Josh Hilden's Blog, page 8
June 8, 2019
There’s No Crying for Wage Slaves
Have you ever ended up hiding in a closet for twenty minutes in angry tears because the idea of death was preferable to the very idea of picking up a mop and mopping a hallway?
No?
Well, I’m glad because I’ve been there more than once in the last few years. Whether it’s been mopping, sweeping, cleaning a window, or a hundred other things I’ve been there.
Sometimes I cry.
Sometimes I lash out.
Sometimes I force myself to just do the job and spend the next twelve hours an emotional wreck.
But, since 2015, it’s allways ended the same way. I quit the job and feel like a complete failure.
I used to be proud of my work ethic. I’d take a job and do that job until I’d had enough and found another job always giving two week’s notice before leaving. Now I just leave. I say my goodbye, apologize for being a lazy piece of shit, and go home to feel worthless.
I’ve reached the end of my rope
I explained all of this to my doctor, she’s terrific by the way, and she said I need to be on disability. I have under the recommendation of a close friend but the idea of starting the process tripped my triggers and sent me running from the process looking for a safe space. My Doctor told me my Bi-Polar has progressed to a crippling level and that I’ve also developed agoraphobia. She wants me on disability, not working, and she wants to put me on Adderall. Basically, I’m really mentally ill.
She’s not wrong.
In the last year, I’ve oscillated between apathy and agitation, passivity and paranoia. It’s been bad, worse than I ever want to talk about. Every day I wonder if today is the day to end things. I haven’t done it (obviously), and I have no immediate plan to do it. But there's always that little voice in the back of my head whispering horrible things that sound reasonable.
I’ve been warned it can take two years to win the disability fight so yes, I know what's coming.
So, where do we stand right now?
Yesterday I called the Social Security Administration (SSA) and sat on hold for almost an hour in order to speak with an actual human being as opposed to dealing with their fucked up website. I mean seriously have you ever looked at the SSA site? It’s living in 2006 and proud of it. Once I had said person on the line she walked me through what I needed to do and the documents I needed to bring for them and made an appointment at the end of the month to go through the process face to face with a person and not do it over the phone.
So far, so good, but that was the easy part.
The next part is not so easy.
My Doctor says I have to find a psychiatrist and get evaluated in order to have a chance of getting disability. There are two problems with this. The first, and most apparent, is finding one. I contacted my insurance provider and got a list of Shrinks in the area who take my insurance. This weekend I am googling them all to see if there are any glaring issues. On Monday, and maybe Tuesday depending on my nerves, I’ll be calling them to see who is available.
The last part is stupid and irritating.
I need to get a Social Security Disability Lawyer to represent me. This person will, of course, get a share of MY MONEY (we all pay into Social Security) for helping me negotiate this bullshit process. I don’t blame the lawyer I blame the process. It should not be this hard.
Nothing should be this hard.
No?
Well, I’m glad because I’ve been there more than once in the last few years. Whether it’s been mopping, sweeping, cleaning a window, or a hundred other things I’ve been there.
Sometimes I cry.
Sometimes I lash out.
Sometimes I force myself to just do the job and spend the next twelve hours an emotional wreck.
But, since 2015, it’s allways ended the same way. I quit the job and feel like a complete failure.
I used to be proud of my work ethic. I’d take a job and do that job until I’d had enough and found another job always giving two week’s notice before leaving. Now I just leave. I say my goodbye, apologize for being a lazy piece of shit, and go home to feel worthless.
I’ve reached the end of my rope
I explained all of this to my doctor, she’s terrific by the way, and she said I need to be on disability. I have under the recommendation of a close friend but the idea of starting the process tripped my triggers and sent me running from the process looking for a safe space. My Doctor told me my Bi-Polar has progressed to a crippling level and that I’ve also developed agoraphobia. She wants me on disability, not working, and she wants to put me on Adderall. Basically, I’m really mentally ill.
She’s not wrong.
In the last year, I’ve oscillated between apathy and agitation, passivity and paranoia. It’s been bad, worse than I ever want to talk about. Every day I wonder if today is the day to end things. I haven’t done it (obviously), and I have no immediate plan to do it. But there's always that little voice in the back of my head whispering horrible things that sound reasonable.
I’ve been warned it can take two years to win the disability fight so yes, I know what's coming.
So, where do we stand right now?
Yesterday I called the Social Security Administration (SSA) and sat on hold for almost an hour in order to speak with an actual human being as opposed to dealing with their fucked up website. I mean seriously have you ever looked at the SSA site? It’s living in 2006 and proud of it. Once I had said person on the line she walked me through what I needed to do and the documents I needed to bring for them and made an appointment at the end of the month to go through the process face to face with a person and not do it over the phone.
So far, so good, but that was the easy part.
The next part is not so easy.
My Doctor says I have to find a psychiatrist and get evaluated in order to have a chance of getting disability. There are two problems with this. The first, and most apparent, is finding one. I contacted my insurance provider and got a list of Shrinks in the area who take my insurance. This weekend I am googling them all to see if there are any glaring issues. On Monday, and maybe Tuesday depending on my nerves, I’ll be calling them to see who is available.
The last part is stupid and irritating.
I need to get a Social Security Disability Lawyer to represent me. This person will, of course, get a share of MY MONEY (we all pay into Social Security) for helping me negotiate this bullshit process. I don’t blame the lawyer I blame the process. It should not be this hard.
Nothing should be this hard.
May 18, 2019
I Have Diabetus
“Hi, I'm Wilford Brimley, and I have diabetes. It hurts me to pee, and it causes me to be short with my family. I can't sleep at night. The other day I stubbed my toe and took it out on the dog. And two weeks ago, I ran out of vanilla ice cream and struck my wife. Then I find out my wife has been dead for six years. Who the hell did I hit?”
- Wilford Brimley (Family Guy Appearance)
Diabetes is a disease in which your blood glucose, or blood sugar, levels are too high. Glucose comes from the foods you eat. Insulin is a hormone that helps the glucose get into your cells to give them energy. With type 1 diabetes, your body does not make insulin. With type 2 diabetes, the more common type, your body does not make or use insulin well. Without enough insulin, the glucose stays in your blood. You can also have prediabetes. This means that your blood sugar is higher than average but not high enough to be called diabetes. Having pre-diabetes puts you at a higher risk of getting type 2 diabetes.
My name is Josh. I am a Type 2 diabetic, and I have done a very shitty job taking care of myself. And by shitty I mean I damn near went into a diabetic coma the other day (Sunday, May 12, 2019) when my blood sugar hit 596 at eight in the morning. If it was that high when I woke up, there was no telling just how high it was when I was asleep.
I shit you not.
If I don’t get these numbers under control, I am going to die.
Period.
Full stop.
Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
So, for the first time since I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes in April of 2004, I am taking all this deadly seriously. And by seriously I’ve gone full “slash and burn” on my food lifestyle.
When I first learned I was diabetic, I made a halfhearted, but successful, go at keeping it under control. In six months, I managed to knock my A1C number from 14.7 to 6.5. Not the 4 – 5.6 which is the normal range but still damn good. After that, I felt invincible and played fast and loose with the old A1C.
What’s A1C?
The A1C test measures what percentage of your hemoglobin — a protein in red blood cells that carries oxygen — is coated with sugar (glycated). The higher your A1C level, the poorer your blood sugar control, and the higher your risk of diabetes complications. For people without diabetes, the normal range for the hemoglobin A1c level is between 4% and 5.6%. Hemoglobin A1c levels between 5.7% and 6.4% mean you have a higher chance of getting diabetes. Levels of 6.5% or higher mean you have diabetes.
- Web MD
So, as you can read, it’s pretty important, and I have treated it like a Rotten Tomatoes score for the better part of a decade. By that I mean I have ignored it since well before 2011.
In the years since my diagnosis, I’ve played lips service to wanting to be healthy by the cold reality is food, specifically high carbohydrate foods, were more important to me. The idea of not eating potatoes and pat (not to mention bread) scared me shitless and made me mad at the universe.
“Why, me, Universe?!” I’d scream internally.
I know it’s just the luck of the draw. The Chaos Factor of genetics and environment. But it still felt like a personal attack, If I did believe in a god, I’d blame them for all of this. But tell the truth and shame the devil, I know it’s all on me.
So, what am I doing about all of this?
Starting Sunday night, but let’s call it Monday morning, I’ve gone almost zero carbs and sugar. I say almost because diabetics can’t go full Keto (no carbs/sugar). We need the carbs and sugar to help regulate our already fucked up body. Going without can be as bad way too much in its own messed up way.
The last three days have been hellish. I am suffering from Carb/Sugar Detox, which has resulted in flu-like symptoms. Body aches, joint pains, headaches, dizziness, and severe depression have all been the norm this week.
Yet I still function.
I’m hoping the estimates I’ve been reading about are accurate and that I’ll be past the worst of it tomorrow and feeling almost normal on Friday. I am tentatively targeting Saturday as the day I start the next step.
What’s that? You might ask.
Exercise, a word so vile it should be outlawed on pain of torture!
Yes, I will begin some low impact exercises this weekend. Mostly walking to start, but I’m looking into finding a proper Gym that fits my needs.
I don’t want to do this. I have to do this.
I have to get better.
I like to joke that I’m a bitter old man, but the truth is I’m only forty-two. I should have another good thirty years left to me. I have six kids and my first grandchild on the way, and I’d like to see how things shake out for them for a few more decades.
For the first time in my lazy sedentary life, I want to be healthier.
- Josh (05/15/2019)
- Wilford Brimley (Family Guy Appearance)
Diabetes is a disease in which your blood glucose, or blood sugar, levels are too high. Glucose comes from the foods you eat. Insulin is a hormone that helps the glucose get into your cells to give them energy. With type 1 diabetes, your body does not make insulin. With type 2 diabetes, the more common type, your body does not make or use insulin well. Without enough insulin, the glucose stays in your blood. You can also have prediabetes. This means that your blood sugar is higher than average but not high enough to be called diabetes. Having pre-diabetes puts you at a higher risk of getting type 2 diabetes.
My name is Josh. I am a Type 2 diabetic, and I have done a very shitty job taking care of myself. And by shitty I mean I damn near went into a diabetic coma the other day (Sunday, May 12, 2019) when my blood sugar hit 596 at eight in the morning. If it was that high when I woke up, there was no telling just how high it was when I was asleep.
I shit you not.
If I don’t get these numbers under control, I am going to die.
Period.
Full stop.
Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
So, for the first time since I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes in April of 2004, I am taking all this deadly seriously. And by seriously I’ve gone full “slash and burn” on my food lifestyle.
When I first learned I was diabetic, I made a halfhearted, but successful, go at keeping it under control. In six months, I managed to knock my A1C number from 14.7 to 6.5. Not the 4 – 5.6 which is the normal range but still damn good. After that, I felt invincible and played fast and loose with the old A1C.
What’s A1C?
The A1C test measures what percentage of your hemoglobin — a protein in red blood cells that carries oxygen — is coated with sugar (glycated). The higher your A1C level, the poorer your blood sugar control, and the higher your risk of diabetes complications. For people without diabetes, the normal range for the hemoglobin A1c level is between 4% and 5.6%. Hemoglobin A1c levels between 5.7% and 6.4% mean you have a higher chance of getting diabetes. Levels of 6.5% or higher mean you have diabetes.
- Web MD
So, as you can read, it’s pretty important, and I have treated it like a Rotten Tomatoes score for the better part of a decade. By that I mean I have ignored it since well before 2011.
