All Messed Up: A disturbing discovery

I don’t remember what day it happened. I was walking in the dark. Right before dawn. I should have waited.

I lost my bearings. Veered from the footpath. Couldn’t see. I walked right off the edge of a 4 foot high retaining wall. For my feet, no big deal. You’d think.

I remember the fall, but not thinking anything except for “shit!”

I don’t know how long I was out. A man was standing over me, asking if I was alright. I couldn’t get up. Pain was everywhere. Broken bones were involved. Blood was everywhere. I couldn’t use my left arm. I very hazily reached up with my right and asked for a handle. He pulled me up and walked me, holding me up, to my door. I was sick with the quickly building pain. I knew my thumb was broken but something else was wrong. It didn’t look right. It hurt beyond my ability to comprehend.

My leg was bleeding. My right foot was just weird. The worst was the right side ribs.

I spent all day in the ER. Y’all know how much fun that is.

But ever since conglomerate Johns Hopkins took Howard County General in, the ER has been a hostile place. They don’t give a damn how hurt, how much pain, how severe. You’re there for the duration. One nurse gave me a Tylenol for pain. Or maybe it was aspirin. I was there for her entire shift.

I saw her twice. She’d said “I’m your nurse…” When I arrived by ambulance.

I saw other nurses who gave me a urinal. Near nightfall, a nurse came in with IV bags. I’d been pissing all day and sipped a drop when taking that token pill. Obviously I’m beginning kidney failure. I was filling urinals while taking in no water.

Meanwhile the pain got worse. That 1 to 10 scale? Fuck that. They think you’re lying. That you want dope.

This was a month ago I guess. By the time the imaging was done and I was told my thumb was broken and dislocated, this old man was pissed. A nurse quipped, “What do you expect, it’s an ER.” What does that mean?

But all day they hadn’t released a single patient and it was silent in there except for lasciviously weird conversations. How calloused we have become when inappropriate talk is freely done where patients can hear!

I’m not fond of knocking nurses. I’d prefer not to need to. But after one surgery in 2006, I heard one black nurse leave my room, go to the nurses’ station and talk total shit about me. I seethed. Seems she hated white people.

I’ve been in too many hospitals. Met too many professional and courteous nurses. I’m not ever going to take that shit again. I don’t have to and I’m not going to.

The pain didn’t, to me, fit between 1 to 10. I’d never, since my last heart attack, felt such severe pain. One to ten? That’s a joke.

Late in the day an orthopedic doctor came in. He just had to touch the thumb. He popped it back in place then put a half cast splint on it. I left with a few 5 mg of Percocet. That will not touch bone pain. I later saw my PCP and he gave me 30×10 mg Percocet. That got me through the worst days, but about a month later I’m still in agony. And nobody cares.

I had also, before the fall, thrown a different EKG (it was already abnormal) and had to see my cardiologist.

A receptionist dogged me going into the exam room and coming out with a ream of papers bearing my balance.

Before my follow up for an echocardiogram, I got an email stating that I had to bring $800.00 with me, or pay it before, I’d be seen. I called the office. Despite such a rude ultimatum, I was willing to set a payment plan. But I got voicemail. I boiled!

“Hey, I got your nasty message so ya don’t even answer your phone? Well here’s a message for you: fuck off, I don’t need you.”

And despite the doctor being excellent, I can’t go back. And his bloody bills can go to the bottom of my incredible stack of bills.

And this is our healthcare system before the shutdown and whatever deals Democrats are making with the Devil.

I don’t walk right. Maybe I never will. It’s funny, the right one drags a bit. My ribs on the lower right posterior hurt like nobody’s business, I lie in a heating pad most of the time, I need dope and if I ask for more, I will be flagged as an addict. Look, I don’t like the shit. I merely need it.

All this time, I’m feeling like a big pussy. But then it struck me, and hard: you know you’re old, you know injuries hurt, you know they’re slow to heal, so shut up already.

Now, I am not schizophrenic. And I don’t hear voices. I’m not delusional. But that inner voice scolding me, what’s that?

I’ve “heard” it before. I talk to it. It answers or whatever. It’s me.

After all this time. So many years, decades, of things I didn’t understand, wasn’t even aware of at times, now it came to me.

