I feel like writing. I don't know about what yet. I guess I'll find out as I write.
Yesterday went decently. Went to the national cemetery and walked around with my wife and daughters. Then went to my parents' house for a cookout. The whole family was there besides my youngest sister, who was ... somewhere else. Some other state, visiting her boyfriend and his parents. I know he's from Maine, but I don't know if that's where she went.
Today has been ok, so far. It's one of my daughters' birthday. So we went and watched the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. Dead Men Tell No Tales. It was ok. I won't spoil anything here.
I've got an appointment with audiology in the morning. Going to be evaluated for hearing aids. A part of me wonders that if I could hear better, if I would be less anxious in crowds. On that note, I need to go to the DMV. My doctor filled out a paper allowing me to get handicapped something. I'm not sure if it's a hangar or plates. I don't need to use handicapped parking always, though. My knee only hurts bad enough to use the handicapped parking about two or three times a month.
I won't feel bad when I do have to use it, though. I generally park at least halfway down a parking lot at the store. It's been a habit for me for a long time. My sister once asked me why I did so. I responded with, "I have two good legs, and can walk. Some people aren't so lucky."
I'm in kind of a weird mood tonight. I'm not happy. But I'm not sad, anxious, or depressed either. Could be my meds. I took my Mirtazapine last night. Probably having an effect on me.
I've been thinking of this blog, and its purpose. While this blog is for me, with the attention that my last post received, I've realized that other people will likely be looking through it, too. And as I believe I said in my first post, maybe one day this will be a triumphant story of an overcomer.
I was speaking to someone on Skype. They said that the blog would be good for people trying to overcome things of their own. The reason is, you look at someone who overcame. And it's hard to relate to them. Because they're writing a book, or a motivational speech, or whatever; but they're writing it after the fact. They are writing what they went through from the perspective of someone on the other side.
This blog is different. It's being written in the moment. Not from someone who has overcome. But from someone who is living it. Someone who is going through it right now.
So, when someone is going through something, and they read my blog, they'll see the pain and suffering as I live it. Not as I lived it before.
The biggest problem I have with a blog though, is that people will land on the last post if they visit the site. I wish they could be immediately directed to the first post, to read through and see the changes as they happen. It's kind of like my above rant. If they see only the last post, they might think the whole thing is written from the perspective of however I am in that post.
Well. I think I'm done rambling. I have another thing to talk about, but it'll likely be a whole post on its own. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe five minutes from now. Who knows.
- Sapper Woody
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Monday, May 29, 2017
...his wife.
29 May 217
Today is Memorial Day. It's roughly 0200 as I'm typing this words, and watching them appear on my screen.
I once talked to a 1SG of mine whose name I won't mention because I don't have his permission to. He suffered from PTSD. He told me how when he came back from a deployment, he was torn up. He was drunk almost every night and almost lost his marriage. I asked him how he managed things, and he gave me some interesting advice.
He told me that he allowed himself a couple of "bad" days a year. Days where he would take a six pack to the grave of his lost soldiers and just cry. Get it all out at once. Then, when he starts to break down, he just looks forward to and reminds himself that there's a day coming when he will let it all out again.
I've tried to do that myself. It hasn't had as much success for me as it has him. Different people respond to different things. But, in an attempt, I've allowed myself three "bad" days in the year. Memorial Day, Veteran's Day, and October 15th. I won't go into why October 15th here. That's not the purpose of this post.
I was thinking of shaving my beard and trimming my hair to acceptable AR 670-1 standards, wearing my dress blues, and going to the local national cemetery tomorrow. And that got me thinking of another time I visited a national cemetery. And I want this blog post to be a happy one. So we're going to talk about that visit.
The tombstones at this cemetery had the usual markings. Rank, name, DOB and DOD. But in this cemetery the wives of the veterans were buried on the other side of the tombstone. And the inscription over the wife was, "his wife".
At first I was appalled by it. That the wife would get just those two words. His wife. Then I started thinking, and I pointed it out to my wife. Those two words, to some may not mean anything. But, to those who know, it means so much more.
