while people with mental illness are dismissed as fakers or lost causes, those two are proof that there are dangerous nuts in our own government. Politicians are now vetted by zealots and fanatics who belong in fenced-in hospitals while treatment remains out of reach of people who need and beg for help yet go unheard and forgotten. I’m not one to sit by and watch injustice and the end of the world as we know it. I’ll keep looking for help for those in need. Because I don’t feel fine, damn it.

DID: Go Easy On Yourself

In any layperson’s study of mental illness, there is always a search for the timeless question, “Who am I?” and this search never ends. It has no true solution, no answer. We never know, because no one does. And if nobody else knows who they are, then the search is in vain. With a mental illness, though, it is a quest worthy of Don Quixote and not an exercise in futility: “I need to know”.

Enter Dissociative identity disorder, DID. This is like multiple personality disorders which, of course, exist more in novels and bad movies, usually in pop culture fodder of the 1970s than in the medical sense.

While fools like Doctor Phil, who actually gave up his license to practice medicine and probably is no more qualified than Tom Cruise to tell anyone what’s best for them (neither man is qualified to wield the power they’re using), and the man says he’s not convinced that personalities can exist together in a single patient, I cannot and will never be positive about human behavior or mental illnesses.

I’ve dated women and seen this up close, and it’s sad and frustrating and really quite chilling to see distinct and telling traits each replacing others right in front of you. One of them passed away 6 years after I last saw her and I have no idea how. I know enough that she was progressively worse and that she probably suffered more than she should have. And life is not fair to anyone, but it goes into overdrive when a person has a pronounced mental illness.

What I think is that we don’t know enough about the subject of multiple personality or its bastard cousin, dissociative identity disorders to speak in absolutes, and the gods of the American psychiatric disorder community can’t tell you any different. Look at the World Health Organization and the American mental health establishment and you can start to see how close-minded we really are. This results in discrimination and denial of desperately needed healthcare.

And whether anyone wants to believe it or not, people with mental illnesses can and do lead productive and meaningful lives. They do it every day, and I defy anyone to pick them out of any workforce. Yes, I am counting schizophrenia, which the uneducated public thinks very wrongfully about. In fact, some of the finest human beings I’ve ever known were diagnosed with something others ostracized them for.

And no, schizophrenia is not multiple personality disorder. Not even close.

When it comes to dissociative identity disorder, America treats it like it’s a new concept, when it is hardly so. Problem is, no doctors here know or are closed to it and couldn’t diagnose it if they tried. Which they don’t.

I’ve had to open my mind to get this far. I researched symptoms, behavioral problems, my own diagnosis, and there were questions I just couldn’t answer until I found articles, recent ones, that listed CPTSD, and in a descending menu included other disorders and one was DID. I don’t know if it is exclusive to CPTSD, and I rather doubt it, but it it does seem to occur coincidental with it.

Others may see it in you far before you discover that you can’t understand certain things about yourself. Maybe even before you notice symptoms.

How many people get cancer and never know it until it’s too late? We may think it can’t happen that way, but it does. With DID, same thing, except eventually someone close to you will say something. Unless of course you’ve isolated or been shunned. A change in accent, regional or foreign, jumps out at people who know you. But, your personality, your traits, your moral views never change, or don’t at first. Some people will avoid you, some will laugh at you, and still others may speak up.

I’ve spoken in several different ways, even changing vocabulary. Or usage. A Christian leader will tell you that you need an exorcism, a conservative psychiatric doctor will tell you to turn off your television, and there’s really no help for you. No sympathy, and no acceptance. And definitely lots of enmity, even fear, especially in the case of the Christian.

I’m not bashing here; I identify as Christian. But I’ve learned to shed the restrictions and mandated behavior that conservatives use to make you listen to their bullshit and which I call brainwashing. I am a flawed, damaged and dysfunctional human being, and I believe that God knows this and will be more understanding of it then people of the pulpit ever will be. I am free to think, to choose, to make progress when I can, or to make mistakes and, hopefully, to learn from them.

I find it to be very sad that I have lost friends, neighbors who are Christians and pastors. They, like so many, cannot listen or take me for who I am. They judge, and they act from judgment. To me, they’re hypocrites. Like pharisees which Christ read the riot act to. He called them “whited spulchurs” or whitewashed mortuaries, putting on a pretty show but full on the inside of dead bones: decay.