In the years since my diagnosis, I’ve played lips service to wanting to be healthy by the cold reality is food, specifically high carbohydrate foods, were more important to me. The idea of not eating potatoes and pat (not to mention bread) scared me shitless and made me mad at the universe.
“Why, me, Universe?!” I’d scream internally.
I know it’s just the luck of the draw. The Chaos Factor of genetics and environment. But it still felt like a personal attack, If I did believe in a god, I’d blame them for all of this. But tell the truth and shame the devil, I know it’s all on me.
So, what am I doing about all of this?
Starting Sunday night, but let’s call it Monday morning, I’ve gone almost zero carbs and sugar. I say almost because diabetics can’t go full Keto (no carbs/sugar). We need the carbs and sugar to help regulate our already fucked up body. Going without can be as bad way too much in its own messed up way.
The last three days have been hellish. I am suffering from Carb/Sugar Detox, which has resulted in flu-like symptoms. Body aches, joint pains, headaches, dizziness, and severe depression have all been the norm this week.
Yet I still function.
I’m hoping the estimates I’ve been reading about are accurate and that I’ll be past the worst of it tomorrow and feeling almost normal on Friday. I am tentatively targeting Saturday as the day I start the next step.
What’s that? You might ask.
Exercise, a word so vile it should be outlawed on pain of torture!
Yes, I will begin some low impact exercises this weekend. Mostly walking to start, but I’m looking into finding a proper Gym that fits my needs.
I don’t want to do this. I have to do this.
I have to get better.
I like to joke that I’m a bitter old man, but the truth is I’m only forty-two. I should have another good thirty years left to me. I have six kids and my first grandchild on the way, and I’d like to see how things shake out for them for a few more decades.
For the first time in my lazy sedentary life, I want to be healthier.
- Josh (05/15/2019)
May 9, 2019
There’s Nothing Honorable
“What being a socialist means is... that you hold out... a vision of a society where poverty is absolutely unnecessary, where international relations are not based on greed... but on cooperation... where human beings can own the means of production and work together rather than having to work as semi-slaves to other people who can hire and fire.”
- Senator Bernie Sanders
“To be a champion, I think you have to see the big picture. It's not about winning and losing. It's about every day hard work and about thriving on a challenge. It's about embracing the pain that you'll experience at the end of a race and not being afraid. I think people think too hard and get afraid of a certain challenge.”
- Summer Sanders (Olympic Champion)
I’ve worked a lot of jobs but gods damnit I hate working.
Janitor, Clerk, Fry Cook, Housekeeper, Floor Technician, Security Guard, Maintenance Technician, Painter, Window Washer, Sandwich Artist, manager, supervisor, and I’m sure other things I don’t remember.
I can't keep a job. I don’t mean I get fired from jobs, that’s happened exactly once, and it was trumped up bullshit I tried to sue over. But since I live in one of the strongest “Right to Work” states in the nation that effort was DOA.
That said I’ve had 5 different jobs since 2015 and two this year alone. I just quit my current job a couple of days ago and have been feeling a lot of guilt. Not about that job, or any other in particular, but because my wife has worked hard at the same job since 1995 and I am a complete loser when it comes to keeping a day job.
Before you start in on me about being “Lazy” or some such bullshit let me educate you. Except for the three years, I took off when my son was born (if you ever have the opportunity to do it I say jump on it. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made) I have ALWAYS held down a “Straight” job.
We good?
Alright then, on with the rambling.
I’m a writer, it’s all I love to do. My whole skill set is bent toward being a creative person, but I acknowledge and accept that it’s the rare society that supports creative types and allows them to flourish. Maybe one day that will be the case, but for now, at least in the United Corporate States of America, it’s not that way.
There is real honor in hard work, dedication, loyalty, and doing your best.
There is nothing honorable about doing a bullshit job for bullshit wages in a bullshit setting for bullshit employers. It’s all bullshit.
By and large, Americans are wage slaves. Once we get a job, we are either stuck there due to benefits and entitlements being attached to said job, or we are destined to hop from miserable job to miserable job hoping against hope that the so-called American Dream isn’t dead in the twenty-first century.
News flash, unless you’re already rich, it is.
America is a Capitalist nation. Not one hundred percent mind you. We have a few remnants of the old mid-twentieth century social safety net, but for the most part, those protections for the poor and working class are dead and buried.
Is capitalism bad?
Pure, unfettered capitalism is one f the most dangerous economic philosophies ever developed.
Is communism bad?
Pure, unfettered, communism is one of the most dangerous economic philosophies ever developed.
I’m a Democratic Socialist.
[Democratic socialism (also known as evolutionary socialism) is a political philosophy that advocates political democracy alongside social ownership of the means of production, with an emphasis on self-management and democratic management of economic institutions within a market or some form of a decentralized planned socialist economy. Democratic socialists espouse that capitalism is inherently incompatible with what they hold to be the democratic values of liberty, equality, and solidarity; and that these ideals can only be achieved through the realization of a socialist society. Democratic socialism can be supportive of either revolutionary or reformist politics as a means to establish socialism.]
Why am I writing about all of this?
I’ve interviewed for seven jobs in the last week and have been offered all but one. I’ve turned down 4 because they were all paying, I shit you not, less than ten dollars an hour. I finally asked HR person how she could justify such a low pay rate, and she told me (not a direct quote) “there’s the door.” I told her the people she represents are what was wrong with America.
I suppose I’m also trying to justify to myself that quitting these jobs wasn’t wrong despite being raised to keep my head down and push through. When I was a kid (holy shit does that makes me feel old), a single person working in a factory or equivalent job could support a family of four in a comfortable working-class lifestyle. Children of the poor and working class could attend public trade schools, colleges, and universities without amassing crippling debt and subsequentially enter the job force with a degree enabling them to command a better salary and benefits.
Those days are dead as Henry Ford and Thomas Edison.
In these dark days, this is how it goes.
Poor parents, no matter no hard they work, raise their children on the knife edge of poverty. They are forced to send them to our underfunded schools and deny them basic healthcare for lack of good (if any) insurance. There’s no money to send those children to college or trade schools which means the children must either work low paying jobs trapping them in a cycle of wage slavery or take out MASSIVE student loans with extraordinary interest rates and once they graduate they are also trapped in a cycle of wage slavery. In America, the Mega-Corporations and the Uber-Rich hold all of our leashes, and it’s just getting worse.
We are all miserable.
We are all beaten down.
The rest of the developed world doesn’t live this way.
This isn’t right people, this isn’t us.
- Josh (05/09/2019)
- Senator Bernie Sanders
“To be a champion, I think you have to see the big picture. It's not about winning and losing. It's about every day hard work and about thriving on a challenge. It's about embracing the pain that you'll experience at the end of a race and not being afraid. I think people think too hard and get afraid of a certain challenge.”
- Summer Sanders (Olympic Champion)
I’ve worked a lot of jobs but gods damnit I hate working.
Janitor, Clerk, Fry Cook, Housekeeper, Floor Technician, Security Guard, Maintenance Technician, Painter, Window Washer, Sandwich Artist, manager, supervisor, and I’m sure other things I don’t remember.
I can't keep a job. I don’t mean I get fired from jobs, that’s happened exactly once, and it was trumped up bullshit I tried to sue over. But since I live in one of the strongest “Right to Work” states in the nation that effort was DOA.
That said I’ve had 5 different jobs since 2015 and two this year alone. I just quit my current job a couple of days ago and have been feeling a lot of guilt. Not about that job, or any other in particular, but because my wife has worked hard at the same job since 1995 and I am a complete loser when it comes to keeping a day job.
Before you start in on me about being “Lazy” or some such bullshit let me educate you. Except for the three years, I took off when my son was born (if you ever have the opportunity to do it I say jump on it. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made) I have ALWAYS held down a “Straight” job.
We good?
Alright then, on with the rambling.
I’m a writer, it’s all I love to do. My whole skill set is bent toward being a creative person, but I acknowledge and accept that it’s the rare society that supports creative types and allows them to flourish. Maybe one day that will be the case, but for now, at least in the United Corporate States of America, it’s not that way.
There is real honor in hard work, dedication, loyalty, and doing your best.
There is nothing honorable about doing a bullshit job for bullshit wages in a bullshit setting for bullshit employers. It’s all bullshit.
By and large, Americans are wage slaves. Once we get a job, we are either stuck there due to benefits and entitlements being attached to said job, or we are destined to hop from miserable job to miserable job hoping against hope that the so-called American Dream isn’t dead in the twenty-first century.
News flash, unless you’re already rich, it is.
America is a Capitalist nation. Not one hundred percent mind you. We have a few remnants of the old mid-twentieth century social safety net, but for the most part, those protections for the poor and working class are dead and buried.
Is capitalism bad?
Pure, unfettered capitalism is one f the most dangerous economic philosophies ever developed.
Is communism bad?
Pure, unfettered, communism is one of the most dangerous economic philosophies ever developed.
I’m a Democratic Socialist.
[Democratic socialism (also known as evolutionary socialism) is a political philosophy that advocates political democracy alongside social ownership of the means of production, with an emphasis on self-management and democratic management of economic institutions within a market or some form of a decentralized planned socialist economy. Democratic socialists espouse that capitalism is inherently incompatible with what they hold to be the democratic values of liberty, equality, and solidarity; and that these ideals can only be achieved through the realization of a socialist society. Democratic socialism can be supportive of either revolutionary or reformist politics as a means to establish socialism.]
Why am I writing about all of this?
I’ve interviewed for seven jobs in the last week and have been offered all but one. I’ve turned down 4 because they were all paying, I shit you not, less than ten dollars an hour. I finally asked HR person how she could justify such a low pay rate, and she told me (not a direct quote) “there’s the door.” I told her the people she represents are what was wrong with America.
I suppose I’m also trying to justify to myself that quitting these jobs wasn’t wrong despite being raised to keep my head down and push through. When I was a kid (holy shit does that makes me feel old), a single person working in a factory or equivalent job could support a family of four in a comfortable working-class lifestyle. Children of the poor and working class could attend public trade schools, colleges, and universities without amassing crippling debt and subsequentially enter the job force with a degree enabling them to command a better salary and benefits.
Those days are dead as Henry Ford and Thomas Edison.
In these dark days, this is how it goes.
Poor parents, no matter no hard they work, raise their children on the knife edge of poverty. They are forced to send them to our underfunded schools and deny them basic healthcare for lack of good (if any) insurance. There’s no money to send those children to college or trade schools which means the children must either work low paying jobs trapping them in a cycle of wage slavery or take out MASSIVE student loans with extraordinary interest rates and once they graduate they are also trapped in a cycle of wage slavery. In America, the Mega-Corporations and the Uber-Rich hold all of our leashes, and it’s just getting worse.
We are all miserable.
We are all beaten down.
The rest of the developed world doesn’t live this way.
This isn’t right people, this isn’t us.
- Josh (05/09/2019)
I Scan, U Scan… Move Your Ass If You Can
Do you know what sticks in my craw?
Self-checkout time burglars.
I love the self-service scanning stations at stress. I don’t want to deal with people when I’m shopping even when I have no other choice. Especially when I have no other choice. When they first became available to the public here in Southwest Ohio people, other than I, avoided the boxy units like they held a series of enormous needles each tipped with a different horrible disease. But time went on, and more people realized just how awesome the machines were.
Of course, there will always be a vein of Luddites (I love you crazy diamonds) and people screaming about individual jobs (I agree with you, but you can’t stop progress) who will never use the self-checkouts.