If they were to attempt to put a description of who that person was, it would take up three or four tombstones. Supporter. Lover. Mother of his children. Financial Planner. Caregiver. Listening Ear. Patient. Someone who could hold a house together while he was away for six, nine, twelve, fifteen months, or more. Someone who didn't kick him when he was down. Someone who shared his darkest secrets that he couldn't tell anyone else. Someone who loved the person he was, yet pushed him to be the person he could be. Someone who stayed with him, despite all the troubles of a normal household, much less a military household. The woman who had to keep it all together when he was either absent, or couldn't keep it together himself. Someone who welcomed him home, and helped him through the transition from deployment to garrison life. Someone who held him when the nightmares started. Someone who calmed him when the thunder woke him up. Someone who understood when he was startled and acted out of training. Someone who acted as a liaison to help him reconnect with his children, who didn't know him when he returned from deployment. Someone who loved him, despite the changes that occurred while he was away. Someone who kept their marriage vows to him despite the hardships. Someone who showed him the good side of life when he could only see the bad.
So, yeah. "His Wife". Two simple words, that mean so much more. Those two words are the simplest, yet most profound things to read on a tombstone.
Today is Memorial Day. It's roughly 0200 as I'm typing this words, and watching them appear on my screen.
I once talked to a 1SG of mine whose name I won't mention because I don't have his permission to. He suffered from PTSD. He told me how when he came back from a deployment, he was torn up. He was drunk almost every night and almost lost his marriage. I asked him how he managed things, and he gave me some interesting advice.
He told me that he allowed himself a couple of "bad" days a year. Days where he would take a six pack to the grave of his lost soldiers and just cry. Get it all out at once. Then, when he starts to break down, he just looks forward to and reminds himself that there's a day coming when he will let it all out again.
I've tried to do that myself. It hasn't had as much success for me as it has him. Different people respond to different things. But, in an attempt, I've allowed myself three "bad" days in the year. Memorial Day, Veteran's Day, and October 15th. I won't go into why October 15th here. That's not the purpose of this post.
I was thinking of shaving my beard and trimming my hair to acceptable AR 670-1 standards, wearing my dress blues, and going to the local national cemetery tomorrow. And that got me thinking of another time I visited a national cemetery. And I want this blog post to be a happy one. So we're going to talk about that visit.
The tombstones at this cemetery had the usual markings. Rank, name, DOB and DOD. But in this cemetery the wives of the veterans were buried on the other side of the tombstone. And the inscription over the wife was, "his wife".
At first I was appalled by it. That the wife would get just those two words. His wife. Then I started thinking, and I pointed it out to my wife. Those two words, to some may not mean anything. But, to those who know, it means so much more.
If they were to attempt to put a description of who that person was, it would take up three or four tombstones. Supporter. Lover. Mother of his children. Financial Planner. Caregiver. Listening Ear. Patient. Someone who could hold a house together while he was away for six, nine, twelve, fifteen months, or more. Someone who didn't kick him when he was down. Someone who shared his darkest secrets that he couldn't tell anyone else. Someone who loved the person he was, yet pushed him to be the person he could be. Someone who stayed with him, despite all the troubles of a normal household, much less a military household. The woman who had to keep it all together when he was either absent, or couldn't keep it together himself. Someone who welcomed him home, and helped him through the transition from deployment to garrison life. Someone who held him when the nightmares started. Someone who calmed him when the thunder woke him up. Someone who understood when he was startled and acted out of training. Someone who acted as a liaison to help him reconnect with his children, who didn't know him when he returned from deployment. Someone who loved him, despite the changes that occurred while he was away. Someone who kept their marriage vows to him despite the hardships. Someone who showed him the good side of life when he could only see the bad.
So, yeah. "His Wife". Two simple words, that mean so much more. Those two words are the simplest, yet most profound things to read on a tombstone.
Sunday, April 23, 2017
23 April 2017
Exactly a month since my last post. I know you've been waiting with baited breath, checking my site every day to see if I had posted again. But I warned you in the beginning. I will post when I feel like it. And I haven't felt like it.
Truth is, I've been taking my meds. Yay! Right? No. My meds have been having me sleep for literally about fourteen hours a day. I haven't been to school in weeks. It's safe to assume I've failed all my classes this semester.
Except I do feel the need to point out that one of my professors has called me to check up on me. She's awesome. She even offered me a way to pass the class. I'm hoping to take her up on it, though I honestly don't know if I'll be able to.
I'm trying to figure out how to finish school, as I'll likely be dropped out of the program I was using for funding. I'm hoping that I can use my GI Bill. I've been on a chapter 31 vocational rehab up until now.