Society in America does not have a single safe place or function that will not demand conformity. You’re with this group or that, hated by other groups, or you’re worthless. Free thinkers, philosophers and the mentally ill will always fall into the laughed at and the ostracized. We are a doomed nation and we will answer for it. A house this divided cannot stand.

Another neighbor who is in denial of his own problems claims that I can be healed with enough faith and daily Bible reading. You should hear his claims. He’s a nightmare in real life. Faith healing is not possible with things we must endure as a part of life are inescapable. Child abuse, war, imprisonment and learned dependence are things we need to fight. We’ll have spiritual help, but life isn’t always cookie cutter Bible study; it’s hard work, it’s a fight, and it mostly sucks. The reward for the struggles we endure are nothing that the rich and the conservatives understand anything about: a life honorably lived.

I’m sorry it has to be this way. But as I search for resources to share with you, someone to help, remember that no matter who you see yourself as, no matter your struggles, you’re not alone. You are not worthless, and you rock! That means there’s always room for one more day, so hang in there!

CPTSD: You Have Seen It Before

Selling wet wipes on a website is okay. I suppose.

But I’m not talking about Amazon or Walmart. Nah.

Selling wet wipes and claiming truly weird shit about them is another matter. It’s not merely stupid; false claims about a product is unethical, and almost everyehere, a crime. At the very least, it’s fraud. At the most, it’s outright theft.

So, Alex Jones, who can’t even drink his own protein shakes on camera and not be obviously ready to vomit, was selling wipes for one specific body part.

Just one.

You remember? “Perineal Wipes”. Oh, no, this is not a joke. For anyone not familiar with the perineal area, it’s what some refer to as your “t’aint”. That’s the old shorthand for it. A slang term used like so: “T’aint pussy and t’aint ass.” It’s the fleshy area between someone’s sex organs and their Anus.

That’s what Alex Jones was selling. And comedian John Oliver tore him a new ass for it. Oliver’s takedown of Jones was epic, hysterical and still one of the best episodes of HBO’s “Last Week Tonight”.

Forget “60 Minutes”, when John Oliver goes after you, it’s worse than an ambush by a reporter and camera crew.

Alex Jones also got sued for denying that the Sandy Hook Elementary massacre ever happened. This false claim cost him.

To this day, I fear that however young those students were at the time, they will live with the memories forever — and the damage the survivors carry with those memories. That’s why today, Sandy Hook Promise is still a valid non-profit organization.

But let’s all face it: what Alex Jones did just made everything worse. Especially for parents and the surviving families of the teachers.

It seems a forever ago, doesn’t it?

But it wasn’t. In December it will be only eleven years. It happened in Newtown Connecticut on 14 December of 2012. I wrote about how that year couldn’t end fast enough for me. My daughter had died in July.

In all of the mass shootings since then, I recall one that stands out the most to me: on 14 February 2018, the shooting in Parkland, Florida took place at Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School.

It was also the day my son died.

There are things we always remember, right down to where we were when such horrible events happened and the news came to us.

Do you believe that the surviving family members, and the surviving victims, will ever be the same?

Well, they will not be. Ever.

But it wasn’t the first time something happened that caused anyone who lived to be afflicted with post-trauma syndrome. PTSD.

On 20 April of 1999, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold rucked up with guns, ammo and bombs and went to school dressed in black trench coats. Columbine is the name we first associated with mass shootings in schools. But even that wasn’t the first.

When the day was over, the body count stood at 15. Among them, both shooters. A further 21 were injured, including physical and permanent conditions.

Very little was ever mentioned of the aftermath.

In the following documentary, if you choose to watch it, be sure to watch the eyes of those being interviewed. A warning: it is very disturbing material and it will trigger almost anyone.

Their accounts are haunting. And I cannot ever get this one, iconic photograph out of my head. It’s a still taken from a security cam.

Columbine shooters in the cafeteria, 20 April, 1999.

Do you remember New Year’s Eve of 1999? I do. I was watching the Dick Clark celebration. The countdown to the year 2000, a new mileniam. Remember how panicked everyone was, how the media had aired constant reports of what might happen at midnight to clocks, computers and how there was the fear that everything would break or shut down? I do, but wasn’t worried. More curious than anything. But for some people that wretched year couldn’t end fast enough. The walking wounded had to live with different things to think about.