I was ashamed. I hated myself again. I didn’t want to talk about it but I had to, and I trust my friends.

Dissociative Identity Disorder

This is not multiple or split personalities but I accept that you might want to call it that.

I never believed in it and the one case I was presented with in a friend, well, I got sick of her. A faker who pretended when it was convenient.

Well I don’t know about her, we parted under less than friendly circumstances.

But I knew there was more. For two years I’ve had an almost steady deep southern accent. It wasn’t quite…right but, I couldn’t help it. After the fall, I returned to my light southern accent. “The Cowboy” was gone. I realized that he was me, but a different version, one who protects. I had him start up during a conversation on the phone after I figured out what was going on. I was able to control and stop him.

He’s really not a bad version of me, there’s no difference except the accent which sounds tougher and less vulnerable than me.

But there’s more. During any particular traumatic event in my childhood, my brain did this thing. I don’t fully understand it, but it goes something like this.

I’m being striped with my father’s belt. He doesn’t stop until he’s exhausted. His rage is uncontrollable. I’m bleeding across my forearms where I tried to protect my back. That didn’t work.

I scream and cry, but he’s not spent yet. That’s when, either that moment or not long after, a different identity is formed to come in and protect me. How it works in the brain, I don’t know, but hate, anger and guilt contribute. Anger because this just isn’t right, and I know it, hatred because of course a kid hates his life being nothing more than a sex slave and whipping boy to sick parents who don’t love him.

And finally, guilt, because brainwashed kids of trauma ceaselessly love and obey their abusive parents. Want to guess how many kids wind up dead that way?

The guilt gets carried by another identity, and so on, every time it’s necessary. Now the sexual abuse. This is something I really never knew happened. Yet another identity formed to handle that. That version was pure evil. An asshole. Sneaky and vindictive at first, it never even occurred to me that it was a sliver of me driven to exact revenge on enemies or innocents alike. Broken windows, slashed tires, cursing out a poor guy trying to make a living in an ice cream truck. Didn’t matter.

It seems like he vanished at some point. He didn’t. I just got better at holding back his trigger, which is deep anger. Rage.

That’s when, around 2010, I looked back and for the first time noticed a pattern of destructive behavior that went way back to the late 1960s. I was a runner, a sabateur of friendships, not only mine, but others’ relationships. When triggered, this runner would burn bridges, run away or insult friends into leaving me alone. I was so hurt that I didn’t want to risk rejection of any kind, so no friends, no hurt. By the summer of 1972 I was forbidden to play with any neighborhood kids. I’d done it. I’d left my mark.

This sliver of my soul would seem to be controlled but it never was. I became the Running Man. If someone left the place I worked for greener pastures and they had a get-together, I didn’t go. Especially if it was a friend. It hurt too much.

I spent a lot of time working just to stay away from my wife. Fuck her. She did everything she could to humiliate me. And she was good at it. Finally I sabotaged my marriage. I was tired of her screaming at me. I’d check on the kids and sure enough they’d be in their beds, wide awake. I loved them too much to let it go on. I just jammed the gears and stopped them from moving. I was on my own.

The DESTROYER

This guy somehow got out of my control. Perhaps because I put it down to behavior, before I knew about PTSD affecting not just veterans of combat but victims of rape, child abuse, and all manner of violence. Maybe not knowing let him loose; I’d say that’s a good guess. Anyway, it happened. I noticed aberrant behavior especially on social media. Triggered by anger or hurt over insults, whether real or misunderstood, he would block friends, talk horribly about them and they have been gone from my life since.

But I did it to people I knew in person too. And the worrisome part is that I don’t remember most of it.

I find out later when approached, or they ask a mutual friend what the hell is going on. The Destroyer wrecks shit up. But there’s a bright side to this. I can’t undo what wrongs I’ve committed. But now I know. And I’m in control.

It’s really a matter of holding on and pushing them away. I don’t need protection anymore. I don’t need to hide or run away. So if I feel angry I can pray. That always works. He may not heal me; that doesn’t always happen. But He does, with faith, help. Jesus is real. His life, death and resurrection happened. Even the insight into DID was a miracle; I could easily have died not knowing. And my behavior wouldn’t have changed.