Mad respect for yawl but I ain’t one of ya.
This is not to say the Self-Checkout system is perfect.
Far from it.
They breakdown, the weight sensors suck on older models, you need help from a person to buy alcohol and/or cold medicine, and the speed of your checkout is often based on how fast the people in front of you move and how knowledgeable they are with the system.
Now before I get into the meat of this little birch session let me make it very clear. I have no real issue with people who aren’t knowledgeable with the system especially the elderly. I know a lot of elders who can handle modern technology as well if not better than a middle-aged Gen-X’er like myself. But tell the truth and shame the hypocrites, they do have a steeper learning curve.
That said let’s get to what set me off.
Yesterday was irritating. I had to leave the house (the horror of that is worth a thirty-second rant on its own) and go to my daughter school to fill out a missing permission slip. Apparently, after I signed it last week, she lost it and never bothered to tell me. Once slip number two was signed and entrusted to the school secretary, I decided to stop at the local Super Center (take your pick, they’re all the same) to pick up a few things I really didn’t need.
Once my cart was packed I went the Self-Checkouts. I had too many for the expressed checkouts, so I used one of the big belt driven ones. Seconds after I stepped up and started the game of pitching my wares down the belt. A woman of indeterminate age, but definitely older than me, stepped in behind me.
Side Tangent: When I was a little kid once got yelled at by a cashier for allowing my hand to rest on the moving belt because I liked how it felt (still do). My mother lost her shit on the cashier, a bitter looking crone who probably ended her day smelling of Mad Dog 20/20 and Chesterfields, and told her to mind her own fucking business and to never speak to her son again. I don’t know if my mom was justified in her reaction, but gods damn it was amazing. My mom can be hardcore.
Now back to my rant.
I hate to make people wait in the line so I rapid slid my items through and paid for them as fast as I could. The entire time the woman mean mugged me with an expression worthy of a sociopath. It was clear she wanted me done and gone. I dropped the bar across the end of the table so she could begin her transaction while I bagged. I assumed (you know what happens when you assume boils and ghouls) she would ratchet back on the bitch face and get to business.
She did not.
Instead, she glared at me while I bagged the items.
She glared at me while I put the bags in my cart.
She glared at me as I walked away and made an interrogative coughing noise.
I looked back, saw I left the bar down (the bar I’d put down for her), walked back over, lifted the bar away, and walked back to my cart.
The entire time the wonderful young lady glared at me,
As I left the building, I saw she was finally scanning her groceries.
So, my question is simple.
Why?
Was she having a bad day? Was she distracted and perhaps unaware of her actions (or inactions)? Does she have mental and/or psychological problems? Is she severely OCD? Or, perhaps, is she just a giant bitch.
I don’t know, and will probably never know, the reason, but I do know one thing. She freaked me the fuck out.
- Josh
Self-checkout time burglars.
I love the self-service scanning stations at stress. I don’t want to deal with people when I’m shopping even when I have no other choice. Especially when I have no other choice. When they first became available to the public here in Southwest Ohio people, other than I, avoided the boxy units like they held a series of enormous needles each tipped with a different horrible disease. But time went on, and more people realized just how awesome the machines were.
Of course, there will always be a vein of Luddites (I love you crazy diamonds) and people screaming about individual jobs (I agree with you, but you can’t stop progress) who will never use the self-checkouts.
Mad respect for yawl but I ain’t one of ya.
This is not to say the Self-Checkout system is perfect.
Far from it.
They breakdown, the weight sensors suck on older models, you need help from a person to buy alcohol and/or cold medicine, and the speed of your checkout is often based on how fast the people in front of you move and how knowledgeable they are with the system.
Now before I get into the meat of this little birch session let me make it very clear. I have no real issue with people who aren’t knowledgeable with the system especially the elderly. I know a lot of elders who can handle modern technology as well if not better than a middle-aged Gen-X’er like myself. But tell the truth and shame the hypocrites, they do have a steeper learning curve.
That said let’s get to what set me off.
Yesterday was irritating. I had to leave the house (the horror of that is worth a thirty-second rant on its own) and go to my daughter school to fill out a missing permission slip. Apparently, after I signed it last week, she lost it and never bothered to tell me. Once slip number two was signed and entrusted to the school secretary, I decided to stop at the local Super Center (take your pick, they’re all the same) to pick up a few things I really didn’t need.
Once my cart was packed I went the Self-Checkouts. I had too many for the expressed checkouts, so I used one of the big belt driven ones. Seconds after I stepped up and started the game of pitching my wares down the belt. A woman of indeterminate age, but definitely older than me, stepped in behind me.
Side Tangent: When I was a little kid once got yelled at by a cashier for allowing my hand to rest on the moving belt because I liked how it felt (still do). My mother lost her shit on the cashier, a bitter looking crone who probably ended her day smelling of Mad Dog 20/20 and Chesterfields, and told her to mind her own fucking business and to never speak to her son again. I don’t know if my mom was justified in her reaction, but gods damn it was amazing. My mom can be hardcore.
Now back to my rant.
I hate to make people wait in the line so I rapid slid my items through and paid for them as fast as I could. The entire time the woman mean mugged me with an expression worthy of a sociopath. It was clear she wanted me done and gone. I dropped the bar across the end of the table so she could begin her transaction while I bagged. I assumed (you know what happens when you assume boils and ghouls) she would ratchet back on the bitch face and get to business.
She did not.
Instead, she glared at me while I bagged the items.
She glared at me while I put the bags in my cart.
She glared at me as I walked away and made an interrogative coughing noise.
I looked back, saw I left the bar down (the bar I’d put down for her), walked back over, lifted the bar away, and walked back to my cart.
The entire time the wonderful young lady glared at me,
As I left the building, I saw she was finally scanning her groceries.
So, my question is simple.
Why?
Was she having a bad day? Was she distracted and perhaps unaware of her actions (or inactions)? Does she have mental and/or psychological problems? Is she severely OCD? Or, perhaps, is she just a giant bitch.
I don’t know, and will probably never know, the reason, but I do know one thing. She freaked me the fuck out.
- Josh
My Eyes, The Goggles, They Do Nothing!
Ommetaphobia is the fear of eyes or eye care and can have a severe impact on a victim's eye health. This problem can be the result of some sort of eye-related trauma occurring at a younger age or being exposed to disturbing images involving eyes.
Have any of you seen the seminal Lucio Fulci movie ZOMBIE 2? There’s a scene where the wife of the crazy doctor (who is right by the way) is fighting a zombie, and we are forced to watch while her eye is slowly and painfully pierced by a giant splinter. I first saw this when I was sixteen, and it’s haunted my nightmares ever since. Even writing this paragraph goosebumps dominate the flesh of my arms and back.
I was born with really fucked up vision.
Or, more accurately, I have a severely lazy eye.
One of my earliest memories is wearing an eyepatch and doing daily exercises to strengthen my right eye. These were before the age of one, but I swear I do remember at least the ghost of these events. When I was little, I believe my right eye drifted so fart toward my right ear it was impossible to drift any further. There are pictures of me from the age of zero to six months perpetually sporting an eye patch. When I was six months old, the doctor put me inn a set of goggles and at one, I received my first pair of honest to Tesla glasses.
Do any of you think it’s a good idea to put glasses, even if in 1977 they were all plastic, in the hands of a one-year-old boy who even at 42 has to fight the urge to put everything in his big mouth?
Of course you don’t, but apparently, my doctor did.
The doomed baby sized spectacles were light blue with thick lenses. I’ve seen pictures of them, and they were adorable. So of course, the first thing I did was break them in half and try to put them in the aforementioned fat baby mouth. Following the age of one, I sported a litany of some of the worst glasses
Why is my life like this?
Fucked if I know.
As far back as I can remember I’ve been told to protect my left eye. It’s the only one worth a damn, and if I ever lose the use of it, I’ll be relegated to a world dominated by amorphous shapes and colors. From family to teachers, to doctors, and finally friend I have heard some form of the refrain “Take care of your eyes.” Just a word to all of you who’ve said this in my life. I love you all, and I do not in any way blame you for my phobia.
Why am I bringing this up?
Yesterday, for the first time in almost a decade, I had a full blown panic attack.
It’s been more than seven years since I’ve allowed one of those monsters with the title “Optometrist” anywhere near my face. For the last nine months, I’ve fought the desperate need to have the portals to my vacant soul checked.
When I made the appointment two weeks ago, I nearly vomited.
When, three days ago, my phone gave me my first reminder I nearly threw it across the room.
Wednesday sleep time was filled with nightmares.
Yesterday, the drive to the shop of horrors called Bright Eyes Optical was aking to my own death march.
Sitting in the lobby, it took all my will not to run.
Getting in the chair seated in the middle of a torture chamber worthy of a Hostel movie made me want to cry.
The exam will not be spoken of.
Then it was over.
I picked out my frames, paid for the whole kit and kaboodle, and escaped the house of pain in a whirlwind of semi-controlled mania.
I will be happy when I pick up my new specs (solid black frames by the way and I love them). I will e beyond sparked with joy that I’ll be able to see clearly again. And I will forget that in two years I have to endure all of this again.
That’s how it works.
I’m not stupid, at least about this issue, I know my fears are irrational. I know after forty-two years nothing will happen to me. I know the puff of air in the eye exam is not the hot breath of a cobra ready to strike. I know my genial elderly optometrist isn’t a hideous sadist of Hannibal Lecture like proportions.
I know all of this, but it doesn’t matter.
I have a phobia.
A phobia is a type of anxiety disorder, defined by a persistent and excessive fear of an object or situation. The phobia typically results in a rapid onset of fear and is present for more than six months. The affected person goes to great lengths to avoid the situation or object, to a degree greater than the actual danger posed. (Thank you Wikipedia)
There’s nothing normal or rational about this fear, but it’s real. I’ve lived with this as far back as I can remember. I doubt I will ever live without the fear though I hope the act of sharing it will help lessen the fear.
To all of you who suffer from Ommetaphobia, you are not alone.
- Josh (05/03/2019)
Have any of you seen the seminal Lucio Fulci movie ZOMBIE 2? There’s a scene where the wife of the crazy doctor (who is right by the way) is fighting a zombie, and we are forced to watch while her eye is slowly and painfully pierced by a giant splinter. I first saw this when I was sixteen, and it’s haunted my nightmares ever since. Even writing this paragraph goosebumps dominate the flesh of my arms and back.
I was born with really fucked up vision.
Or, more accurately, I have a severely lazy eye.
One of my earliest memories is wearing an eyepatch and doing daily exercises to strengthen my right eye. These were before the age of one, but I swear I do remember at least the ghost of these events. When I was little, I believe my right eye drifted so fart toward my right ear it was impossible to drift any further. There are pictures of me from the age of zero to six months perpetually sporting an eye patch. When I was six months old, the doctor put me inn a set of goggles and at one, I received my first pair of honest to Tesla glasses.
Do any of you think it’s a good idea to put glasses, even if in 1977 they were all plastic, in the hands of a one-year-old boy who even at 42 has to fight the urge to put everything in his big mouth?
Of course you don’t, but apparently, my doctor did.
The doomed baby sized spectacles were light blue with thick lenses. I’ve seen pictures of them, and they were adorable. So of course, the first thing I did was break them in half and try to put them in the aforementioned fat baby mouth. Following the age of one, I sported a litany of some of the worst glasses
Why is my life like this?
Fucked if I know.