And I don't feel like writing any more. So, guess you'll have to wait until I do.
- Sapper Woody
Truth is, I've been taking my meds. Yay! Right? No. My meds have been having me sleep for literally about fourteen hours a day. I haven't been to school in weeks. It's safe to assume I've failed all my classes this semester.
Except I do feel the need to point out that one of my professors has called me to check up on me. She's awesome. She even offered me a way to pass the class. I'm hoping to take her up on it, though I honestly don't know if I'll be able to.
I'm trying to figure out how to finish school, as I'll likely be dropped out of the program I was using for funding. I'm hoping that I can use my GI Bill. I've been on a chapter 31 vocational rehab up until now.
And I don't feel like writing any more. So, guess you'll have to wait until I do.
- Sapper Woody
Thursday, March 23, 2017
23 March 2017
So, I've failed again. Or, most likely I have. It's almost 100% for sure. I'll find out tomorrow for sure. It's very likely that when I wake up in the morning (wake up? yeah right. I'm not sleeping tonight) that I'll have no job. Again. For the ... sixth? time since I left the Army in late 2014.
Let's see. The hydraulic pump factory, the cable place, taco bell, refereeing basketball, the lawn mower shop the first time, and then the lawn mower shop again. Yep. Six jobs I couldn't keep. 28 months, 6 jobs I've lost. That's an average of 4.67 months per job. And that's not counting the time spent on unemployment. Take out those months, and we're looking at right around 4 months per job.
Yeah. There's a winner.
On Tuesday, my boss told me that he understands that I'm going through issues. Side bar rant here: No. You don't. Unless you've lived with it, felt its effects, seen or lived the issues firsthand, you have no stinking clue.
Unless you've been there for the sleepless nights, the accidentally sleeping all day, the panic when you hear a loud noise, the anxiety of being in a crowd, the depression of knowing that you can't do normal things, the looking over your shoulder and completely missing your daughter's birthday party at the restaurant, the having your kids know that they have to ask you if they can hug you because they know you can't be touched by surprise, the guilt at accidentally punching a co-worker because he placed his hand on your shoulder when you were having flashbacks, the screaming in the night in terror at nightmares...
You know what? I don't feel like posting anymore.
- Sapper Woody
Let's see. The hydraulic pump factory, the cable place, taco bell, refereeing basketball, the lawn mower shop the first time, and then the lawn mower shop again. Yep. Six jobs I couldn't keep. 28 months, 6 jobs I've lost. That's an average of 4.67 months per job. And that's not counting the time spent on unemployment. Take out those months, and we're looking at right around 4 months per job.
Yeah. There's a winner.
On Tuesday, my boss told me that he understands that I'm going through issues. Side bar rant here: No. You don't. Unless you've lived with it, felt its effects, seen or lived the issues firsthand, you have no stinking clue.
Unless you've been there for the sleepless nights, the accidentally sleeping all day, the panic when you hear a loud noise, the anxiety of being in a crowd, the depression of knowing that you can't do normal things, the looking over your shoulder and completely missing your daughter's birthday party at the restaurant, the having your kids know that they have to ask you if they can hug you because they know you can't be touched by surprise, the guilt at accidentally punching a co-worker because he placed his hand on your shoulder when you were having flashbacks, the screaming in the night in terror at nightmares...
You know what? I don't feel like posting anymore.
- Sapper Woody
Saturday, March 18, 2017
18 March 2017
So, it's been about two weeks since my last post. That's been due to many reasons. Mostly because I didn't feel like it. After all, this is for me.
I should have posted, though. Maybe I would have felt better. It's not a long story, but it's a dark one. But, I feel like telling it. So here goes.
I had my deal with my fugue state that I talked about before, and then I just spiraled down from there. Things got bad. Nightly bad. I won't go into the details, but more than once I thought about surrendering my firearms to my dad.
I have to interject here. Some people would immediately think, "Why the heck do you have firearms in your state?!". Screw you, first off. That's my business. Secondly, since I feel like explaining, when I think I need to surrender my firearms is way before I would actually do something to end my life. I think of giving them up when I think there's even a remote possibility I may have the thought to harm myself.
