I hate my fuckin’ neighbors with a passion. Turn your fuckin’ penis substitute down, asshole, I can hear it a block away. I am not exaggerating. This asshole today was a block away, and it was a long block. This weekend, it was two blocks. I hope your stereo scrambles what little drug-addled brain tissue you have left and one day soon sends you tumbling to the tacky carpet of your living room floor, bringing all your stupid frat-dude furniture down on top of you. Also? You’re forty years old if you’re a day. If by that age the only way you know to make the earth move is to have speakers taller than I am, dude, just give it up already.
Also, morons, if you’re going to peddle your chemical wares on these streets, do you think it’s smart to call attention to your vehicle, especially in such a way that blunts what little awareness you have naturally? At least three times in broad daylight, (the most recent time only a month ago) I’ve walked up on vehicles only to find myself confronted with a couple of the local entrepreneurs, their laps full of teensy baggies and lotsa white powder or chunks of…something. One of these geniuses stated that he was well within his rights to do this right there on the street, and to prove this, he stayed there. Right till the cops stopped by and brought with them the friendly drug dog, whose presence I had suggested.
The cops deserve a hand in this because, hello, as often as not, these assholes with jack it up again once the cops come. This requires more visits. Do your job right and seize the frickin’ stereo right then and there. (It’s always the same offenders.)
And finally, I hate the VA even more now that I have a bleeding ulcer and migraines, due entirely to the PTSD symptoms they have unfailingly refused to treat. My back injury is so painful I keep my cellphone under my pillow because the pain upon rising is so bad I’ve sometimes screamed out loud—and I once walked around on a broken leg for an hour before finally going to the ER—when I was ordered to. (My leg was broken in three places.) When I saw my VA doctor a month ago, she shrugged. “Those are chronic injuries.” That she diagnosed as arthritis. Even though I didn’t have any symptoms one day, and the next day----after an unpleasant incident with a gun turret, a gun shield, and an IED—I <i>did.</i> Strangely enough, a buddy of mine abruptly developed arthritis when her building was shelled and she was buried beneath debris. And it happened to yet another acquaintance of mine, who was diagnosed with arthritis after a fall. She hobbled around on her supposedly arthritic foot for a few days before the pain got to her and she went to a civilian hospital. Broken foot. As a matter of fact, I joined a womens’ veterans group and it’s striking how, whatever the conflict, whatever the injuries, we all have arthritis that strikes you abruptly one day, often after some kind of engagement with the enemy, or building collapse, or bombing, or vehicle accident, or explosion. One day you’re fine, then the next day you have arthritis. Same doctor doing most of these diagnoses, strangely enough. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.
Two years ago we had a come-to-Jesus meeting at the office of Congressional rep. Every promise they made there----new doctor, new meds-----has never happened. I’ve gone through two governors, to the Senate Armed Services Committee, to the House Committee on Veteran’s Affairs. My shrink said she was worried about dependency with the anti-anxiety meds, which is why she’s had me on the same meds for four years and has ignored the fact that I told her I’ve had to take two and three times the dose to get any sort of relief from panic attacks that make me throw up for hours before I have to try and go to a doctor’s visit…which is all I ever go to. I’ve never had migraines before. I have them now. They make me lose my vision, if not consciousness. The last time I threw up before Iraq was a case of food poisoning in 2000. Now it’s every couple of days, or if I have to leave the house—which can happen as rarely as once per year-----for hours before and after. There’s blood mixed in. If this cow is so worried about me getting dependent on this shit, why isn’t she worried because it’s been four years and I’m taking huge doses that knock me out and leave me reeling? Shouldn’t a doctor be worried about that kind of crap? That’s the only time I get any sleep.
Insurgents are better than this. They’re honest. They don’t say they’re going to take care of you and then never return messages when you have an abscessed tooth. They don’t say they’re going to treat your injuries and then…just somehow it never happens, no matter how many phone calls I make. No. Insurgents hate you, you hate them, it’s the perfect relationship. Oddly, the honesty is refreshing. I’ve even sat down for tea with men who wanted to kill me only a few hours before, and it was very polite. Sort of, “Look, we both know we’re going to try and kill one another, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be polite.” The VA? They smile at my face, then smirk disbelievingly when I tell them the pain from my back makes my vision grey out.
Tomorrow’s a big meeting about me. Again. I’m not invited. It’s been three years I’ve been trying to get a new doctor. I found a civilian physical therapist, a civilian doctor, but they cost an arm and a leg, despite medicare. If The VA doesn’t pull their shit together, it’s the New York Times next.
When you hear about veterans killing themselves every eighty minutes, remember this is the treatment they’re getting, if and when they get it. Some VAs might be good, but some are very bad, and VA policy is that denying claims is the way to go. My VA sucks politicians’ balls.