More mass shootings than any country in history. That’s a part of America’s legacy. Nothing can change or stop it from continuing.

There are any number of things that can happen that people are changed by, and trauma can follow car accidents, confrontations, bullying, mugging, rape, sexual assault, child abuse…and war. The worst part is, once so wounded psychologically, a staggering number of people are more easily further traumatized by an even bigger variety of incidents.

In the case of complex post traumatic stress disorder, here are some things I’ve encountered.

Dissociative personality disorder; that is, changing accents, vocabulary and even vocal tonation, and while I don’t completely identify as another person with another name, what I do show causes consternation in friends. I also have short-term memory loss. Missing time. Things I don’t realize until later.

Severe dissociation; causing what’s known as “the thousand-yard stare”, a state of detachment from your surroundings while reliving past events or even meandering and disconnected thoughts. You also won’t hear people talking to you, or if you do, their words won’t register. I’ve crossed the Francis Scott Key Bridge, paid the toll and made it home, then realized I didn’t remember getting there.

Eating disorders; binge eating or loss of appetite and weight, deliberately eating unhealthy foods and purging. These can also be part of OCD, which seems to occur with or without CPTSD.

Symptoms of bipolar disorder and personality disorders; although some evidence points toward these as conditioning, most are, in my opinion, habitual survival and coping behavior that cannot be easily spotted or treated.

Stockholm syndrome; behaving as if loyal or affectionate toward abusers and power figures as a means to avoid more violent abuse.

Nightmares and sleep disorders; these include “old hag attacks”, bed-wetting, insomnia, night terrors, and vile, unforgettable nightmares which, with age, may grow worse and more intense. These often see you trapped, in a maze, labyrinth or inescapable position, being chased, injured and even dying.

Substance abuse and other addiction; self-medicating with alcohol or drugs or both, compulsive addictions such as gambling, even when short of cash, smoking, using porn, shopping and buying things you have no real use for (buying means power).

Sexual disfunction and deviate behavior; by this I mean overdoing it with masturbation, public displays of sex or flashing, voyeuristic behavior that intrudes on another’s privacy, having attractions to or engaging in intercourse with animals, contact with children, committing rape, or using coercion when a partner isn’t receptive to sex, harm to one’s own sexual organs including cutting, burning and other methods of causing pain.

Over-or-under socializing; to mean dominating relationships or withdrawal from them. Not knowing how you’ll look and being either too frightened of being hurt or too arrogant and turning others away.

Lack of emotional control; many traumatized people are subject to angry outbursts which seem irrational and dangerous. Taken further, it may be taken out on others. From the time I was young and still in the midst of abuse I often became vengeful and yet didn’t dare hurt others. I had no true desire to cause harm. I always hurt myself by breaking toys and later things like watches and some of my favorite record albums. I regret it now, wishing I had kept everything, and still believe old vinyl LPs have better sound than digital recordings. And they were irreplaceable. I can never get one thing back. Today that anger is gone for the most part but if triggered, I withdraw from people or situations and focus on something else. That’s one small victory, but I’ll take it.

Death-seeking; whereas PTSD causes many to engage in daredevil acts, with CPTSD it’s intensified. Reckless behavior is more often likely to end in death. It is extreme, but hardly rare.

Unreasonable expectations or dreams; most damaged people can be let down by playing powerball and not winning. It takes time to recover reason and to allow oneself to dream, a counselor is best to open up to about your frustration and unrealistic dreams. Starting slow and having patience with yourself and others is difficult and everyone is different. If the person isn’t receptive to treatment, this symptom becomes a chain of frustration and disappointments that can have dangerous results.

For years I’ve often hated myself. This is misplaced and a terrible thing to do to yourself. When things happen that aren’t your fault, you have no right bearing the guilt for it.

There’s so much more. I knew a man whose neighbor was a holocaust survivor. The man regularly had to replace his mailbox; he often got flyers with swastikas on them and he would lose it and take a bat to the mailbox. That’s CPTSD. That’s never being able to live with the memories of what he and so many others, a lot of whom didn’t make it out, had endured.