Thirdly, do you honestly think not having firearms would stop me? I literally laugh out loud at the thought that it would. If I were to kill myself, I wouldn't choose a gun to do so. Too messy and traumatic for my family. Besides, without the guns, there's still pills, drowning, strangulation, car wrecks, falls, and this new thing called veins in your wrist. So, getting rid of guns to stop someone is laughably stupid.
I think if I ever surrender my weapons to someone else, that'll be my cry for help. Kind of like, "I'm getting serious about this. Get me some help" kind of thing. So, if I do surrender my weapons, you can bet it's serious; but not that I was thinking of using them. Too messy.
Anyway, I was depressed. Still am, actually. Trying to recover. But I listened to myself singing "American Soldier" on YouTube, and that didn't help. Just reminded me of what I've lost. I loved being a soldier.
I'm still a soldier. That's the problem. I can't stop being a soldier. If I could, maybe I could be 'regular'. Maybe I could look at a woman in a hijab and not be reminded of the wars. Maybe I could see some wires across a sidewalk and not think that I need to cordon off the area. Maybe I could sit with my back to a door. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But, imagine a doctor, if you will. He spends years training to diagnose people. He practices medicine. Then he retires. Now, if that doctor sees a man limping down the street, his mind will diagnose that man. Or if he sees a person bleeding, he will help. He can't help but be a doctor.
Now, imagine a soldier. Spending the hourly equivalent of a bachelor's degree in training for his job, crammed into a few months. Real immersion training. He's trained to spot threats. He's trained that a person wearing certain types of clothing may be hiding a bomb. He's trained to notice if a cargo truck is riding low on it's springs. He's trained to watch all avenues of an approaching threat. He's trained to keep an eye out for snipers. He's trained to look for disturbed earth.
Now, take that soldier, trained in that fashion, and throw him into a warzone. For however long, I don't care. 6 months, 12 months, 15 months. (In my case, I did 12 months in Iraq, and 13 in Afghanistan.) Where every day, he has to use that training to keep himself alive. Where he has to sometimes sleep outside with his gear on for fear of attack. Where there has to be someone on watch at all times. Where one false step on the ground can be your last. Where stepping on a crack or not stepping on a crack could mean the difference between seeing your family again or going home in a body bag.
Let him retire. Suddenly, he's expected to not be what he is, but it's ok for the doctor!? Double standard much?! People EXPECT the doctor to retain his hard taught skills, but they expect the EXACT SAME OPPOSITE of a soldier?! How does that make sense?
I'll tell you: It doesn't. But that's the reality I face. But yet no one thinks anything of it. "Oh, you used to be a plumber, could you look at my toilet?" "Oh, you used to be an electrician, can you take a look at my stove?" "Oh, you used to be a lawyer, could you give me legal advice?" BUT "Oh, you used to be a soldier. Stop it."
Now I've gotten all worked up and sidetracked. You'll have to wait to hear about the rest of my two weeks, dangit.
- Sapper Woody
I should have posted, though. Maybe I would have felt better. It's not a long story, but it's a dark one. But, I feel like telling it. So here goes.
I had my deal with my fugue state that I talked about before, and then I just spiraled down from there. Things got bad. Nightly bad. I won't go into the details, but more than once I thought about surrendering my firearms to my dad.
I have to interject here. Some people would immediately think, "Why the heck do you have firearms in your state?!". Screw you, first off. That's my business. Secondly, since I feel like explaining, when I think I need to surrender my firearms is way before I would actually do something to end my life. I think of giving them up when I think there's even a remote possibility I may have the thought to harm myself.
Thirdly, do you honestly think not having firearms would stop me? I literally laugh out loud at the thought that it would. If I were to kill myself, I wouldn't choose a gun to do so. Too messy and traumatic for my family. Besides, without the guns, there's still pills, drowning, strangulation, car wrecks, falls, and this new thing called veins in your wrist. So, getting rid of guns to stop someone is laughably stupid.
I think if I ever surrender my weapons to someone else, that'll be my cry for help. Kind of like, "I'm getting serious about this. Get me some help" kind of thing. So, if I do surrender my weapons, you can bet it's serious; but not that I was thinking of using them. Too messy.
Anyway, I was depressed. Still am, actually. Trying to recover. But I listened to myself singing "American Soldier" on YouTube, and that didn't help. Just reminded me of what I've lost. I loved being a soldier.
