What matters...

I digress...

In 1991, I stopped using any medication that was not prescribed by a physician. I went to Narcotics Anonymous and to Alcoholics Anonymous. I don't attend meetings anymore.

In early 1993, I went to a Survivors of Incest 12-step meeting and this happened:

survivor sculpture

a flash ... illumination ... cusp of changes

i don't understand ... this marble's special

what is this God?

is this love at first sight?

shush little one and watch me sculpt

but God, what is this

lemme see, please God, please?

a universe of lights, each one a moment of love's learnings

a feeling, love so pure, so clean, so like God

a knowing, this will be

now shush little one and help me sculpt

how God, i wanna help, tell me how, please ?

patience,  little one, patience, honesty, and love

so, mostly, i watched ... hammer fall, thump

that piece about your father's hateful lust

and the news he's finally dead, you're safe

so, mostly, i watched ... except hugs i needed too

hammer blow, another chunk of extraneous stone, money isn't honey

a childhood rocked by traumas not cradles, incest's infinite cost

so, mostly, i watched ... except valentine flowers i loved to give

hammer strikes once, get honest, twice strikes deeper

photographic horror show, more emotional chiseling

so,  little one, what do you see ?

You aren't done yet ... silence. i'm sorry God

i see... courage, faith, hope, strength, beauty... love

so,  little one, how do you feel ?

i'm afraid ... and i ... i ... i love her

it's ok,  little one, you should ...

...

Now you've met Michele...

Rehabilitate this...

After a flurry of out of control flashbacks, anxiety attacks and general nausea that can last for days, I'm back.

LIFEBOAT NEWS!

I qualified for one type of vocational benefits from the VA. Good news, right? Nope. Turns out none of the legitimate schools will let me use the program as it is written in a way that doesn't allow for actually completing a program of study in the time allotted.

Upon learning this, I applied for a different VA vocational program. I haven't heard back and I don't expect to be eligible for that program as my service connected disability is only 20% and, well, see the previous post for why the VA doesn't really want me to be considered a vet.

Over a year ago, I applied for California Vocational Rehabilitation at DOR. I was deemed in greatest need of service & am waiting for a program to be designed to help me. And waiting... And waiting... And waiting... And waiting... And waiting... And waiting... And waiting... And waiting... And waiting...

Today, another DOR appointment was cancelled. They won't reschedule for another month unless I'm willing to go into the office without Michele. As she doesn't think that anyone will help me unless she's there, we've reached a stalemate. DOR won't see me unless I'm alone to be pressured into whatever they want me to sign so I won't sue them for forgetting about me. Yes, my last DOR counsellor just ignored me until she made it to her retirement party. I wasn't even told. She went months without responding to my emails.

Why do I put up with this? Well, we mentally ill people do not advocate well for ourselves. The systems put us off, again and again, until we quit, give up or get mad. That last, getting mad, is the best because then they can say that your anger is getting into the way of your rehabilitation so the whole process has to stop. For a while. For your own good.

In 1987, I was furious that I had been injured by Army medical negligence & assaulted in my bedroom. The VA vocational counsellor was so helpful. He said, stop pursuing your appeal against the VA/Army and we will consider reinstating you to the program. My anger was mere words. No threats. No violence. Just angry, justifiably angry, words. No soup for me. No education for me. No earning college wages for the next 20 years. Nope. Minimum wage for you, Miss Angry-Smarty-Pants and nothing else.

So, the next time you want to talk about what we Democrats are supposed to stand for, I want you to remember how the system has treated me. I want you to explain why the Democrats let government procedures be this frustrating. I want you to help me understand how it is in our political interest that people, so frustrated by not receiving the help that they think OTHERS get, start believing Republican BS about the government being our enemy? Or, better yet, just wait a couple months and you won't hear another peep from me. After all, we all know that dead trannies tell no tales.

for whom the bell tolls...

Something bad happened last week. My thoughts would be with those that have or are suffering from the senseless acts of violence in Boston. Would be, that is, if I didn't have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Empathy for other victims of violence opens the door into the prison that is my mind and, except in fictional best sellers, everyone knows that nothing good ever escapes from thought prison.