My life can’t go on. The damage is too extensive and our healthcare system cannot and will not help. It’s okay; I’ve waited for that day for longer than I can say. What you need is to never forget, this is nothing new. It is a condition we’ve seen before. With the help of a doctor and a therapist you can make progress. I know that you can. You will never know a day when a trigger can’t get you, but there can be good days, dreams can still come true, and one more thing:

Never forget that just by surviving this long, you are a rockstar.

Keep the faith!

CPTSD: A Life Sentence

Since men learned to make war, there was PTSD. It was little-understood and often called the masculinity and character in question, in general, of veterans returning from war.

A great many people today believe it’s a recent “thing”, but it is far from it. It’s old, and it is hardly limited to war veterans.

Look through history: everything is bloody, battles, conquests, raids, military persecution, whatever you wish. You will not read of PTSD. But it’s always what’s left. In the Peloponnesian War, to use one example, which was started by Athens on the orders of Pericles, it turned into more of a nightmare for Athenian civilians than the short-sighted leaders ever stopped to consider. While superior to Sparta on the seas, Athens could not withstand field battles. Eventually the citizens of Attica, farmers, craftsmen and more, were forced to retreat within the walls of Athens.

What followed was hellish. Sparta burned their crops, committed savage war crimes, and soon food ran low, and supplies cane to the city by ship only. On the seas of the Aegean, Sparta sought help from an old enemy, Persia. This would have been enough to finish Athens, but the Ionians got some extra help: the Plague of Athens, which today is still an unidentified disease. It caused high fever, explosive diarrhea and killed by the numbers. At the end of it all, survivors, both military and civilian, would never be as they once were. The siege of Athens, and the war itself, left those who survived with serious, lifelong PTSD.

After the most destructive war in history, US soldiers, Marines and sailors returned home on overcrowded decks of ships. Flat tops had their aircraft dumped or stored below while flight decks were invisible beneath their human cargo. Public service films were shown in theaters warning family that their returning sons and husbands were “different”.

And indeed, they were. Many could not adjust to civilian life after three years of harrowing battle after battle in France, Holland, Belgium and Germany, Italy and North Africa. When the war against Nazi Germany ended, there was still savage fighting in the Pacific against the Empire of Japan.

While Allied soldiers were still dealing with Nazi concentration camps, other Allies were pinned down in volcanic rocks, bleeding and worrying about an invasion of mainland Japan. Upwards of a million soldiers could be expected casualties. By VJ day, every island touched by war, every soldier, pilot or sailor left standing, every civilian involved, were damaged. They would live their lives forever unable to escape the memories, nightmares, flashbacks and physical complications that went with it all: migraine headaches, digestive disorders like IBSD, “the shakes”, substance abuse, nausea and panic attacks that nearly shut down the body, and more.

There is no way that a normal and functional life can follow.

And history is loaded with people who so suffered.

Not until the late 1970s did we get the psychiatric term “PTSD” and yet, there are, all these decades later, people who deny its validity and those who deny that they have it.

And this does not apply to grunts who fear ridicule: so many civilians are not forced into denial, but choose it. And this has a high price. Missed time at work, workplace accidents, lost productivity in industrial jobs, medical care for physical symptoms only, not mentally related, abuse of spouses, violence in general…these hurt our country in ways we still can’t understand.

Since I’m shaking just thinking about all of this, I’ll have to continue tomorrow. Sometimes the subject itself triggers me. I apologize.

CPTSD: How I Got Here

By 1964 I was already terrified of my father. No child should be scared of his father, much less terrified of him. But I was.

And until I was aware that he had died, I remained so. That’s at least 43 years.

But if I was that afraid of him before I testified against him in an Annapolis courtroom, then seeing him get walked off to prison in leg irons and a belly chain didn’t help, and in fact made it worse. I knew he’d killed before. Now I feared his revenge from behind bars, and in fact often convinced myself that he would escape and come for me.

Unreasonable, you might say, but across this country and around the world, people of all kinds suffer the same fear. And it doesn’t matter what age or gender you are; that kind of fear is hardly unreasonable at all. People die that way.

Let me make it simple.

For at least ten years I was sexually abused (including rape) by both parents. It had nothing to do with “teaching” me, which is what they both called it. Rape and abuse are always motivated by control. The need to dominate and control every second of a child’s life in order to gain the feeling of satisfaction through power is it. Period.

The sole driving force in many violent crimes and all sex crimes is a feeling of having no or little power, and filling the burning need for it.