I'm still a soldier. That's the problem. I can't stop being a soldier. If I could, maybe I could be 'regular'. Maybe I could look at a woman in a hijab and not be reminded of the wars. Maybe I could see some wires across a sidewalk and not think that I need to cordon off the area. Maybe I could sit with my back to a door. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But, imagine a doctor, if you will. He spends years training to diagnose people. He practices medicine. Then he retires. Now, if that doctor sees a man limping down the street, his mind will diagnose that man. Or if he sees a person bleeding, he will help. He can't help but be a doctor.
Now, imagine a soldier. Spending the hourly equivalent of a bachelor's degree in training for his job, crammed into a few months. Real immersion training. He's trained to spot threats. He's trained that a person wearing certain types of clothing may be hiding a bomb. He's trained to notice if a cargo truck is riding low on it's springs. He's trained to watch all avenues of an approaching threat. He's trained to keep an eye out for snipers. He's trained to look for disturbed earth.
Now, take that soldier, trained in that fashion, and throw him into a warzone. For however long, I don't care. 6 months, 12 months, 15 months. (In my case, I did 12 months in Iraq, and 13 in Afghanistan.) Where every day, he has to use that training to keep himself alive. Where he has to sometimes sleep outside with his gear on for fear of attack. Where there has to be someone on watch at all times. Where one false step on the ground can be your last. Where stepping on a crack or not stepping on a crack could mean the difference between seeing your family again or going home in a body bag.
Let him retire. Suddenly, he's expected to not be what he is, but it's ok for the doctor!? Double standard much?! People EXPECT the doctor to retain his hard taught skills, but they expect the EXACT SAME OPPOSITE of a soldier?! How does that make sense?
I'll tell you: It doesn't. But that's the reality I face. But yet no one thinks anything of it. "Oh, you used to be a plumber, could you look at my toilet?" "Oh, you used to be an electrician, can you take a look at my stove?" "Oh, you used to be a lawyer, could you give me legal advice?" BUT "Oh, you used to be a soldier. Stop it."
Now I've gotten all worked up and sidetracked. You'll have to wait to hear about the rest of my two weeks, dangit.
- Sapper Woody
Saturday, March 4, 2017
04 March 2017
Nothing hurts quite as bad as when someone kicks you while you're down, thinking that they're helping you. And the people closest to you have the greatest potential to hurt you. Combine the two and that is a recipe for disaster.
Today, I went into a fugue state. As near as I can tell, while in this state I left for work, but instead of going to work I pulled off into a parking lot and slept. I awoke to someone pounding on my window.
It was my father, and he was pretty mad with me. I could easily tell, because he said the word "crap". While I was still trying to get my bearings, he began yelling at me. He had the audacity to remind me that I was hurting him. He said that there was no excuse, and the only answer he would accept was that I was too lazy to go to work and provide for my family.
I'm not sure how, but somehow he had gotten my keys from my car, and I couldn't just drive away. I told him to give them back. He didn't, and it was probably a good thing, as I was still out of it and trying to get my bearings. I even had the thought of forcefully taking my keys from him. He is a former prison guard, and probably sensed this, because he got real close to my door where I couldn't easily take any action.
---
I stopped typing there for about an hour. I was going to call the crisis hotline, but called a friend instead. One who knew my wife was looking for me. I found out from him that my wife had received word this morning that her grandma had died. I'm not good at consolation, but I tried anyway. It's hard to be good at consoling people when you're a non-empathetic robot. Hopefully I helped. I held her while she cried for a bit. I think that helps people.
I also called my dad. As much as I want to avoid him, I'm going to face this thing head on. My family is leaving soon to go over to my parent's house, where I'll help my dad do some work. Then he and I will go to practice. We sing in a quartet together. We're both tenors, but I'm a higher tenor. It works out since our lead is a baritone. So we pitch the music lower, and then my dad sings the tenor, while I sing the baritone part an octave higher.
Keep your fingers crossed...
- Sapper Woody
Today, I went into a fugue state. As near as I can tell, while in this state I left for work, but instead of going to work I pulled off into a parking lot and slept. I awoke to someone pounding on my window.
It was my father, and he was pretty mad with me. I could easily tell, because he said the word "crap". While I was still trying to get my bearings, he began yelling at me. He had the audacity to remind me that I was hurting him. He said that there was no excuse, and the only answer he would accept was that I was too lazy to go to work and provide for my family.