You see, my thoughts aren't really under my own control. I can slightly shape them. I can  attempt to redirect them. I can even end them (at the cost of my own life). What I can't do is prevent the everyday reportage of violence or rape or, well, even football, from triggering my PTSD.

So, I want to wish those suffering in Boston and elsewhere well but I've spent the last week basically completely dysfunctional. The thought of helping the misfortunate, no matter how well intentioned, doesn't complete. My brain redirects to my childhood and I am just along for the ride. I re-experience sights, sounds, smells, feelings and even physical pains; there is no cure or even a treatment that has been effective in stopping the flashbacks. The memories just keep pounding me and pounding me until I am begging an unseen and unheard from God for any kind of relief. Relief that never comes...

I wish I could write something helpful, like a rousing call to fight for more PTSD studies that aren't designed to get approval for a new, expensive and mostly ineffective but highly profitable drug. How's about an insightful diary post filled with brilliant self-examination that finally ends the decades long nightmare that is my existence? Or maybe, if I phrase it just right, a wealthy benefactor will discover my writing, be horrified by my plight and will offer me financial support so I can write my plays whenever I'm not cowering in my bed, waiting for the flashbacks to abate.

The reality is, none of these interesting but pipe dream based solutions is going to happen. I will continue to be overwhelmed by the tolling news of the afflicted. These never-ending death knells undermine my will to survive. They grow louder and louder while our society's willingness to hear grows weaker and weaker. In the end, I have no doubt that the final tolling of my life will remain unheard as well.

banging my head against the wall...

Welcome back. This is post number 7 of the possible 700 posts I could write if I was writing one post per time that I was raped. That number, the second not the first, can only be approximate as I wasn't counting the rapes as they went along. Silly me, didn't I know that anything I didn't document at the time will never be accepted by a world more bent on misjudging me than helping me.

This week, our heroine Windi has been thrown back into the oh so helpful veterans administration (VA) to seek help for a situation due to a range of issues that can only be described as dire. She has to seek help at the VA first because many other social programs require exhausting VA benefits before those other agencies can help. The same situation occurs when trying to get medical help. Windi has the VA; that should be good enough, right?

Uh, no. Only recently has the VA begun to cover transgender care & what it does cover are only the very least expensive items of the very high costs of transition. The Crash left us no reserves. We faced a simple choice: borrow the money necessary to cover the costs of required medical care or don't transition and be consumed by 45 years of pent-up suicidal ideation. Transition or die sounds melodramatic until you are faced with it. Then, it is all too real and it really just sucks.

I don't write about my time in the military because it was very short and unremarkable, aside from the time I was assaulted in the Army hospital, the undiagnosed broken leg treated incorrectly with knee surgery and the threat of Article 15 proceedings if I didn't shut up about both of these violations to my body and mind. Although I legally qualify for all the rights & benefits due an honorably discharged disabled (service connected) veteran, my benefits are often slow walked, reduced or denied because of the shorter than normal duration of my military service. The law, it seems, is merely a guideline for people like me.

Long story long, when the VA should help me but doesn't, I am left with little recourse. When I complain, as I did about being publicly misgendered, I am told that I am just being thin skinned. When a hostile verbal environment triggers the trauma I experienced in the military which then triggers the traumas from my childhood, I am told that I am making a big deal out of nothing. When I explain that the VA is acting like a unfriendly, unkind, bitter, unsympathetic, malicious, vicious, rancorous, venomous, poisonous, virulent; antagonistic, aggressive, confrontational, belligerent, truculent, vitriolic; bellicose, pugnacious military organization instead of a place for me to receive help, I am told that I am not a real veteran and that my 20 years of unpleasant experiences and being bullied while trying to get help from this culturally "hostile to transgender people" agency are exaggerations.

They. Are. Not. Exaggerations.