Beyond that, no one can possibly explain why it happens. Children may be attractive sexually to any perp, but no sex crime is ever about attraction. And even if that becomes part of the pedophile’s psyche, it’s a defined sexual deviance, but always it remains the nature of the crime and the targeted victim: weak, unable to fight, the lack of adult physical features and the high from hurting an innocent.

Over an extended period, the trauma of the very first attack is compounded exponentially. The damage becomes far worse than any human is capable of recovering from. The victim has learned crude coping behavior that is never sufficient but which can get him or her through the worst of it. These mechanisms go on to become behavioral problems because they get used to get through all crisis events. There is no known damage to the perpetrator except that, over time, rationalization and the ease of continuing to abuse is made him unable to use restraint. The sociopath becomes even more immune to guilt; never even considering the harm they have caused. In the case of abusive parents, they go on to expect their victims to display academic excellence and other unrealistic accomplishments. When the child fails to live up to these demands, the child is typically tortured. Physical beatings, revocation of privileges and withholding meals may be involved, among other things. The trauma is reinforced and added to.

One coping method children can display is the obvious attempt on many levels to please their parents, and to adopt their social, religious and political views. The child learns to conform. It’s basically risk reduction, and this is purely survival at its most pitiful and desperate level.

Since the views the parents have are themselves either ethically wrong, biased ot hateful based on their self-image of inadequacy, the behavior of the child leads to serious problems in school, social circles and more. It becomes dangerous.

If the parents are bigots or racists, the child invariably reflects that in inappropriate settings with words or actions.

Into adulthood, the child has learned and will be unable to break his or her dependent behavior and not sever ties to parents. Holidays become occasions where victims are belittled and treated lovingly at the same time. It is a no-win situation and it causes more trauma. For instance, visiting for Christmas with a frowned-upon spouse (they always are) is a tense running of the gauntlet that both the original victim and his or her spouse is actually traumatized by. These are not happy, festive gatherings; it is just more of an opportunity to abuse, mostly verbally or through the giving of trivial, demeaning gifts. More damage for the parents to inflict. And they love every second of it, every hurt look on the victims’ faces. More power.

In my case, all off this actually happened.

The sexual abuse, including sodomy and rape continued unimpeded until I was 16-years-old. The mental abuse, which included verbal abuse of the harshest kind, continued until I filed charges with the police at the age of 28. After the trial and sentencing, I never saw them again. They’ve both since passed away, leaving various levels of damage behind in their children. Yes, they got us all.

The nagging question for me has been, why do some of my siblings prosper, while I have been the most hurt and severely crippled?

The short answer is, there’s no way to know.

All I can say is that I was a very sensitive, imaginative and very kind kid at one time. What they didn’t take away from me, they damaged. But CPTSD did far worse.

The descriptions I’ve read so far indicate that it is exactly what I have.

I’m not just mistrstful of others; I’ve actually believed that they would stab me in the back. There was no reason for such a belief so I thought that I was paranoid. It’s not paranoia. It’s a symptom of CPTSD that I now deem incurable. It used to be called running, what I did. Draw a line, you get this close, no closer. Every time I dared cross the line, it ended badly, with hurt feelings and confusion that I had caused. But coming to the conclusion that I was meant to die alone took 50 years. Still, I was socially and extremely sexually dysfunctional. Even a casual relationship was impossible for me to handle. Everything was scary, dangerous and caused my fight/flight response to kick in, which was aberrant. There was no danger. No one to fight. So I just fled. Self protection at its worst.

Other problems continue. The nightmares grow worse and worse despite an increase in prazosin dosage. As I wonder how much more I can take, I am constantly triggered, and flashbacks happen every single day, more than once in a day. Triggers are everywhere because the abuse took place during my formative years when I was experiencing new things, learning new things, becoming more aware. Even pictures of the past that remind me of things I liked trigger me. Things I liked I spent so little time with, and those times were always interrupted by harrowing beatings and sexual abuse. Of all the times I had sex during my marriage and with girlfriends before that, I believe my mother still has the record for most times a woman copulated me. It’s disgusting and I’ve had a hard time accepting that probability. Yet it’s valid.

That is a hell of a thing to have to write.

Tomorrow I will conclude this three-part study. For now, I’ve had enough.

Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder: What Is It, And How Can You Tell If You Have It?

I discovered this by sheer accident, running across it while trying to define more specific details about my own behavior. Additional searches had to go beyond the first place I found and read, because I knew that I was on to something very important.

A year ago I did something I swore not to do: I went back on Facebook (META) because some friends had enquired to another friend as to my well-being. I reestablished contact with old friends and was happy. For a while, everything was okay.

Then, to my shame, I suddenly deleted my account. No contact whatsoever. I was again isolated and safe. My older brother suggested that it was a typical and habitual thing for me and that perhaps, just for family, I should restore the account. So I did. All of my former friends were blocked except for family members. Just in time too; that brother was diagnosed with prostate cancer, and in quick succession had a major heart attack and then a bypass. I kept in touch, asking his spouse for updates, praying, worrying, crying. No, my brother, my mentor, my teacher–could not leave me like this!

A selfish sentiment on the surface until you know that he was my true father. No, not biologically; I mean that while our father was nothing more than a jailer and torturer, offering guidance only in the form of brainwashing, Joe acted as his stand-in, for decades giving me clear advice, and a shoulder to cry on. I couldn’t lose him, not now; I still needed him! But so did so many others, family, extended family, friends, too many to count. Such an extraordinary man loved by far more than just me. How could we deal with this situation? How would it go?

In the back of my mind, I knew that if any man on this earth could beat such incredible hurtles, my brother Joe was that guy.

How I reacted on Facebook, though, by abandoning friends so suddenly after doing so before, troubled me long after Joe rallied. Just like I knew he would.

Why did I keep doing this?

Was it the politics, the incessant and progressive hopelessness I felt over this country’s future? I had started back with funny memes and videos. I had wanted to spread cheer and humor.

But that didn’t last, as I should have known it couldn’t. And the stress, the anxiety, the pressure built up. The fight/flight was half gone. All that was left was flight. So that’s what I did. I told someone that it was for my mental health. And that’s true; I was going through things I couldn’t talk about, and the attempts to do so were met with zero “likes”, no emojis, no comments. I expected more from friends. I felt ignored, abandoned and bitter. Here I was, always responding to their posts, while mostly the ones who reacted, if anyone, were my brother-in-law and my wonderful stepmother.

Going through a mental health crisis is a horror. Let no one disagree. Let no one tell you “it’s all in your head” as if you’re some goldbricking, malingering faker or hypochondriac. It’s fucking hard.

It’s far worse when you can’t even get a proper diagnosis. Mine is “Post traumatic stress w/severe depression” and more, and I see now that it’s as incorrect as it can be.

Complex PTSD, or CPTSD is not formally recognized in American medical care. So this brilliant article seems to bravely contradict what American “experts” say. But the fact that the World Health Organization (WHO) does recognize CPTSD is both revealing and hopeful.

I say revealing, because the constant and ongoing push by American conservatives to deny disabling disorders has gained momentum, and yet I’m hopeful that people with this crippling condition can finally be properly treated and given the help that they both need and deserve.

I have never truly been convinced that borderline personality disorder is a valid diagnosis. I’ve known, and been terrorized by, too many people with that label to fail to see clearly that their actions are not definable by any one diagnosis, and also that the diagnosis itself is a label that does not fit everyone who has it. It results in unfair treatment by doctors, employers and others. Therefore it is my opinion that more to their story must be uncovered. And many do not wish to talk about it. They can express anger, show talent for manipulation and the need for control, but why is the real question, so we can’t know for sure. Besides, clinicians still argue about personality disorders and whether they’re even a thing. Learned behavior is not easy to define, discuss or treat.

CPTSD accomplishes the settlement of these arguments and it is very real. Tomorrow I’ll be back to illustrate why I’m convinced of the reality and validity of this new concept of mental illness.

A Short Talk With Father Time About Aging, PTSD And The Golden Years

Last night was the last straw.

For the first time in my life, I’ve bought my own bed, and now my first-ever bed set with comforter and a pillow sham. To be fair, I wanted the full set with sheets, pillow shams and comforter and a dust ruffle, but clicked the wrong thing. It’s okay, because I love what I bought, but there’s still a catch.

Because of course.

There’s always a catch.

Because I am old, beat all to hell, and have CPTSD to boot.