As far back as I can remember I’ve been told to protect my left eye. It’s the only one worth a damn, and if I ever lose the use of it, I’ll be relegated to a world dominated by amorphous shapes and colors. From family to teachers, to doctors, and finally friend I have heard some form of the refrain “Take care of your eyes.” Just a word to all of you who’ve said this in my life. I love you all, and I do not in any way blame you for my phobia.
Why am I bringing this up?
Yesterday, for the first time in almost a decade, I had a full blown panic attack.
It’s been more than seven years since I’ve allowed one of those monsters with the title “Optometrist” anywhere near my face. For the last nine months, I’ve fought the desperate need to have the portals to my vacant soul checked.
When I made the appointment two weeks ago, I nearly vomited.
When, three days ago, my phone gave me my first reminder I nearly threw it across the room.
Wednesday sleep time was filled with nightmares.
Yesterday, the drive to the shop of horrors called Bright Eyes Optical was aking to my own death march.
Sitting in the lobby, it took all my will not to run.
Getting in the chair seated in the middle of a torture chamber worthy of a Hostel movie made me want to cry.
The exam will not be spoken of.
Then it was over.
I picked out my frames, paid for the whole kit and kaboodle, and escaped the house of pain in a whirlwind of semi-controlled mania.
I will be happy when I pick up my new specs (solid black frames by the way and I love them). I will e beyond sparked with joy that I’ll be able to see clearly again. And I will forget that in two years I have to endure all of this again.
That’s how it works.
I’m not stupid, at least about this issue, I know my fears are irrational. I know after forty-two years nothing will happen to me. I know the puff of air in the eye exam is not the hot breath of a cobra ready to strike. I know my genial elderly optometrist isn’t a hideous sadist of Hannibal Lecture like proportions.
I know all of this, but it doesn’t matter.
I have a phobia.
A phobia is a type of anxiety disorder, defined by a persistent and excessive fear of an object or situation. The phobia typically results in a rapid onset of fear and is present for more than six months. The affected person goes to great lengths to avoid the situation or object, to a degree greater than the actual danger posed. (Thank you Wikipedia)
There’s nothing normal or rational about this fear, but it’s real. I’ve lived with this as far back as I can remember. I doubt I will ever live without the fear though I hope the act of sharing it will help lessen the fear.
To all of you who suffer from Ommetaphobia, you are not alone.
- Josh (05/03/2019)
"Is This All There Is?"
I’m home sick from work today, I worked the first three hours and made sure payroll got done before I came home. I intended to go directly to bed but my mind is racing, and the only thing that helps that is writing. Therefore, it’s time for an essay and some venting.
Have you missed pissed off Josh?
If so then you’re gonna get a fix. If not… well nobody is making you read this. You could always take the nap I desperately want. But be warned I am going to be accused of being whiny and selfish by some people who read this. I’m not going to lie and say I don’t give a fuck what people think, everyone cares what someone thinks whether they realize it or not. But I am girding my armor and turning on the force field. Today is about me.
Two months ago, my doctor took me off my Lithium and Prozac and put me on a new pill called Abilify. I was skeptical as to the changes the new pill would enact but I always listen to my Doctor, it took me a long time to find one I trust, and started the new regime.
The results have been astounding.
For the first time in more than twenty years, I feel like a person. I’m sleeping six to seven hours a night as opposed to the more than ten my body demanded before the Abilify. I have more clarity and less chaos in my mind on a regular basis. My dreams have been less disturbing. And best of all my mood swings seem, dare I say it, normal.
All of this is wonderful, right?
Well, yes and no.
With the clarity and stabilized moods (more or less), I’ve been doing a lot, and I mean A LOT, of self-analysis and inspection. The results have been, well I’ll just say it the results have left depressed, And by depressed I don’t mean unfocused depression from my mental illness I mean real quantifiable depression. I know why I’m depressed, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do about.
I hate 90% of my life.
Now before anyone starts pointing out all of the admittedly good things in my life, I will preempt you and tell you what I like about my life. It’s not a long list, but the things I like are precious and indispensable to me. Se here’s the list. Read it, like it, but it won’t change your life.
My family and by my family I mean my wife, my children, my coming granddaughter, my mom, my grandparents, and my friends who I consider family. You all know who you are and how much I love you. Although a special word is needed for Bill Brother, you are the other side of my coin. I wouldn’t be who I am if I never met you.
My work. Not the stupid fucking things I do to pay the bills, I mean my writing. One of the only things in the entire universe that makes me happy is putting words on paper, whether physical or digital. I never feel more alive than when I’m crafting a story. Hell, even essay writing gives me a charge.
And that’s I, folks. That’s all that makes me happy. Oh, sure there are things I enjoy. I enjoy food, music, television, movies, comics, and many other things but none of them make me happy. For too long I’ve used them as a cloak to hide how genuinely unhappy I was under the weight of my bipolar disorder and chronic depression. I enjoy them, but there’s no sense of fulfillment from them. It’s all just entertainment.
What do I hate about my life?
My weight. I look at myself in the mirror every day and wonder that I haven’t had a stroke or a heart attack yet. I’m sure it’s coming which is why I’m looking into bariatric surgery.
My eyes. I’m blind in one eye (legally) and my right eye drifts hard toward my ear. I look like a crooked eyed moron.
My teeth. I have had a lot of teeth pulled over the years, and it makes me feel like a gap-toothed drunken idiot.
My penis (yeah I’m going here) it’s small, and I am suffering from erectile dysfunction. My wife is a saint for putting up with it, but it leaves me feeling like a eunuch, and not a man.
Where I live. I hate this state, I hate this region, and I hate this area. I stay here only for my family. It’s worth it because of how much I love them, but I hate living here.
I miss my friends. I have zero friends here. When I moved here in 1994, I had one good friend who I lost over my marriage. All of my friends live far away, and when my wife isn’t home, I’m extremely lonely.
I hate my jobs. I’ve never had a job I liked let alone loved other than writing. Every day I wake up and think two things. The first is, if today is too hard I can just kill myself, and the other is if work is bad I can quit. Except it would be easier to kill myself than to quit.
How fucked up is that?
Some of this I can fix, but most of it is something I will have to live with until I die.
I know the responses will come telling me how lucky I am to have what I have and how much worse other people have it. But here’s the thing I’m more than half of the way through my expected life span, and I am allowed to say what I feel and think I’m not hurting anyone I'm just honest.
Of course, other people have it worse than me, but I don’t live their lives. I don’t take comfort that they have it worse. All I know is my life, and like everyone else in this entire fucking reality, I have a selfish streak.
Yes, we should care about others, but we should also take care of ourselves.
- Josh (04/22/2019)
Have you missed pissed off Josh?
If so then you’re gonna get a fix. If not… well nobody is making you read this. You could always take the nap I desperately want. But be warned I am going to be accused of being whiny and selfish by some people who read this. I’m not going to lie and say I don’t give a fuck what people think, everyone cares what someone thinks whether they realize it or not. But I am girding my armor and turning on the force field. Today is about me.
Two months ago, my doctor took me off my Lithium and Prozac and put me on a new pill called Abilify. I was skeptical as to the changes the new pill would enact but I always listen to my Doctor, it took me a long time to find one I trust, and started the new regime.
The results have been astounding.
For the first time in more than twenty years, I feel like a person. I’m sleeping six to seven hours a night as opposed to the more than ten my body demanded before the Abilify. I have more clarity and less chaos in my mind on a regular basis. My dreams have been less disturbing. And best of all my mood swings seem, dare I say it, normal.
All of this is wonderful, right?
Well, yes and no.
With the clarity and stabilized moods (more or less), I’ve been doing a lot, and I mean A LOT, of self-analysis and inspection. The results have been, well I’ll just say it the results have left depressed, And by depressed I don’t mean unfocused depression from my mental illness I mean real quantifiable depression. I know why I’m depressed, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do about.
I hate 90% of my life.
Now before anyone starts pointing out all of the admittedly good things in my life, I will preempt you and tell you what I like about my life. It’s not a long list, but the things I like are precious and indispensable to me. Se here’s the list. Read it, like it, but it won’t change your life.
My family and by my family I mean my wife, my children, my coming granddaughter, my mom, my grandparents, and my friends who I consider family. You all know who you are and how much I love you. Although a special word is needed for Bill Brother, you are the other side of my coin. I wouldn’t be who I am if I never met you.
My work. Not the stupid fucking things I do to pay the bills, I mean my writing. One of the only things in the entire universe that makes me happy is putting words on paper, whether physical or digital. I never feel more alive than when I’m crafting a story. Hell, even essay writing gives me a charge.
And that’s I, folks. That’s all that makes me happy. Oh, sure there are things I enjoy. I enjoy food, music, television, movies, comics, and many other things but none of them make me happy. For too long I’ve used them as a cloak to hide how genuinely unhappy I was under the weight of my bipolar disorder and chronic depression. I enjoy them, but there’s no sense of fulfillment from them. It’s all just entertainment.
What do I hate about my life?
My weight. I look at myself in the mirror every day and wonder that I haven’t had a stroke or a heart attack yet. I’m sure it’s coming which is why I’m looking into bariatric surgery.
My eyes. I’m blind in one eye (legally) and my right eye drifts hard toward my ear. I look like a crooked eyed moron.
My teeth. I have had a lot of teeth pulled over the years, and it makes me feel like a gap-toothed drunken idiot.
My penis (yeah I’m going here) it’s small, and I am suffering from erectile dysfunction. My wife is a saint for putting up with it, but it leaves me feeling like a eunuch, and not a man.
Where I live. I hate this state, I hate this region, and I hate this area. I stay here only for my family. It’s worth it because of how much I love them, but I hate living here.
I miss my friends. I have zero friends here. When I moved here in 1994, I had one good friend who I lost over my marriage. All of my friends live far away, and when my wife isn’t home, I’m extremely lonely.
I hate my jobs. I’ve never had a job I liked let alone loved other than writing. Every day I wake up and think two things. The first is, if today is too hard I can just kill myself, and the other is if work is bad I can quit. Except it would be easier to kill myself than to quit.
How fucked up is that?
Some of this I can fix, but most of it is something I will have to live with until I die.
I know the responses will come telling me how lucky I am to have what I have and how much worse other people have it. But here’s the thing I’m more than half of the way through my expected life span, and I am allowed to say what I feel and think I’m not hurting anyone I'm just honest.
Of course, other people have it worse than me, but I don’t live their lives. I don’t take comfort that they have it worse. All I know is my life, and like everyone else in this entire fucking reality, I have a selfish streak.
Yes, we should care about others, but we should also take care of ourselves.
- Josh (04/22/2019)
February 26, 2019
“Soldiers Are Not Saints”
We’ve all seen those memes on the interwebs. There’s a picture of a living or dead soldier or soldiers. There’s a flag and then some schmaltzy patriotic message designed to grab American by the heartstrings and get them to agree that the American serviceperson is the closest thing the United States has to saints and demigods. Alternatively, how about the ones where they pose the children of the dead Saints by caskets, grave sites, or for the love of sanity being handed the folded flags at the graveside services. Moreover, mind you I’m not even talking about all of the ones directly connecting the actions of the dead Saint to service to god.
The totality of this makes me sick.
Now, before the hate flows strong and all of you start screaming that I’m an unpatriotic piece of shit and that if you find me, you’ll staple your freedom cloth to my ass and have the freedom birds carry my fat ass to Venezuela, listen (or read if you will) for a minute. I do have reasons for the way I feel.