The VA has never and will never make the Army be responsible for the damage done to me. The VA only exists because the political class fears another bonus army.  Unfortunately, that fear is not large enough to prevent the VA from covering up the misdeeds of the various military branches. This is where my deplorable lack of documentation really comes into play. I didn't talk about what was done to me. I put it out of my mind so I could survive. Although in theory federal law states that the veteran's testimony shall be accepted as true if there is no documentation to dispute it, in practice only some veterans' testimony carries this weight. The law, again, is merely a guideline for people like me.

When I was little, I used to bang my head against walls until I was unconscious. It didn't stop the perpetrators from raping me but it did allow me to be oblivious to their repeated violations of my body and mind. I spent all last week banging my head against the wall that is the VA. Sadly, I cannot escape this madness into the temporary bliss of concussion and the longer night of permanent brain damage. Regrettably, it is the world that remains oblivious to my predicament.

it's a dog's life...

This is Starbuck. She has a job. She's a service animal for a disabled person (me). Of course, to Michele and I, she's part of our family and we love her dearly.

We adopted Starbuck from THE local animal shelter, the same one that gave us Spicy. They said that she was a Labrador Whippet mix. We're pretty sure they were telling the truth about the lab part...

Starbuck had been returned to THE shelter at least three times. They said that the previous adopters had failed due to "unreasonable expectations". They said that she loved other animals and was great with people. This has been born out as she is the friendliest dog I've known in a while. At least, that's how she started out...

We named her Starbuck, after the fighter pilot in Battlestar Galactica that was played by that cute Katee Sackhoff. Spoiler Alert: turns out she's an angel. Starbuck was also an angel until the first time that I left her home alone for a couple hours.

It's called separation anxiety, not "unreasonable expectations". I have at least 3 other photos from this event but I'm saving those for another day. So, I ignored Starbuck for the next hour, except to call her nicely to the couch so I could clean. When all evidence of her acting out was removed, I gave her some pets and told her what a good dog she is. A lifetime of PTSD makes dealing with a dog's separation anxiety, no matter how "unreasonably" severe, a bit of a cakewalk.

Starbuck, as any good fighter pilot candidate would, took well to her training. I won't go into details except to say that there are a lot of disabled people that need service animals and a great shortage of the same. I knew that Starbuck could overcome her issues and do her job. She just needed a lot of love and discipline. Training her ourselves would let another service dog go to different disabled person.

Then Starbuck was attacked. Two pit bulls owned by a homeless person jumped her when Michele was walking her and working on her training. Starbuck fought them off as best she could and Michele did her best to help. No one was seriously injured but everyone was shaken by the incident. 

Starbuck remained her friendly self to people but something seemed off about her when she was outside. Her eyes would dart around and she would forget that she was working. It didn't take me long to realize that Starbuck was exhibiting signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Oh, my sweet and loyal dog, wither the pain that I would have wished you never had to feel. The challenge of overcoming my disabilities just become much harder as well.

Then Starbuck was attacked again. The United States government sent fighter planes to re-traumatize my poor service animal. Welcome to fleet week. This day needs it's own post so I will refrain from details except to state the obvious: Stop scaring my dog with your military penis shows!

Then Starbuck was attacked again. This time, it was a rather vicious German Shepherd whose owner believes that his dog is so special that he doesn't need to obey leash laws. I have pictures. Starbucks head is cut and I have bites and scratches from where I fought to get the other dog off of her. This was the point at which Starbuck's PTSD and not coincidentally my own PTSD becomes unmanageable.

It's called fear aggression. A dog becomes so afraid of another dog or person that the dog tries to drive off the other animal by barking or lunging towards the cause of the fear. Starbuck became so traumatized by being attacked that her PTSD was now interfering with her ability to function.

Michele and I love this dog with all of our hearts. We would no more return her to the shelter than kill her ourselves. However, Starbuck can barely do her job, a job I need her to do for my survival and my quality of life. We can't bring in a new service animal because Starbuck could never accept another dog in her house. We, as a family, have decided to let Starbuck retain the dignity of having a job, a worth, even though she can't do it very well. We are doing everything in our power to help Starbuck get through her issues but it is really slow going. Sometimes, she seems sad and I think that somehow she knows that she's failing and wants to get better but she can't.