So I was pretty pissed after a night of hard, on-and-off sleep with slimy, scary, Twilight Zone, bullshit nightmares.

Not fever nightmares, because my condition makes those worse, and if you know fever dreams, then imagine them on Crack and LSD.

Well the nightmares of last night and this morning weren’t that shit. Just your average PTSD nightmares where being trapped and experiencing loss are normal themes. And Lord have mercy, whatever you do, don’t drink any liquids before bed if you’re over 60. They say two hours before? Well I say two weeks before. Because, fuck that.

***

I was working my old Airgas job, at an old plant in Lansdowne, and there’s this older woman, she’s driving a forklift and she’s decorated it for Christmastime with two plastic candles, you know, the yard size, and has them each attached to the sides. Everyone says she’s retiring, and I’m not feeling either way about it because in the unreal construct of dreams, what’s ever complete anyway? And I hear, but don’t see, the people describing her as humorous, cheerful and witty, because of course she is, she’s gotta be, because who the hell puts lawn decorations on forklifts, right?

Humorous, witty, cheerful people.

Because of course they do.

In PTSD nightmares.

And because this is a PTSD nightmare, it’s just getting started. The torture hasn’t even started yet.

It just so happens that my eldest sister has moved to the southern east coast and sends me the money for a visit. A bus ticket, a short flight, then something else. Doesn’t make sense, but in the dream, I merely found it confusing and a source for anxiety, never really expecting logic. But at the bus station, I meet the woman who just retired. She’s moving south to set up a summer home and then to live mostly on a yacht in the Caribbean. You know, island-hopping, drinks with doll’s umbrellas. That shit. Stuff normal people do. Golden Years shit.

And in the bus station I get to talking with her. As if I’m just getting to know her. But we hit it off, and by the time we part, she’s given me her address and phone number, and before she has to leave, she pulls me close, holding my hand, and kisses me. Vulnerable, she bravely whispers, “I love you,” and then she’s going to the exit. Did I say I loved her too, or was I the coward, as usual, and keep silent? I don’t remember, but I believe that I did say it.

Of course, I missed my bus. I chased it but when it stopped I had to pee, so I ran back into the station. By the time I got back, it was gone and I didn’t know it. This bus began to leave but I realized my mistake. I somehow got back to the station, saw the managers, and was told it would take 3 million dollars to just get back to Baltimore. I was constantly going to men’s rooms, couldn’t stay out of them. It turned into a true nightmare then, because the dispatcher was going to cover the cost of the ticket (now I was traveling to see my surgeon?). Yet it wouldn’t get me all the way to my destination. I’d still be marooned. And I still had to pee, constantly. Constantly.

At some point around 10:00, I awoke, too sore, too tired and far too sleepy to make it to the latrine. So I lay there, feeling almost drunk, halfway paralyzed by sleep, and a while later, fell beck to sleep and back into the nightmare.

I awoke after 14:00, tried to shake off the effects of both sleep and nightmare, and finally realized why urinals had dominated my dream: I really needed to go, and any further delay would have ended exactly as has happened before.

And sometimes that even happens before I wake up.

A grown man, pissing the bed. It’s humiliating beyond my ability to cope with. New bed, new bed set, finally, Amazon Emerald-Hunter green, just what I wanted. But I don’t use it. No.

I spread an old blanket on top of it and sleep in my clothes. And that’s the last straw I was talking about. So, it was a given that I had to appeal to, or curse, old Father Time, who never vanishes on New Year’s Eve at midnight to let some newborn baby take his job. Nope. that’s bullshit.

“Why have you called me out,” he asked.

“That nightmare, old man. What was that all about? I never made it anywhere. I was stuck.”

“What, you’re blaming me?“

I said, “Not for everything, no. But some of it. You could cut me some slack you know.”

“And you believe I have such power, do you? Now why would you think that about me? My sole purpose is to watch people from birth to death. To see that everyone follows, but is not victimized by, time. Simple.”

“Then why am I tormented so by things that happened ages ago?”