I am the son of a veteran. My father served in the Vietnam war. I am the nephew of a Veteran. My Uncle served in the Vietnam war. There have been and still, are many other members of my extended family serving in one branch of the US Military or another. I was raised to respect people who have served and to understand that it is not an easy job. Hell people, I wanted to join the Navy after high school, but apparently no matter how well you do on the assessment tests being legally blind in one eye and having a slight heart murmur is enough to keep you out.
Let me boil it down. I have nothing but respect for American service members.
Now the but.
But in no way are service personnel better than the people they have enlisted to protect. They are normal men and women who have signed on to do an admittedly hard job. But so, do a lot of civilian men and women. Loggers, Fishers and associated workers, aircraft pilots and flight engineers, roofers, sanitation workers (refuse and recycling), iron and steel workers, truck and sales drivers, farmers/ranchers/agricultural workers, construction and extraction workers, grounds workers, mechanics/installers/repairers, police officers, electric line workers, taxi drivers and chauffeurs, telecom installers and repair techs, athletes, electricians, painters, and HVACR technicians all have more dangerous jobs than American service personnel. Just think about that. All of those occupations and many I didn’t even add are more dangerous than serving in one of the United States armed forces.
However, I have to repeat it. I have nothing but respect for men and women who willingly enter a combat zone and face the potential of death. But they are not saints.
When the men came home from Vietnam, let’s just continue to ignore all of the women who served in a support capacity in the warzone, they were treated like shit. It wasn’t their fault that the government committed international war crimes in Southeast Asia and it wasn’t their fault we were there in the first place. However, they took the brunt of the blame. They were spat on, screamed at, attacked, denied jobs, denied mental and physical care, and generally treated like monsters by civilians and the government alike. It was and still is a national disgrace that needs to be addressed.
The Persian Gulf War (aka The Nintendo War) was the first large-scale military action post-Vietnam. I was fourteen when Iraq invaded Kuwait, and I can attest that the media treated the “War” like it was a game. The war crimes we committed were largely ignored. The damage we did to the region was largely ignored. Our abandoning of the Kurds after convincing them to rise up wasn’t completely ignored, but it was explained away and forgotten. However, not of that was the worst part.
When the soldiers came home, they were treated like minor demi-gods.
I am not kidding you. Talk shows and news programs had random servicemen, remember let’s not talk about the women, had hundreds of them on so they could lavish praise and worship on them. They were all called heroes, and there was even a ticker tape parade for them in New York City. There was also a fucked up heroes parade in Los Angeles, but that atrocity was an entertainment clusterfuck of Star War Holiday Special proportions.
I’m sure part of the reason for the excessive adulations was an overcorrection for how their fathers and grandfathers were treated after Vietnam. However, part of it had to be purposeful propaganda.
Why?
American service personnel are treated like dogs by their paymasters. They are paid subsistence wages. Their healthcare is uneven at best and dangerous at worst. The homes they are supposed to be able to live in as a benefit of service have been shown to be poorly constructed deathtraps on multiple locations. The college benefits which were groundbreaking after World War 2 have been cut and rearranged to the point that many men and women are no better off than civilians trying to get an adult education. Moreover, to me the most egregious thing of all, Veterans count as one of the largest percentages of homeless Americans. So what does the government do to abrogate some of the resentment? Turn service members into saints.
Even as a teenager who dreamed of joining the Navy it all made me uncomfortable.
Now we get to the rub.
On Septemeber 11th 2001 the transformation of the United States of America’s military from a group of men and women (yes we can finally acknowledge the distaff members of the services) brave, honorable citizens to Saints set above us all in the order of society was complete. Now the flag is a sanctified freedom cloth we must all worship. Now the anthem is a solemn and hallowed song to be honored and lay ourselves prostrate to. Now it doesn’t matter how incompetent or villainous a current service member is they are still better than all of us.
Moreover, please, Please, PLEASE try and remember that I respect the sacrifices and commitment to the country of the regular American service member. They are not the enemy. The enemies are the media and the government.
Regularly we see the freedom cloth flying while politicians and media talking heads beat us over the head with the Sainthood of our brave men and women before they try to convince us of one political position or another. The real sacrifices of our men and women are not used to advocate for peace by these people they are used as a reason for more war. For more death. For more nation-building. For more war crimes that doesn’t give a flying fuck about said, men and women.
Historically the men and women of the American Military have stood between all of us and our adversaries. Yes, bad things have been done by American personnel, but much good has been done as well. There is no such thing as a perfect person and this there is no such thing as an American Saint.
We all have the potential for greatness and darkness within and therefore so do the people who defend us. I have not listed the atrocities committed by American service personnel, and there are so truly awful ones because it’s not necessary. We all know they’re not perfect. We all know they are as damaged as we are. We all know they have done some genuinely heroic and amazing things in the course of their duties.
However, so have countless Americans who’ve never even considered serving.
So the next time someone takes a knee instead of standing for the anthem, maybe you could stop and wonder why you’re mad.
Authors Note: I know a segment of you will be pissed reading this no matter how many times I scream I respect service personnel and none of this is their fault. If you are one of these people all I can say is I’m sorry you can’t see beyond your personal horizon.
The totality of this makes me sick.
Now, before the hate flows strong and all of you start screaming that I’m an unpatriotic piece of shit and that if you find me, you’ll staple your freedom cloth to my ass and have the freedom birds carry my fat ass to Venezuela, listen (or read if you will) for a minute. I do have reasons for the way I feel.
I am the son of a veteran. My father served in the Vietnam war. I am the nephew of a Veteran. My Uncle served in the Vietnam war. There have been and still, are many other members of my extended family serving in one branch of the US Military or another. I was raised to respect people who have served and to understand that it is not an easy job. Hell people, I wanted to join the Navy after high school, but apparently no matter how well you do on the assessment tests being legally blind in one eye and having a slight heart murmur is enough to keep you out.
Let me boil it down. I have nothing but respect for American service members.
Now the but.
But in no way are service personnel better than the people they have enlisted to protect. They are normal men and women who have signed on to do an admittedly hard job. But so, do a lot of civilian men and women. Loggers, Fishers and associated workers, aircraft pilots and flight engineers, roofers, sanitation workers (refuse and recycling), iron and steel workers, truck and sales drivers, farmers/ranchers/agricultural workers, construction and extraction workers, grounds workers, mechanics/installers/repairers, police officers, electric line workers, taxi drivers and chauffeurs, telecom installers and repair techs, athletes, electricians, painters, and HVACR technicians all have more dangerous jobs than American service personnel. Just think about that. All of those occupations and many I didn’t even add are more dangerous than serving in one of the United States armed forces.
However, I have to repeat it. I have nothing but respect for men and women who willingly enter a combat zone and face the potential of death. But they are not saints.
When the men came home from Vietnam, let’s just continue to ignore all of the women who served in a support capacity in the warzone, they were treated like shit. It wasn’t their fault that the government committed international war crimes in Southeast Asia and it wasn’t their fault we were there in the first place. However, they took the brunt of the blame. They were spat on, screamed at, attacked, denied jobs, denied mental and physical care, and generally treated like monsters by civilians and the government alike. It was and still is a national disgrace that needs to be addressed.
The Persian Gulf War (aka The Nintendo War) was the first large-scale military action post-Vietnam. I was fourteen when Iraq invaded Kuwait, and I can attest that the media treated the “War” like it was a game. The war crimes we committed were largely ignored. The damage we did to the region was largely ignored. Our abandoning of the Kurds after convincing them to rise up wasn’t completely ignored, but it was explained away and forgotten. However, not of that was the worst part.
When the soldiers came home, they were treated like minor demi-gods.
I am not kidding you. Talk shows and news programs had random servicemen, remember let’s not talk about the women, had hundreds of them on so they could lavish praise and worship on them. They were all called heroes, and there was even a ticker tape parade for them in New York City. There was also a fucked up heroes parade in Los Angeles, but that atrocity was an entertainment clusterfuck of Star War Holiday Special proportions.
I’m sure part of the reason for the excessive adulations was an overcorrection for how their fathers and grandfathers were treated after Vietnam. However, part of it had to be purposeful propaganda.
Why?
American service personnel are treated like dogs by their paymasters. They are paid subsistence wages. Their healthcare is uneven at best and dangerous at worst. The homes they are supposed to be able to live in as a benefit of service have been shown to be poorly constructed deathtraps on multiple locations. The college benefits which were groundbreaking after World War 2 have been cut and rearranged to the point that many men and women are no better off than civilians trying to get an adult education. Moreover, to me the most egregious thing of all, Veterans count as one of the largest percentages of homeless Americans. So what does the government do to abrogate some of the resentment? Turn service members into saints.
Even as a teenager who dreamed of joining the Navy it all made me uncomfortable.
Now we get to the rub.
On Septemeber 11th 2001 the transformation of the United States of America’s military from a group of men and women (yes we can finally acknowledge the distaff members of the services) brave, honorable citizens to Saints set above us all in the order of society was complete. Now the flag is a sanctified freedom cloth we must all worship. Now the anthem is a solemn and hallowed song to be honored and lay ourselves prostrate to. Now it doesn’t matter how incompetent or villainous a current service member is they are still better than all of us.
Moreover, please, Please, PLEASE try and remember that I respect the sacrifices and commitment to the country of the regular American service member. They are not the enemy. The enemies are the media and the government.
Regularly we see the freedom cloth flying while politicians and media talking heads beat us over the head with the Sainthood of our brave men and women before they try to convince us of one political position or another. The real sacrifices of our men and women are not used to advocate for peace by these people they are used as a reason for more war. For more death. For more nation-building. For more war crimes that doesn’t give a flying fuck about said, men and women.
Historically the men and women of the American Military have stood between all of us and our adversaries. Yes, bad things have been done by American personnel, but much good has been done as well. There is no such thing as a perfect person and this there is no such thing as an American Saint.
We all have the potential for greatness and darkness within and therefore so do the people who defend us. I have not listed the atrocities committed by American service personnel, and there are so truly awful ones because it’s not necessary. We all know they’re not perfect. We all know they are as damaged as we are. We all know they have done some genuinely heroic and amazing things in the course of their duties.
However, so have countless Americans who’ve never even considered serving.
So the next time someone takes a knee instead of standing for the anthem, maybe you could stop and wonder why you’re mad.
Authors Note: I know a segment of you will be pissed reading this no matter how many times I scream I respect service personnel and none of this is their fault. If you are one of these people all I can say is I’m sorry you can’t see beyond your personal horizon.
January 15, 2019
“Josh, You’re Fired”
I acknowledge I am not a good person. I am well aware of how messed up my moral and ethical compass is. What do I mean? I am petty, I am vengeful, I am jealous, and I am lazy. Hell, I wrote an entire short book on my personal flaws (pick it up on Amazon for cheap!), so I am clearly old friends with them. Let me give you the prime example of how fucked up my moral compass is. I would rather wish a person dead than wish they lose their jobs (note, politicians, are exempt from this. If they lose their jobs they are either in jail or lost an election).
You read that right.
In my mind, it is better to leave a person I hate gainfully employed because they may have people counting on their income to survive. That my wishing them to lose employment and potentially hurt children is too much guilt for me to deal with.
Please let me be clear. I don’t believe wishing or praying does a damn thing. All it does is help comfort people, which is a legit reason to respect the practice, but in the end, it’s nothing more than endless navel-gazing.
But I would still feel guilty.
Dead is different.
Before I explain the difference in my mind let’s clarify something.