I'm not sure how, but somehow he had gotten my keys from my car, and I couldn't just drive away. I told him to give them back. He didn't, and it was probably a good thing, as I was still out of it and trying to get my bearings. I even had the thought of forcefully taking my keys from him. He is a former prison guard, and probably sensed this, because he got real close to my door where I couldn't easily take any action.
---
I stopped typing there for about an hour. I was going to call the crisis hotline, but called a friend instead. One who knew my wife was looking for me. I found out from him that my wife had received word this morning that her grandma had died. I'm not good at consolation, but I tried anyway. It's hard to be good at consoling people when you're a non-empathetic robot. Hopefully I helped. I held her while she cried for a bit. I think that helps people.
I also called my dad. As much as I want to avoid him, I'm going to face this thing head on. My family is leaving soon to go over to my parent's house, where I'll help my dad do some work. Then he and I will go to practice. We sing in a quartet together. We're both tenors, but I'm a higher tenor. It works out since our lead is a baritone. So we pitch the music lower, and then my dad sings the tenor, while I sing the baritone part an octave higher.
Keep your fingers crossed...
- Sapper Woody
Friday, March 3, 2017
03 March 2017
It would be better if I were dead. At least, that's what the voices told me. I hear them sometimes, but not all the time. Not enough to get meds for it, apparently. When I told the Doctor about them, they said that they could prescribes some anti-psychotics, but they wanted to hold off on that. So, I think I was diagnosed with mild psychosis, in addition to my other diagnoses of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Depression, Anxiety, and Adjustment Disorder.
I only hear them when I get depressed. And today I was. Two nights ago I took a sleep medication and then slept for 15 hours. My body is VERY reactive to medication. So, even though I only took 50mg of Trazedone, I slept from about 2230 until 1330 the next day. Last night, I only took have a pill. I couldn't sleep. I tried, honestly. After laying in bed until about 0030, I got up and moved around. I tried to fall asleep again around 0230, but again failed. I was feeling bad mentally.
When my alarm went off at 0600 signaling that it was time for me to wake up and practice my Kung Fu, I instead went upstairs and took a shower. That's when the voices started. "You're a loser!" "You should die!" "Fill the tub up and let it drown!" I don't know why that last voice referred to me in third person, but it did. I try to ignore the voices, but they won't go away.
To get my mind off of them, I tried working a simple physics problem that I had in class a few days ago. If a mass of 100Kg is hanging off a cliff 20 meters from the ground, attached to a rope that goes up to a pulley and then along the top of the cliff to another mass, assuming a .2 friction coefficient, how heavy must that second mass be in order to only be going 10m/s when the first mass hits the ground?
I worked it out loud, doing the calculations without pen, paper, or calculator. It scared my wife for a second, because she didn't know who I was talking to. I kept messing up the calculations, though I got them close. I came up with 250Kg to accelerate at 2m/s^2. I remembered that the answer was something closer to 270Kg.
This helped me a little bit, but I could not shut my brain off. The voices kept grabbing at me for attention. Finally, at 0700, when I was supposed to leave for school, I decided I couldn't take it anymore and had to sleep. I couldn't drive anywhere anyway.
My wife asked me what needed to happen for me to be able to go to class today. I told her I wasn't sure, but that I had to reset my mind somehow. So, she graciously stayed with me until I fell asleep at roughly 0800. I woke up at 1300, but I was still out of it. My wife sat with me on the couch for hours watching the TV show "Scrubs", until I finally somewhat snapped out of it.
Missing class depresses me, and also gives me anxiety. But, even worse, I missed a newspaper interview today at 1100 that I was supposed to be a part of. The University newspaper wanted to interview our robotics team. I missed it. I keep letting everyone down.
Even now, since I am feeling out of it, the voices are there. I can ignore them for the most part, though. But I can still hear them when I am not thinking about anything else. "Why are you typing?" "No one cares what you think!" "Give up. You're done. You can't come back from this."
Are they right? I don't know. I do know that I have my livestream to look forward to tonight, playing Smite on the Xbox with a couple friends of mine. That always seems to help me feel better. Hopefully when I can livestream I'll get to talking to my friends, and they'll pull me out of this. They don't (or maybe they do) know it, but chatting with them live helps a lot.