He stroked his long beard and said sternly, “Let me get this straight. You’re blaming me for nightmares, incontinence and things I had nothing to do with and have no control over? That’s what I run into so often. Men blame everyone else for their problems while refusing to claim any responsibility for themselves or to pin it on those who have hurt them in the past. Your problem is, your entire life, you had to focus on survival. That’s not your fault, son. It twisted everything: your potential for success, productivity, peace, happiness, stability and love. That’s very sad. I should know; I had to watch it. The word “romance” was created for everyone but you. Your trust was destroyed by too much evil. I have watched you since you were born and I had a most difficult time doing so. I have hurt for you, grieved for you. But I’m very pleased that I can offer advice. If you choose to hear it, that is.”

Wonderful. I couldn’t wait. Asshole.

“For once, while there’s yet a little time, instead of fighting for survival, let go. Live what’s left of your life. Go ahead and sleep between clean sheets. Order some leak proof adult diapers on Amazon. No one will ever know. Also, take more walks. You’ll sleep better. More physical fatigue can minimize some of those dreams. And let go of the things you no longer need. The emotional baggage you have kept all these years. Getting a bit heavy by now, I should imagine. You can’t live like that. The fight is over. It’s time to be over.”

“You’re full of shit, old man. You dodged my question and blamed me. But I never asked for what happened to me, it was just done. And I can’t get that shit out of my head. There’s no ‘off’ switch.”

I left him after that. He said behind me, “But do try the diapers!”

“I guess I’ll try them. The Golden Years? Myth. Nothing but shitty and humiliating.”

“Yes, my son. A myth. Just try living.“

“Nice talk, Father Time, fuck you very much.”

FALLING

Two days ago…

I was in the bathroom. I stood up from the toilet, began to pull my trousers up, and I got dizzy. Then I found myself draped over the side of the tub, a pain in my right side. I knew I had passed out. I slowly got up, carefully. My head was hyper-clear.

I’ve felt that before. It is a bad sign.

I leaned against the wall and towel rack and I knew it was happening again. A wave of dizziness and pain in my lower back. My legs grew weak and I felt like peeing.

Then I saw colors I can’t describe and thought that this time I would die.

I found myself on the opposite side of the bathroom near the wall. Everything hurt. My head would not clear so I stayed down this time. My right side had something wrong with it. Like a rib was out of place. Not broken, not bruised. Out of place.

Two years ago an MRI revealed degenerative disk disorder. The pain had been promethean. My advantage plan denied that I needed the scan no matter what it showed and denied coverage. They also denied that I needed follow-up care. I was trapped. Aneurysms were also evident. Two aortic, one lower. My doctor sent me for a CTI scan. The Johns Hopkins Healthcare Advantage plan denied coverage for that as well. Again I was stuck. They were never going to pay for any portion of follow-up care and diagnostics. They couldn’t care less if I died.

For two years now I’ve received denials for anything I’ve had done. They even send me monthly blank denial of payment forms. It’s the shittiest way any insurance company can ever treat a client. It’s harassment and insult on top of everything else shitty that they do.

For two days I have restricted myself to bed rest. Lots of clear fluids, very little food; my appetite is worse than ever. I weigh 170 pounds in full clothing including waterproof tactical boots and winter jacket. Most of my lean Mass is gone.

In this state I believe that a collapsed disk sometimes causes a major nerve to be pressured. Along with nerves there are always veins and arteries. I believe they too get pressed. Less feeling in my legs, incredible pain in the spine and an interrupted blood flow to the head: I pass out.

It’s been ongoing but I didn’t know why until the back pain got worse.

I am on the road to being a cripple — or dying.

I’m already crippled. I can’t walk without a cane, but since I was small, I’d get these visions — just flashes — of my older self in a wheelchair. The reason I knew it was me was that I always saw this in a first-person perspective.

I know giants confined to wheelchairs, and yet I know I wouldn’t be one of them. I would be placed out in the streets or some barbaric nursing home. And I’ve already sworn that because people die in those places, I won’t go. It ends for me before that happens.

I have always, even when I didn’t know it, been a fighter and a survivor. I even fought my own attempts to end my life. But even so, there may come a time to surrender. It may be soon. It may not come to that. There is no way to tell right now.

My spine is going to collapse one day. If I’m lucky, I have another heart attack in my sleep and die first.

Later today I will see my principal doctor. My expectations are nil. No matter.

And no matter what sudden thing may happen, I’ve been honored to have you read my life, and I hope you pass on what bits of my experiences you deem worthy. Because what makes this life worth living, no matter our struggles, is the joy of helping and loving each other. My faith in God and His Son will see to the rest.