THERE IS ONLY ONE PERSON IN THIS ENTIRE WORLD I WISH I COULD KILL AND THEY DIED YEARS AGO THEREFORE I WILL NEVER HAD JUSTICE FOR WHAT HAPPENED TO ME. I DO NOT ACTUALLY WANT TO MURDER (DIRECTLY OR INDIRECTLY) ANYONE I WISH DEAD. THAT I EVEN HAVE TO PUT THIS GLARING DISCLAIMER IN MY ESSAY PISSES ME OFF.
In my mind when I wish someone dead, they cease to exist. They become a nonentity. They have been removed from this reality. How does this jibe with my desire not to harm the children they may be supporting? If they die, then there may be life insurance, and for minors, there’s Social Security if they lose a parent.
Yeah I know it’s fucked up, but that’s a glimpse into how my mind works.
What’s the point in all of this?
I have been working since I was fourteen years old. My first job was at a small local grocery store in my home town of Wayne Michigan. I made three dollars an hour to stock shelves, count returnable bottles and cans, and clean the store three days a week. It wasn’t a good job, and it wasn’t a bad job. It was a job with a simple worker/employer contract. I worked, minded my P’s and Q’s, and act like a complete jackass. In return, my bosses treated me well and paid me on time.
Silly me, I thought that was how things were supposed to be.
After that, I moved on to a plethora of other jobs. From fast food to security guard to housekeeping and maintenance I feel comfortable in saying I have a diverse and sometimes interesting work background. But in all my years I’ve been working one thing has never happened. I have never been fired from a job before.
Until today.
Today, for the first time in my multi-spectrum working life, I was terminated.
What happened?
I don’t want to retype it all it was at the end of my last essay. So, for reader convenience, I will clip that section and dd it here
.
.
.
I made it to the end of the year and received my own building to run. I was happy. I like the building and the people in it. Then on Monday, January 7, 2019, it all crashed in on me. My boss arrived at the building at 9:45 am and told me I was being permanently removed from the building and suspended from the company without pay.
What was my horrible crime?
No.
Was I running a bootleg cigarette ring at the facility (there really is one there)?
No.
Was I using the job as a front to refound COBRA and beat those damn Joes once and for all?
No, but damnit that’s a good idea.
No, what I did was make two videos on my YouTube channel almost five years ago where I complain about my job without naming any names or locations and wax philosophical about the fantastic sex lives of the active elderly.
That’s it.
I was then told someone at the building I was working in. I think I know who, did a deep google dive on me and that’s the worst they could find. But apparently, it was enough to get me booted from the building. Why would this person want this? Your guess is as good as mine, but I suspect it’s because the person who left the building was extremely well loved by the staff. Even though her going was a bump up for her, it was enough for them to wreck my financial stability.
Where do I stand now?
No idea. I text my boss every day for an update and when he responds, he sometimes just ignores me, he knows nothing. He keeps saying he’s waiting to hear back from Human Resources, but I’m starting to think that might be bullshit. So, this weekend, this very day even, I’m rewriting my resume and starting the job hunt again.
.
.
.
The update came at 11:00 am today. After eight days of being left hanging I was abruptly terminated. Their reason was laughable. I was not repentant for what I’d done, and therefore they can’t trust me.
That’s it.
I can’t detail what comes next, but I will tell you it involves a lawyer. I honestly doubt anything will come of it. Ohio, where I live, is one of the “Right to Work” states. Basically, that means unless you have union protections you can pretty much be fired for anything. But I am going to make a go of it, I have an ace hidden somewhere which might amount to nothing, but it COULD give me some leverage.
So here I stand, or sit as the case may be, I am forty-two, unemployed, fired for the first time in my life, and more pissed than I’ve been since 2008 (that’s a whole other kettle of fish). Depending on how much this will cost me out of pocket I have zero fucks left to give.
I don’t want them dead.
I want them unemployed, homeless, and living under a bridge.
- Josh (1/15/2019)
You read that right.
In my mind, it is better to leave a person I hate gainfully employed because they may have people counting on their income to survive. That my wishing them to lose employment and potentially hurt children is too much guilt for me to deal with.
Please let me be clear. I don’t believe wishing or praying does a damn thing. All it does is help comfort people, which is a legit reason to respect the practice, but in the end, it’s nothing more than endless navel-gazing.
But I would still feel guilty.
Dead is different.
Before I explain the difference in my mind let’s clarify something.
THERE IS ONLY ONE PERSON IN THIS ENTIRE WORLD I WISH I COULD KILL AND THEY DIED YEARS AGO THEREFORE I WILL NEVER HAD JUSTICE FOR WHAT HAPPENED TO ME. I DO NOT ACTUALLY WANT TO MURDER (DIRECTLY OR INDIRECTLY) ANYONE I WISH DEAD. THAT I EVEN HAVE TO PUT THIS GLARING DISCLAIMER IN MY ESSAY PISSES ME OFF.
In my mind when I wish someone dead, they cease to exist. They become a nonentity. They have been removed from this reality. How does this jibe with my desire not to harm the children they may be supporting? If they die, then there may be life insurance, and for minors, there’s Social Security if they lose a parent.
Yeah I know it’s fucked up, but that’s a glimpse into how my mind works.
What’s the point in all of this?
I have been working since I was fourteen years old. My first job was at a small local grocery store in my home town of Wayne Michigan. I made three dollars an hour to stock shelves, count returnable bottles and cans, and clean the store three days a week. It wasn’t a good job, and it wasn’t a bad job. It was a job with a simple worker/employer contract. I worked, minded my P’s and Q’s, and act like a complete jackass. In return, my bosses treated me well and paid me on time.
Silly me, I thought that was how things were supposed to be.
After that, I moved on to a plethora of other jobs. From fast food to security guard to housekeeping and maintenance I feel comfortable in saying I have a diverse and sometimes interesting work background. But in all my years I’ve been working one thing has never happened. I have never been fired from a job before.
Until today.
Today, for the first time in my multi-spectrum working life, I was terminated.
What happened?
I don’t want to retype it all it was at the end of my last essay. So, for reader convenience, I will clip that section and dd it here
.
.
.
I made it to the end of the year and received my own building to run. I was happy. I like the building and the people in it. Then on Monday, January 7, 2019, it all crashed in on me. My boss arrived at the building at 9:45 am and told me I was being permanently removed from the building and suspended from the company without pay.
What was my horrible crime?
No.
Was I running a bootleg cigarette ring at the facility (there really is one there)?
No.
Was I using the job as a front to refound COBRA and beat those damn Joes once and for all?
No, but damnit that’s a good idea.
No, what I did was make two videos on my YouTube channel almost five years ago where I complain about my job without naming any names or locations and wax philosophical about the fantastic sex lives of the active elderly.
That’s it.
I was then told someone at the building I was working in. I think I know who, did a deep google dive on me and that’s the worst they could find. But apparently, it was enough to get me booted from the building. Why would this person want this? Your guess is as good as mine, but I suspect it’s because the person who left the building was extremely well loved by the staff. Even though her going was a bump up for her, it was enough for them to wreck my financial stability.
Where do I stand now?
No idea. I text my boss every day for an update and when he responds, he sometimes just ignores me, he knows nothing. He keeps saying he’s waiting to hear back from Human Resources, but I’m starting to think that might be bullshit. So, this weekend, this very day even, I’m rewriting my resume and starting the job hunt again.
.
.
.
The update came at 11:00 am today. After eight days of being left hanging I was abruptly terminated. Their reason was laughable. I was not repentant for what I’d done, and therefore they can’t trust me.
That’s it.
I can’t detail what comes next, but I will tell you it involves a lawyer. I honestly doubt anything will come of it. Ohio, where I live, is one of the “Right to Work” states. Basically, that means unless you have union protections you can pretty much be fired for anything. But I am going to make a go of it, I have an ace hidden somewhere which might amount to nothing, but it COULD give me some leverage.
So here I stand, or sit as the case may be, I am forty-two, unemployed, fired for the first time in my life, and more pissed than I’ve been since 2008 (that’s a whole other kettle of fish). Depending on how much this will cost me out of pocket I have zero fucks left to give.
I don’t want them dead.
I want them unemployed, homeless, and living under a bridge.
- Josh (1/15/2019)
January 12, 2019
Burn it Down
Today is the twelfth day of 2019 and boy howdy this year has started with a bang. Last year was a, let’s call it a quiet year from me. I barely wrote any essays, I released very little in the realm of fiction, and my personal life was a mess. I fought relentlessly with depression and anger, harder than I have in a decade. I didn’t win that fight, but at the same moment, I didn’t lose either. I will accept the stalemate which allows me to function for the time being and hope things get better.
So, a brief rundown of 2018.
The year started with me working at an assisted living facility. My middle son and his wife of 8ish years had broken up. After many run-ins with the police, we’d forced Stephen out of our house. I took a tentative toe-dip back into the world of writing. My wife was miserable at her job. And I was trying to recover from the worst Christmas of my adult life.
Not long after the beginning of the year my middle son, high off his ass on meth, attacked a group of police trying to talk to him. He ended up in the hospital. I would NEVER insinuate that the police in that area beat him for fun, but it’s not the first time he’s been hurt “Resisting” them. He spent a week in the hospital and was sent to the county lockup. In the end, he received a year in state prison (11 months actually) and was sent off to the Columbus area.
This settled down a little after my middle son went to prison.
I tried to muddle through at a job where I wasn’t respected and even though I was the manager my boss still went to one of the other department employees when there were questions or projects. Likewise, I was not allowed by him to write supply orders, make schedules, or handle discipline. My job was only a title, and the other woman was really in charge. Add to all of that the low pay, and it was evident to everyone that I wouldn’t be there very long.
In March I decided it was time to move on.
I quickly landed the job as a room inspector at a chain hotel. It would’ve been a time to be happy but during the transition, period between jobs my best friends mom, the woman who’d been like a mother to me since I was fourteen, died. I did my best to be there for my nonbiological family, but the loss of her sent me into a spiral of depression and self-loathing. To this day I hate myself for not seeing her more in the years she was sick. I feel extreme guilt because I believe I let my family down. I’ve been told I haven’t let them down on many occasions and I believe them when they say it. But it doesn’t change how I feel.
I left my job in April and started my new job immediately.
I hated working at the hotel. The Executive Housekeeper was a secretive, manipulative bitch who was eventually fired for stealing tips. The General Manager was a two-faced backstabbing hypocritical lying bitch. When she offered me the Executive Housekeeper position, I took it despite my gut rebelling at the idea. It wasn’t long before I realized things weren’t right in hotel land. The General Manager demanded all of the department heads work ten hours a day even though company policy was a 40 hour work week. I confronted her about this and a few other things and in the end, I gave my two weeks’ notice.
While the saga of the hotel was taking place, things were not so great on the Homefront.
My middle son was released on work release in June and sent to a facility here in Dayton. I knew this was a bad idea, but I still love him and hoped it would work out, and for a few months it did. The summer of 2018 was a time of changes. My wife decided she wanted to buy a house again even though after losing the old house I said I never wanted to own a home again. She was also promoted. We thought I could go back to writing fulltime, but when her first pay came through, and we saw her bullshit raise I started job hunting… again.
We bought a house and moved in August.
After many interviews, I was offered a job as a Director of Environmental Services for a healthcare company. With the position locked in and looking like it might be a place where I could settle in, we bought me a truck. The payments are horrible, and insurance is tolerable, but it was all kinda predicated on me having the job.
In November my Middle Son lost his mind.