This is when I tear up and cry. This is when I know I will do everything I can for this poor animal so afflicted with PTSD that she can barely make it through her walks. This when I know that I have to show her the respect she deserves as a thinking feeling living creature with pains and fears beyond what she can bear. This is when I know that I will treat her better than society has treated me over the last fifty years. This is when I know that our society considers me less important than I consider my dog...

loose ends...

I started spring cleaning about a month ago. I completely rearranged the loft. Moved everything. Cleaned & vacuumed under around & through. I have a little left to finish but it's mostly done. Inside out starts in the mind but, for me, sometimes inside out starts by cleaning & rearranging my home.

This burst of energy has made a real difference in my quality of life. No, we're not saved. As a matter of fact, our financial situation has progressed from bad to unmentionable so the lifeboat is still sinking. It's just that I've just decided to change my mental health treatment plan from being massively medicated to a more holistic & natural approach. I want to enjoy my last days instead of being beaten into submission by psych med side effects. My new approach has been much much better.

I thought that it would be harder to tie up the loose ends but it seems that resolving to die is harder than actually setting my affairs in order. I want Michele to have a nice place to live so cleaning is a no brainer. Arranging for all of my debts to be resolved so Michele has one less headache during her bereavement is also prudent. I guess the actual dying should be harder but I have a plan; it's very specific with the means at hand & keeps in mind the actual difficulty of successfully completing the act. The plan only waits for a specific trigger or for a specific situation that makes my death preferable to my life.

Finally, I have begun the planning of what I expect to be the last three plays that I will ever write. I'm grouping them into what I am calling The Last Stand Trilogy. The plays are not related in character or theme. Each story is completely self contained. Together, they represent the last three areas of interest for me as a playwright. My current belief that nothing will keep the lifeboat afloat does not diminish my desire to approach these last three plays before I die. If you are wondering how long it will take me to write them & if this is some kind of Scheherazade story, I would remind you that the lifeboat stays afloat for no act of mere playwrighting. Capitalism killed the thespian star. There is no appeal.



This has been part 5 of a multipart blog series. If you were me, you would still have at least 695 parts to write before matching the number of times you were raped as a child. Luckily for you, you are not me. This series is being cross-posted at kos as at least 3 people read it over there.

my curiously large trigger warning...

TRIGGER WARNING

Remember last week's number? It was 3. Of 700. Instances. Occurrences. Days.

Rapes. Sexual Assaults. Over a two year period.

These are the facts. No details. Just the numbers.

Conservatively.

When I was 6. Years. Old.

6. 6. 6. 

I can't even begin to tell you what it is like to be me.

Most girls raped as many times as me, die.

Die. We die. Nobody notices.

No more euphemisms.

We die.

You've been warned.

it's a wonderful life...

Go ahead. Refresh your memories or see it for first time but watch it again.

We live in Potterville. You know it. I know it. Most people know it, even if they don't talk about it. Jimmy Stewart jumped off that bridge. No one saved him. This is Potterville; no one sticks their neck out for no one.

I've got a secret. Life insurance pays out even if the insured commits suicide. It's true. A policy in force and paid up to date is not contestable, even in the fine print. Luckily, the fictional George Bailey never has to find that out. We live in Potterville. We're not so lucky.

This is a lifeboat update. No course changes have altered "The Cold Equations" (I should link it for you when you have fingers to type into Google?). Math! This is the 3rd post in this series. 3 instances out of a guessed at 700 occurrences wherein each day is considered an occurrence even if there are multiple instances on that day. That equals approximately 0.43% of the total series if blog posts were daily occurrences and there were 2 years until the lifeboat sinks. There are 3 months until it sinks.

Remember those numbers when we start next week's discussion!

I can jump off the lifeboat. I will not float or swim. I will sink to the bottom of my own personal hell and Michele (I promise! You will meet her soon!) will cash in my life insurance. She will live a very comfortable old age as my life insurance policy is one of the few remains of our financial meltdown. That and a lot of debt.

I am worth more dead than alive.

Welcome to Potterville.