I am in pain. My brain has trauma damage. Those things are true. And this is a thing I find bizarre and embarrassing to write about. But I have shared my life on this site. Nothing was off limits unless it would have been unproductive. My mission remains: tell others what I’ve been through. If they see me in themselves, I hope to be an example, an inspiration to get help. You can live with things that hold you down. A bit of faith, and lots of hope and courage are all you need. And you can accomplish the impossible.

The Downer Day is Over

I should never have written the essay on porn that was published yesterday. The research really hurt me, especially when it came to Linda Lovelace (Boreman). Her horrendous abuse was something that agonized me.

She’s gone now, but my empathy is still making me suffer.

With every click, we encourage more porn. We create more demand. And more women suffer.

Men suffer too in that world. They force or manipulate their wives to do things that no loving husband, no kind of a real man, would do. A curse by God falls on them because they mock His laws and ruin the sanctity of marriage. And yes, I do still believe that marriage is a sacred bond.

Imagine what would happen if, all of a sudden, nobody watched porn anymore. The sponsors would leave the sites, and those sites would shut down.

We have to be real about it, though, because we all know that the demand has never in history been this high. Addiction has never been so easily fed.

I don’t want you to be as down as I am, but that piece needed to be written. And iOlANDEMELODY’s video had to be included because she handled the subject with eloquent patience and wisdom.

I also don’t want you to suffer worry about the End of Days prophecies because, if you are saved, you have no worry. You just have to keep your faith. If someone you love isn’t saved, I know how you feel. The great rebellion is gearing up, and there’s been a lot of people leaving churches everywhere. I’m very sorry to tell you that there’s little you can do about what others believe. Try to talk to them, being gentle and subtle. Think of how Jesus must have spoken. But in the end, it’s up to them. You plant the seed. If it raises a shoot, that’s wonderful. If not, then you tried. And that is all you can do.

But the Antichrist? Don’t be sitting around, scared so much that you can think of nothing else. You still have a life to live. Be cheerful and take each day and give thanks for it, then get on with the things that need to be done.

Don’t forget to be kind to others, but be good to yourselves as well; spend time with what you like to do. Maybe you’re raising a garden. Or reading a cracking good novel printed on paper. Read some scripture. Give someone your company and attention; there’s magic in listening to others. It helps them to feel valued, and that in turn makes you feel good, too. Most people seem to me to be good at heart, and listening to someone who’s feeling lonely or poorly can change their life.

Eat well, get lots of good sleep. Restrict fluids before bedtime so you won’t wake up needing to stumble into the latrine. Especially if you’re a man, because you are bound to miss. Your wife won’t thank you for that!

Give your spouse attention. Have date nights. Go for rides or walks. Hold hands. Give them a smooch along the way.

I’ll never again have lips to kiss or a hand to hold. Trust me: it’s a hard life. Mostly, in my case, it’s for the best. All I’ve ever brought to a relationship is pain. I understood a long time ago that it was going to end like this. That should not be the way for you. So long as you love and don’t cause pain, you’re worthy.

Remember prayer. A relationship with the Lord is the most important part of your life. God already knows your sins. He just wants to know you’re sorry for them. He knows what you need. He just wants you to ask. Most of all, just talk. Like He’s right in front of you. Because He is.

And don’t be hard on yourselves. Haven’t you already done enough of that? Put it away and give thanks for all that you have. The good and the bad, the dark and the light, the hard lessons and the easy ones.

***

Before posting yesterday’s blog, I went to the bank. I needed to use the ATM machine. I got to the checkout at the store, and my card was missing. I frantically traced my steps, but it was gone. I called and canceled out the card, which caused a lot of trouble. I had left the card in the machine, and the manager found it on her way to her car. I’ve never done a thing like that before. The porn blog had triggered me, more than I have been in a long time. I was somewhere else, not in my body, dissociation taking me to I don’t know where. I talked to my doctor today and told her that I believe my diagnosis is wrong; as I’ve said before, this ain’t PTSD. It’s CPTSD. I grow older. Further in time from my trauma, I keep getting worse. She offered an anti-psychotic. Thanks, but no thanks. The healthcare system is a stacked deck of cards, leaving less hope for the sufferers of trauma with each passing year.