I’ve essayed heavily on the incident, and I have no desire to revisit it at this time. I will add an update for those of you familiar with the situation. He is out, that’s right once they were sure he wasn’t a danger (yeah right) they released him with no charges. In the aftermath, we gave him (with my protest) a bus ticket to Tacoma Washington, where he was supposed to enter treatment, and some supplies. He didn’t begin treatment and came back. Then he went to stay with my grandparents (again I protest) for a few days before finally going into a local treatment program he’s been kicked out of more than once.
And that’s where we stand with him.
I made it to the end of the year and received my own building to run. I was happy. I like the building and the people in it. Then on Monday, January 7, 2019, it all crashed in on me. My boss arrived at the building at 9:45 am and told me I was being permanently removed from the building and suspended from the company without pay.
What was my horrible crime?
No.
Was I running a bootleg cigarette ring at the facility (there really is one there)?
No.
Was I using the job as a front to refound COBRA and beat those damn Joes once and for all?
No, but damnit that’s a good idea.
No, what I did was make two videos on my YouTube channel almost five years ago where I complain about my job without naming any names or locations and wax philosophical about the fantastic sex lives of the active elderly.
That’s it.
I was then told someone at the building I was working in. I think I know who, did a deep google dive on me and that’s the worst they could find. But apparently, it was enough to get me booted from the building. Why would this person want this? Your guess is as good as mine, but I suspect it’s because the person who left the building was extremely well loved by the staff. Even though her going was a bump up for her, it was enough for them to wreck my financial stability.
Where do I stand now?
No idea. I text my boss every day for an update and when he responds, he sometimes just ignores me, he knows nothing. He keeps saying he’s waiting to hear back from Human Resources, but I’m starting to think that might be bullshit. So, this weekend, this very day even, I’m rewriting my resume and starting the job hunt again.
Fuck 2018.
- Josh Hilden (1/12/2019)
So, a brief rundown of 2018.
The year started with me working at an assisted living facility. My middle son and his wife of 8ish years had broken up. After many run-ins with the police, we’d forced Stephen out of our house. I took a tentative toe-dip back into the world of writing. My wife was miserable at her job. And I was trying to recover from the worst Christmas of my adult life.
Not long after the beginning of the year my middle son, high off his ass on meth, attacked a group of police trying to talk to him. He ended up in the hospital. I would NEVER insinuate that the police in that area beat him for fun, but it’s not the first time he’s been hurt “Resisting” them. He spent a week in the hospital and was sent to the county lockup. In the end, he received a year in state prison (11 months actually) and was sent off to the Columbus area.
This settled down a little after my middle son went to prison.
I tried to muddle through at a job where I wasn’t respected and even though I was the manager my boss still went to one of the other department employees when there were questions or projects. Likewise, I was not allowed by him to write supply orders, make schedules, or handle discipline. My job was only a title, and the other woman was really in charge. Add to all of that the low pay, and it was evident to everyone that I wouldn’t be there very long.
In March I decided it was time to move on.
I quickly landed the job as a room inspector at a chain hotel. It would’ve been a time to be happy but during the transition, period between jobs my best friends mom, the woman who’d been like a mother to me since I was fourteen, died. I did my best to be there for my nonbiological family, but the loss of her sent me into a spiral of depression and self-loathing. To this day I hate myself for not seeing her more in the years she was sick. I feel extreme guilt because I believe I let my family down. I’ve been told I haven’t let them down on many occasions and I believe them when they say it. But it doesn’t change how I feel.
I left my job in April and started my new job immediately.
I hated working at the hotel. The Executive Housekeeper was a secretive, manipulative bitch who was eventually fired for stealing tips. The General Manager was a two-faced backstabbing hypocritical lying bitch. When she offered me the Executive Housekeeper position, I took it despite my gut rebelling at the idea. It wasn’t long before I realized things weren’t right in hotel land. The General Manager demanded all of the department heads work ten hours a day even though company policy was a 40 hour work week. I confronted her about this and a few other things and in the end, I gave my two weeks’ notice.
While the saga of the hotel was taking place, things were not so great on the Homefront.
My middle son was released on work release in June and sent to a facility here in Dayton. I knew this was a bad idea, but I still love him and hoped it would work out, and for a few months it did. The summer of 2018 was a time of changes. My wife decided she wanted to buy a house again even though after losing the old house I said I never wanted to own a home again. She was also promoted. We thought I could go back to writing fulltime, but when her first pay came through, and we saw her bullshit raise I started job hunting… again.
We bought a house and moved in August.
After many interviews, I was offered a job as a Director of Environmental Services for a healthcare company. With the position locked in and looking like it might be a place where I could settle in, we bought me a truck. The payments are horrible, and insurance is tolerable, but it was all kinda predicated on me having the job.
In November my Middle Son lost his mind.
I’ve essayed heavily on the incident, and I have no desire to revisit it at this time. I will add an update for those of you familiar with the situation. He is out, that’s right once they were sure he wasn’t a danger (yeah right) they released him with no charges. In the aftermath, we gave him (with my protest) a bus ticket to Tacoma Washington, where he was supposed to enter treatment, and some supplies. He didn’t begin treatment and came back. Then he went to stay with my grandparents (again I protest) for a few days before finally going into a local treatment program he’s been kicked out of more than once.
And that’s where we stand with him.
I made it to the end of the year and received my own building to run. I was happy. I like the building and the people in it. Then on Monday, January 7, 2019, it all crashed in on me. My boss arrived at the building at 9:45 am and told me I was being permanently removed from the building and suspended from the company without pay.
What was my horrible crime?
No.
Was I running a bootleg cigarette ring at the facility (there really is one there)?
No.
Was I using the job as a front to refound COBRA and beat those damn Joes once and for all?
No, but damnit that’s a good idea.
No, what I did was make two videos on my YouTube channel almost five years ago where I complain about my job without naming any names or locations and wax philosophical about the fantastic sex lives of the active elderly.
That’s it.
I was then told someone at the building I was working in. I think I know who, did a deep google dive on me and that’s the worst they could find. But apparently, it was enough to get me booted from the building. Why would this person want this? Your guess is as good as mine, but I suspect it’s because the person who left the building was extremely well loved by the staff. Even though her going was a bump up for her, it was enough for them to wreck my financial stability.
Where do I stand now?
No idea. I text my boss every day for an update and when he responds, he sometimes just ignores me, he knows nothing. He keeps saying he’s waiting to hear back from Human Resources, but I’m starting to think that might be bullshit. So, this weekend, this very day even, I’m rewriting my resume and starting the job hunt again.
Fuck 2018.
- Josh Hilden (1/12/2019)
December 18, 2018
Under the Bridge
Feel like I’ve cracked like an egg. I’m not sure how or if I can patch the crack before all my snotty eggy essence runs out to be washed away like so much phlegm on the shower floor. I know 2019 is going to be make or break for me because I don’t see things be tenable as is much longer. Not that they’ve been tenable for a long time already, but that’s a different story for a different day.
Or maybe never at all.
December 9, 2018
Today is my twenty-third anniversary. Not my wedding anniversary, that’s September 18, this is the anniversary of when Karen and I started dating. I know it’s sappy, but it’s actually more important to me than any of the other milestones in our relationship.
Today should’ve been a good day, but it wasn’t.
As I write this, it’s been a long and horrible night for the family. I'm not going to talk about it until after I get some sleep, I've been up for about 24 hours. But I will talk about it. After all, that's how I process stress and pain. But as soon as I get the kid off to school, I'm going to crash hard... unless we get more bad news.
December 10, 2018
Alright, I've slept, and I feel clear headed enough to talk about what happened last night. None of this is pretty or funny, so if you prefer the sarcastic political and social me, please feel free to ignore this post. I truly understand.
We good?
Ok, here it is.
As many of you know from my personal writing, but many of you may not, my middle son has a severe substance abuse problem. He's done drugs in one form or another since he was a kid, but three or four years ago he started doing meth, and his habit went from bad, but manageable, to life destroying.
A brief history.
In the last three plus years, he has been arrested for meth manufacturing and distribution. Lost his place to live. Overdosed multiple times each resulting in schizophrenic symptoms that have worsened exponentially. Has become increasingly paranoid and violent, been arrested for attacking his wife (who is also an addict and has divorced him). Ruined his relationship with the entire family (multiple family members have called the police on him and have had him trespassed from their homes. And finally has done multiple increasing stints in county lockup and state prison.
Yesterday he upped his game.
Back in January, he was sentenced to a year in prison for attacking police officers while high off his ass. He did well enough in prison to be released to a halfway house in June. He got a job and by all appearances had been keeping his nose clean. Yesterday he pumped himself with meth (no I have no idea where he got it, I do not speak with him anymore) and had his worse reaction ever. He went to the roof of the building, took his clothes off, burned them (and himself in the process), and stabbed himself repeatedly with a sharp object. This went on for four hours with him threatening to jump and accusing the people at the halfway house of trying to kill him. Eventually, the police talked him down. They took him to the hospital, and we were informed.
We went to the hospital.
He was under sedation, on a ventilator, stitched up, and suffering from extreme hypothermia. He was scheduled to have surgery to repair his neck from the stab wounds in the middle of the night. Once we were sure he was stable, we went home. He went in for surgery at 2:30 am and finished at 5:30 am. He'll be on the ventilator for a few days THEN he will be on a 72-hour psychiatric hold. After that, I assume he'll be going back to prison.
I wish I could say any of this surprised me.
Now, some people are going to want to say some version of, "Why Josh, why do you want to air your family’s dirty laundry?"
First, I don't recall asking for your opinion. Second, if I've learned anything in the decades of dealing with my son's mental and emotional problems, it's that keeping it bottled up only makes it worse. I'm a firm believer that if you just get it all out there into the bright light of day, there's a cleansing and healing effect.
I'll most likely turn this all into an essay, but I needed to write it down and fix it my mind to start processing it.
December 18, 2018
I’ve spent a week turning this situation over in my mind. I’ve attacked it from every angle I could conceive, and I’ve come to a dark and disturbing conclusion. I’m not even sure I want to talk about the conclusions I’ve reached but as I’ve said ad nausea over the years, speak the truth and shame the devil.
Here it goes.
Deep breath.
I can do this.
I think I’ve allowed my middle son to ruin my life to a disturbing degree and part of me hates him for that.
Now before you start screaming that I control whether my life is ruined and stamping your feet in faux indignation just take a chill pill. I know how selfish that conclusion is, and I am more ashamed of it than you are mad about it.
Why do I feel that way?
When I was growing up, I made almost all my determinations and decisions base don if it would anger someone. Whether it was my mom, my dad, and especially my first stepmom, their reaction would always be my first consideration before I took any action. That changed when I was seventeen, and I was accused of fleeing from a car accident.
I’ve told this story in length in the past, so I’ll give you the short version here.
I got off work from my job at McDonald's, this was December of 1993 for context, and I was driving to the bank to deposit my paycheck. A minivan pulled out in front of me and swerved barely avoiding a collision. I laid on the horn and flipped the unseen driver off. And that, in my opinion at least, was a big mistake. I am pretty sure the horn and flying bird angered the driver off enough to want revenge.
The next day I got home from work, and my father was pissed. The police had called, and they wanted to see me at the station. When we arrived at the police, the officer said the woman driving the minivan said I hit her and that she was forced to stop hard. Also, she was pregnant and went to the hospital just to be sure she was ok. I smelled the bullshit immediately, give me some credit at least for that, and I called it out. I was going at least forty miles per hour when we supposedly collided yet neither vehicle had damage. The police gave me a warning never to flee an accident scene, and that was it.
