“A girl has no name.”


Nineteen days until Fleetwood Mac perform in Sioux Falls.  I have my ticket.  I’ve survived off the anticipation for months.  Alas, I don’t think I’m going to be able to go.  I’m extremely triggered by the Kavanaugh issue.  It’s taught me a valuable lesson about reality.  It’s not a new lesson.  Just one I’ve been reluctant to embrace as truth.  My bad.

At the same time, I’ve been fighting for abuse-free care from my local VA.  It’s not going well.  Over the course of two weeks, it’s become evident the VA has no intention of doing anything about my complaints of abuse.  I thought access to the benefits I was awarded was worth fighting for, but now I’m having second thoughts.  I’ve been asking myself some difficult questions.

Why do I even want medical care?  I think I’ve been conditioned to desire good health and preventative care.  I listen to podcasts that support proactive mental health, and the benefits of therapy.  While I agree it can benefit most people, in my experience since acquiring PTSD while on active duty, mental health treatment is a synonym for abuse.

I don’t have the luxury of choosing a provider.  You get whoever you’re assigned to at the VA.  I resent the time and hope I’ve wasted.  It’s worsened my condition and provided me with more nightmares and phobias I didn’t have before making the mistake of seeking assistance.  I strongly suspect my skin color and gender are insurmountable barriers.

Since these are things beyond my ability to change, I feel foolish for even bothering.  This is earth.  People of color and women are abused on this planet.  I don’t know why I thought I could be an exception.  I’m a doof.  It’s not as if my life hasn’t been seemingly designed to reinforce this fact.  What was I thinking?  At least I finally understand my place.  No more shocks and surprises.  I hate them.


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