You’re probably not like me. I hope that is the case. But I’m sure I’m going to pray for you.

Thank you for letting me be a small part of your day. I just want to help. You have my love.

Be well.

Those Of Us Who Are About To Die Salute You!

I’m probably not that close to death, but who can tell? Certainly not my doctor, because my yearly health assessment — which has replaced annual physical examinations — will be done this year by — wait for it — a video call!

Jesus Christ in a wheelchair! How can that be anything but a sham? No stethoscope can go through a phone. Nobody does anything anymore. And the next time I’m in the Emergency Room, considering how many men I’ve met who claimed to be Jesus Christ but suffered various maladies other than mental illness, this time I probably will see Jesus Christ in a wheelchair.

Look. I can’t tell if I have prostate problems or not. How the heck am I supposed to do the finger exam? I can’t do it. PCPs don’t do it anymore. They don’t do much of anything. Just go into the exam room, sit on a chair, and wait. Don’t worry. It’s your way of telling the quack that you’re under no illusion that they give a rat fart about you, so you ain’t sitting on no fucking exam table. And before the quack even comes in, you get your vital signs taken by some underpaid and undertrained assistant who isn’t even a nurse. In fact, your quack probably won’t be a doctor at all. Most likely, it’ll be a nurse practitioner. That make you feel warm and fuzzy? Of course not, but it is a grave insult to me, a slap in the face with a sap glove. It’s unacceptable, and it’s bullshit. People are dying because of these pissy-ass doctors going “elite”: they will be your doctor for a fee. One that no insurance will ever cover. My doc wanted $2,000 a year just to keep me on as his patient. I should have reported the pukepot for the inappropriate touching he did while trying to get me to sign up. Fucker.

I don’t know what to do. I have more things wrong with me than anyone can fix. It won’t stop me trying to get care, though. Because now, I’m pissed. Now, I fight. Nobody tells me to do a health assessment over a video call. Nobody, because I’m not doing it and if I get any flak, I’ll have my full vocabulary of filthy words locked and loaded.

Because the ugly truth is, my blood pressure is up for the first time in almost 20 years. I know the arteriosclerosis and atherosclerosis are getting worse. This week I slashed my arm just to see how thick my blood was. I do take blood thinners, and in the absence of medical care, I had to see how fast the bleeding stopped. I cleaned the instruments with alcohol, washed the area to be tested, then doused it with rubbing alcohol and used cotton balls to swab the area and then I let it air dry. I used a sharp, fresh-stoned blade. It hurt a little, but fuck it. I’m so used to pain I doubt that the most sadistic torture specialist in the world could make anything but cuss words come out of my mouth. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting out even a groan. But I may tell him, “Fuck you. You got nothing on my father.

The wound bled a lot. Reassured, I treated it as I was trained and moved on. If I have to check all the boxes myself, I’m going to send a bill to the insurance company. Just for yuks, even though I’ll be the only one laughing. They’ll ask me to go to the Emergency Room to get a psych evaluation. While I’m there I’ll meet Jesus Christ in a wheelchair, so naturally, I ain’t going. I haven’t been in a psych ward for 19 years, and that was because of suicide attempts. I wasn’t a psycho.

Actually I probably wouldn’t bat an eye at Jesus Christ in a wheelchair. I’ve seen worse things. But now, if I saw Jesus Christ on an electric Razor scooter, powering down the sidewalk, that could do it. I’d probably freak out.

I have much to do and little time to do it in. I refuse to die in 2024. Next year is okay. Not this one.

Come to think of it, maybe a trip to the ER ain’t such a bad idea after all. I’d see a real doc, and at the same time face my fear of meeting Jesus Christ in a wheelchair. Crutches ain’t so bad, I’ve seen that before. But a wheelchair would leave me open to temptation to say things not in keeping with my nature. Like “Rise, and walk! Your faith has healed you.”

This place…it’s a madhouse. Do people even try to get doctorates anymore, or are they taking Fellatio and Cunnilingus 101? The practical exams must be excruciating for professors to grade. But. It sure does beat basket weaving.

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.