Things were different when we got home.
My stepmother spent two hours attacking me. I don’t remember all of it but when we were done my car, which I paid for one hundred percent, was taken until my eighteenth birthday and I was made to call the woman in the van and apologize. I’m not proud I admit during the entire conversation with that smug, self-righteous woman I cried like a prison bitch.
How does that story relate to my life with my middle son?
After that, I was determined never to allow another person’s reaction to unduly influence my decision-making process. And for two years I stuck, more or less, to that decision. Yes, sometimes I wavered, but for the most part, I removed whether or not a person would be angered with me as a primary concern.
Then I met my middle son.
I love him. I need that said from the start. Even after all of the awful things, he’s done, and I‘ve allowed to happen over the years I still love the kid. If he magically reverted to his former self, even though his old self had a metric fuck-ton of issues that desperately needed addressing, I’d be willing to let go of a lot of the anger I have. But this is the real world and not a story from a hack fiction writer. In the real world, you rarely get a do-over.
So why do I know in my heart of hearts I’ve allowed this now thirty-year-old man to ruin my life?
Because twenty-three years ago I started considering his reactions to everything.
It started almost from day one. If my son had been born into a family with money or even real health insurance he would’ve been in therapy and probably medicated from a very early age. When he was a teenager, and we actually had good coverage, he was diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder, ADHD, and at the time were told he probably had a learning disability, but he wouldn’t take the test seriously, and thus they were unable to diagnose him accurately.
I’ve told the story of my son before. The violence, the anger, the disobedience for the sake of defiance, the run-ins with the law, the being suspended and expelled over and over again, the stealing, the lying, the drug use, and everything else I can’t remember or refuse to admit. He is chaos personified in a young man with a million dollar smile. But he could, and I hope still can be, a kind and giving a person. In other words, he is not another creation from that hack writer’s imagination. He’s a fully formed fleshed out and complicated human being. And from the moment I met him, I started making course corrections based on his reactions.
That boils, and ghouls is my fault and not his.
Because of those corrections, I could never really enjoy my life. I always wondered what chaos he’d bring when his mother an I were not around, and trust me he ALWAYS created havoc when others were having fun, and he wasn’t involved. I can’t think of a single instance when we were on a trip, out to eat, seeing a movie, or some other fun adult activity where it wasn’t interrupted by him.
I’ve hated him for that.
I’ve hated him for making my other son’s and my daughters miserable. He takes advantage of them over and over again because he knows they want to help him because they are good people and they love him.
I’ve hated him for what he’s done to my in-laws when they were alive and to his great-grandparents to this day. Like his siblings, he’s used and manipulated them for years.
I hate him for what he’s done to my marriage. The stress he’s put on it. The time he’s stolen from my wife and me to this very day. The money he’s wasted. The trust he’s wreaked.
But most of all I hate him for what he’s done to his mother. The stress he’s put her through. The many times he’s wantonly broken her heart. The lies he’s told her over and over again. The way he’s used her love of him and the guilt she feels over the way his biological father treated him to manipulate her.
Now he sits in a hospital, being evaluated while on a psychiatric hold, and I’ve reached a decision. I want him out of my life. I will never be happy while the creature who lives in my little boys’ skin still lives. Like I said before, if the old him, the good him, came back I would welcome him with open arms. But I think that boy, the boy I love with all of my heart and soul, died a long time ago.
I want this thing gone.
- Josh (12/19/2018)
Or maybe never at all.
December 9, 2018
Today is my twenty-third anniversary. Not my wedding anniversary, that’s September 18, this is the anniversary of when Karen and I started dating. I know it’s sappy, but it’s actually more important to me than any of the other milestones in our relationship.
Today should’ve been a good day, but it wasn’t.
As I write this, it’s been a long and horrible night for the family. I'm not going to talk about it until after I get some sleep, I've been up for about 24 hours. But I will talk about it. After all, that's how I process stress and pain. But as soon as I get the kid off to school, I'm going to crash hard... unless we get more bad news.
December 10, 2018
Alright, I've slept, and I feel clear headed enough to talk about what happened last night. None of this is pretty or funny, so if you prefer the sarcastic political and social me, please feel free to ignore this post. I truly understand.
We good?
Ok, here it is.
As many of you know from my personal writing, but many of you may not, my middle son has a severe substance abuse problem. He's done drugs in one form or another since he was a kid, but three or four years ago he started doing meth, and his habit went from bad, but manageable, to life destroying.
A brief history.
In the last three plus years, he has been arrested for meth manufacturing and distribution. Lost his place to live. Overdosed multiple times each resulting in schizophrenic symptoms that have worsened exponentially. Has become increasingly paranoid and violent, been arrested for attacking his wife (who is also an addict and has divorced him). Ruined his relationship with the entire family (multiple family members have called the police on him and have had him trespassed from their homes. And finally has done multiple increasing stints in county lockup and state prison.
Yesterday he upped his game.
Back in January, he was sentenced to a year in prison for attacking police officers while high off his ass. He did well enough in prison to be released to a halfway house in June. He got a job and by all appearances had been keeping his nose clean. Yesterday he pumped himself with meth (no I have no idea where he got it, I do not speak with him anymore) and had his worse reaction ever. He went to the roof of the building, took his clothes off, burned them (and himself in the process), and stabbed himself repeatedly with a sharp object. This went on for four hours with him threatening to jump and accusing the people at the halfway house of trying to kill him. Eventually, the police talked him down. They took him to the hospital, and we were informed.
We went to the hospital.
He was under sedation, on a ventilator, stitched up, and suffering from extreme hypothermia. He was scheduled to have surgery to repair his neck from the stab wounds in the middle of the night. Once we were sure he was stable, we went home. He went in for surgery at 2:30 am and finished at 5:30 am. He'll be on the ventilator for a few days THEN he will be on a 72-hour psychiatric hold. After that, I assume he'll be going back to prison.
I wish I could say any of this surprised me.
Now, some people are going to want to say some version of, "Why Josh, why do you want to air your family’s dirty laundry?"
First, I don't recall asking for your opinion. Second, if I've learned anything in the decades of dealing with my son's mental and emotional problems, it's that keeping it bottled up only makes it worse. I'm a firm believer that if you just get it all out there into the bright light of day, there's a cleansing and healing effect.
I'll most likely turn this all into an essay, but I needed to write it down and fix it my mind to start processing it.
December 18, 2018
I’ve spent a week turning this situation over in my mind. I’ve attacked it from every angle I could conceive, and I’ve come to a dark and disturbing conclusion. I’m not even sure I want to talk about the conclusions I’ve reached but as I’ve said ad nausea over the years, speak the truth and shame the devil.
Here it goes.
Deep breath.
I can do this.
I think I’ve allowed my middle son to ruin my life to a disturbing degree and part of me hates him for that.
Now before you start screaming that I control whether my life is ruined and stamping your feet in faux indignation just take a chill pill. I know how selfish that conclusion is, and I am more ashamed of it than you are mad about it.
Why do I feel that way?
When I was growing up, I made almost all my determinations and decisions base don if it would anger someone. Whether it was my mom, my dad, and especially my first stepmom, their reaction would always be my first consideration before I took any action. That changed when I was seventeen, and I was accused of fleeing from a car accident.
I’ve told this story in length in the past, so I’ll give you the short version here.
I got off work from my job at McDonald's, this was December of 1993 for context, and I was driving to the bank to deposit my paycheck. A minivan pulled out in front of me and swerved barely avoiding a collision. I laid on the horn and flipped the unseen driver off. And that, in my opinion at least, was a big mistake. I am pretty sure the horn and flying bird angered the driver off enough to want revenge.
The next day I got home from work, and my father was pissed. The police had called, and they wanted to see me at the station. When we arrived at the police, the officer said the woman driving the minivan said I hit her and that she was forced to stop hard. Also, she was pregnant and went to the hospital just to be sure she was ok. I smelled the bullshit immediately, give me some credit at least for that, and I called it out. I was going at least forty miles per hour when we supposedly collided yet neither vehicle had damage. The police gave me a warning never to flee an accident scene, and that was it.
Things were different when we got home.
My stepmother spent two hours attacking me. I don’t remember all of it but when we were done my car, which I paid for one hundred percent, was taken until my eighteenth birthday and I was made to call the woman in the van and apologize. I’m not proud I admit during the entire conversation with that smug, self-righteous woman I cried like a prison bitch.
How does that story relate to my life with my middle son?
After that, I was determined never to allow another person’s reaction to unduly influence my decision-making process. And for two years I stuck, more or less, to that decision. Yes, sometimes I wavered, but for the most part, I removed whether or not a person would be angered with me as a primary concern.
Then I met my middle son.
I love him. I need that said from the start. Even after all of the awful things, he’s done, and I‘ve allowed to happen over the years I still love the kid. If he magically reverted to his former self, even though his old self had a metric fuck-ton of issues that desperately needed addressing, I’d be willing to let go of a lot of the anger I have. But this is the real world and not a story from a hack fiction writer. In the real world, you rarely get a do-over.
So why do I know in my heart of hearts I’ve allowed this now thirty-year-old man to ruin my life?
Because twenty-three years ago I started considering his reactions to everything.
It started almost from day one. If my son had been born into a family with money or even real health insurance he would’ve been in therapy and probably medicated from a very early age. When he was a teenager, and we actually had good coverage, he was diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder, ADHD, and at the time were told he probably had a learning disability, but he wouldn’t take the test seriously, and thus they were unable to diagnose him accurately.
I’ve told the story of my son before. The violence, the anger, the disobedience for the sake of defiance, the run-ins with the law, the being suspended and expelled over and over again, the stealing, the lying, the drug use, and everything else I can’t remember or refuse to admit. He is chaos personified in a young man with a million dollar smile. But he could, and I hope still can be, a kind and giving a person. In other words, he is not another creation from that hack writer’s imagination. He’s a fully formed fleshed out and complicated human being. And from the moment I met him, I started making course corrections based on his reactions.
That boils, and ghouls is my fault and not his.
Because of those corrections, I could never really enjoy my life. I always wondered what chaos he’d bring when his mother an I were not around, and trust me he ALWAYS created havoc when others were having fun, and he wasn’t involved. I can’t think of a single instance when we were on a trip, out to eat, seeing a movie, or some other fun adult activity where it wasn’t interrupted by him.
I’ve hated him for that.
I’ve hated him for making my other son’s and my daughters miserable. He takes advantage of them over and over again because he knows they want to help him because they are good people and they love him.
I’ve hated him for what he’s done to my in-laws when they were alive and to his great-grandparents to this day. Like his siblings, he’s used and manipulated them for years.
I hate him for what he’s done to my marriage. The stress he’s put on it. The time he’s stolen from my wife and me to this very day. The money he’s wasted. The trust he’s wreaked.
But most of all I hate him for what he’s done to his mother. The stress he’s put her through. The many times he’s wantonly broken her heart. The lies he’s told her over and over again. The way he’s used her love of him and the guilt she feels over the way his biological father treated him to manipulate her.
Now he sits in a hospital, being evaluated while on a psychiatric hold, and I’ve reached a decision. I want him out of my life. I will never be happy while the creature who lives in my little boys’ skin still lives. Like I said before, if the old him, the good him, came back I would welcome him with open arms. But I think that boy, the boy I love with all of my heart and soul, died a long time ago.
I want this thing gone.
- Josh (12/19/2018)