I thought about calling the veteran's crisis hotline again today. But I decided not to. They always ask if you're having suicidal thoughts, and I usually have to lie to them and tell them that I've never contemplated it. I don't want them to send someone over to "help" me, and cause more stress. The last thing I need is to be taken to the hospital and put under suicide watch. The stigma attached to that would break me.
Besides, I have my family. My wife and my three daughters. I couldn't bear to leave them alone in the world. If for no other reason, I couldn't let my girls grow up without a Dad. They need me, as poor a job as I'm doing. It's better than nothing, in my way of thinking.
I only slept about five hours today. Hopefully that won't interfere with my sleeping tonight. I need to go to work tomorrow. I missed it today. And my disability isn't quite high enough that I can get by without working. Almost, but not quite. I still need to work about 20 hours per week to sustain my family.
Well, hopefully it can only go up from here.
- Sapper Woody
I only hear them when I get depressed. And today I was. Two nights ago I took a sleep medication and then slept for 15 hours. My body is VERY reactive to medication. So, even though I only took 50mg of Trazedone, I slept from about 2230 until 1330 the next day. Last night, I only took have a pill. I couldn't sleep. I tried, honestly. After laying in bed until about 0030, I got up and moved around. I tried to fall asleep again around 0230, but again failed. I was feeling bad mentally.
When my alarm went off at 0600 signaling that it was time for me to wake up and practice my Kung Fu, I instead went upstairs and took a shower. That's when the voices started. "You're a loser!" "You should die!" "Fill the tub up and let it drown!" I don't know why that last voice referred to me in third person, but it did. I try to ignore the voices, but they won't go away.
To get my mind off of them, I tried working a simple physics problem that I had in class a few days ago. If a mass of 100Kg is hanging off a cliff 20 meters from the ground, attached to a rope that goes up to a pulley and then along the top of the cliff to another mass, assuming a .2 friction coefficient, how heavy must that second mass be in order to only be going 10m/s when the first mass hits the ground?
I worked it out loud, doing the calculations without pen, paper, or calculator. It scared my wife for a second, because she didn't know who I was talking to. I kept messing up the calculations, though I got them close. I came up with 250Kg to accelerate at 2m/s^2. I remembered that the answer was something closer to 270Kg.
This helped me a little bit, but I could not shut my brain off. The voices kept grabbing at me for attention. Finally, at 0700, when I was supposed to leave for school, I decided I couldn't take it anymore and had to sleep. I couldn't drive anywhere anyway.
My wife asked me what needed to happen for me to be able to go to class today. I told her I wasn't sure, but that I had to reset my mind somehow. So, she graciously stayed with me until I fell asleep at roughly 0800. I woke up at 1300, but I was still out of it. My wife sat with me on the couch for hours watching the TV show "Scrubs", until I finally somewhat snapped out of it.
Missing class depresses me, and also gives me anxiety. But, even worse, I missed a newspaper interview today at 1100 that I was supposed to be a part of. The University newspaper wanted to interview our robotics team. I missed it. I keep letting everyone down.
Even now, since I am feeling out of it, the voices are there. I can ignore them for the most part, though. But I can still hear them when I am not thinking about anything else. "Why are you typing?" "No one cares what you think!" "Give up. You're done. You can't come back from this."
Are they right? I don't know. I do know that I have my livestream to look forward to tonight, playing Smite on the Xbox with a couple friends of mine. That always seems to help me feel better. Hopefully when I can livestream I'll get to talking to my friends, and they'll pull me out of this. They don't (or maybe they do) know it, but chatting with them live helps a lot.
I thought about calling the veteran's crisis hotline again today. But I decided not to. They always ask if you're having suicidal thoughts, and I usually have to lie to them and tell them that I've never contemplated it. I don't want them to send someone over to "help" me, and cause more stress. The last thing I need is to be taken to the hospital and put under suicide watch. The stigma attached to that would break me.
Besides, I have my family. My wife and my three daughters. I couldn't bear to leave them alone in the world. If for no other reason, I couldn't let my girls grow up without a Dad. They need me, as poor a job as I'm doing. It's better than nothing, in my way of thinking.
I only slept about five hours today. Hopefully that won't interfere with my sleeping tonight. I need to go to work tomorrow. I missed it today. And my disability isn't quite high enough that I can get by without working. Almost, but not quite. I still need to work about 20 hours per week to sustain my family.
Well, hopefully it can only go up from here.
- Sapper Woody
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)