THE GUN TOTING LIBERAL™

It’s been HELL. Guilt, shame, and probably about one-hundred-percent dysfunctionality. One constant panic attack after another. I was fairly functional before the psychologist from the DAV leaned forward after about an hour worth of what I felt was a fairly “harmless” back and forth conversation with her. I now have a new “flashback”, which seems to be drowning out the other couple I’ve been plagued with from time to time over the last couple of years — the site of her pretty face leaning forward and resting on her fists; elbows on the table across from me, gazing deep into my eyes SOUL and telling me after a heavy sigh — “My dear, I’m sorry. You DO have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

What torques me off is this — I already KNEW I probably had a “touch” of this disease before I strolled into the DAV. For some reason though, my body and brain seem to be uncontrollable ever since. Don’t ask me how in the hell one visit; one person’s opinion; can do this to somebody; I’m relatively clueless at this time. I just know I’m suddenly not functioning properly and I suppose there’s no turning back now. I’ve been praying for some sort of a “magic pill”, or even a shot (and I despise shots); a panacea of ANY variety.

In fact, the DAV psychologist urged me to march my bottom right down to Veterans Affairs THE next morning to see a psychiatrist. Despite having a very rough night, I declined; somehow doubting the lady from the DAV’s diagnosis in spite of my own better judgement. Instead, I went to work, where I proceeded to “hide” from my employees in a safe place, legs sprawled out on the floor, my back leaning against the safe, sweat dripping from my entire body, waiting for the xanax my M.D. prescribed to me to “kick in”. It took too damned long and I was “caught” by my office assistant who did her best to calm me down as I “sang like a canary” to her after begging her to not tell anybody what she saw and what I told her. I trust her very much and I know her well enough to know it WILL remain confidential.

The next day, I had a day off and again; resisted my DAV psychologist’s plea for me to go to the VA; instead, think I would go there this Wednesday on my NEXT day off. Bad idea. Things got worse. Yesterday (Monday), my anger and confusion reached a “tipping point” so, instead of going to work, called in to my boss and told him I’d be a little late; I needed to see a doctor about something and I’d be in afterward, despite the fact I couldn’t even imaging being able to function there at all. I could feel my face twitching involuntarily and I just KNEW everybody at work would see this and think I went “nuts”. All I knew was the medication (Xanax and Paxil) were no longer of any help at ALL to me and I needed to talk to somebody at the VA and QUICKLY.

To make an already long story shorter, after a wait, which seemed to take forever (one hour to be exact), they sent me up to the sixth floor. THAT “Sixth Floor” — where all the “wackjobs” are sent. Talk about feeling ashamed and embarrassed. Finally, a nurse took my vitals and told me my blood pressure was through the roof. Two weeks earlier, my vitals were fine when I went to my M.D. for my refills, by the way. I’m sure my blood pressure was high because I was right in the middle of a “doozy” of a panic attack. She asked me if I wanted to make an appointment to see somebody and I angrily responded, “NO. I NEED TO SEE SOMEBODY RIGHT NOW, PLEASE, Ma’am!”

She immediately picked up the phone and started calling people — “Can you see Mr. __ today? No? Okay, thanks.” On and on, she finally found somebody; another psychologist who had just had a “no show” (lucky me) and I told the nurse — “I don’t need to see a frigging psychologist, I’ve already seen one; I need somebody to do something with my meds — they’re no longer working. They may as well be placebos!” She calmed me down and explained that the process is to see a VA psychologist first, then she would determine whether or not I need to see the psychiatrist from there. “Do you know where the pharmacy is downstairs Mr. ___?” ME: “NO_MA’AM..” She interrupted me and said, “Don’t worry, follow me, Sir. I’ll be glad to walk you down to meet her.”

Short version: I pretty much just explained what the DAV psychologist had asked me and how I had answered. She asked me what medication I was taking and how much, how often per day and I (angrily? not at her, at my inability to focus and answer her question). “I thought you’d ask; HERE.” as I reached into my pocket and slammed the two medicine bottles down on her desk as I told her “These — and I’m telling you they are NO LONGER WORKING AT ALL. PLEASE — I need something that works NOW, Ma’am.” She picks up the phone and asks somebody on the other end how soon that person could see me. “That isn’t going to work. He’s not going to make it that long.” GREAT — Another new “flashback” for me. I now have that scene from the DAV’s psychologist and now THIS one running through my mind again and again. “He’s not going to make it that long…” Lucky me.

She told me I have an appointment on Friday. I think I’m going to make it this time; primarily because she DID manage to calm me down a bit and mostly because she excused me from work for the rest of the week until I can consult with the PTSD psychiatrist. I called my boss and he wasn’t happy at ALL. “Can’t you tell me more? What do you mean you have an injury related to the military? You owe me more than that.” I apologized, told him it was nothing personal; that I’m having trouble discussing the matter even with my own wife and family at this time. By the way, I don’t believe I’ve mentioned the fact I’ve never seen any sort of a mental health professional for any reason in my entire life prior to last week if that’s important to anybody reading this. I’ve still never seen a psychiatrist; now that (previously proud) “run” is about to come to an end, but back to the rest of the story.

I asked her if she agreed with the DAV’s diagnosis and she said “Indeed”. Again — lucky me. Oh, and during the visit, I told her “I’m only half-joking here — I feel as if the DAV psychologist put a “curse” on me. I wasn’t this bad at ALL until I had my little ‘chat’ with her last week.” The VA psychologist giggled at that one and assured me it was “normal” (referring to the latter article above) for a PTSD victim to go through some tough days during the initial recovery process. Great, I’m “normal” for a mentally-ill (God, I still can’t believe it — I HATE that term!) guy.

So, anyhow, I had promised my DAV psychologist I would call her immediately after seeing the VA, so being a man of my word (and I am, by the way), I called her and I informed her the VA had confirmed and agreed with her diagnosis. “Oh, that’s GREAT! I’m so proud of you for having the courage to take this next step toward your recovery. Now we can start on your claim.” Claim? Not sure I want to go there, but I DID promise my family I would follow every piece of advice to the best of my ability from the DAV, so I guess I don’t really have much of a choice in the matter. If they say they need to guide me through the claim process, I guess I have to keep my word on that one, too. Oh well. Either it’ll happen or it won’t.

When I told the friendly voice on the other end of the phone I had told the VA psychologist she had put a “curse” on me, she, too, giggled — LOUDLY and for a few moments. “Well, that’s interesting. I’ve never had it put quite THAT way”, she said, obviously smiling on the other end of the phone. “Remember, I told you things were going to get worse before they got better for you?” I said it went in one ear and out the other; she could have expanded on it a bit — the fact that I was going to feel like I was hit by a ton of bricks, to which she simply replied, “Everybody’s different hon.” I also asked her, “What if the psychiatrist doesn’t agree with you guys?” “Oh, believe me, he WILL, hon. His job is to help you out with the medication and it’s our job to take care of everything else”, she assured me.

Last but not least, our two front-runners for the presidency, Barack Obama and John McCain, continue to play “politics” in regards to both wars (Source: New York Daily News; H/T to MemeOrandum) as if they are “games” and the real, live, human beings out there in harm’s way are their “pawns” to be tugged, pulled, “surged”, etc.; here, there, and everywhere in between. Fine, I guess that part of it IS a game; a game called “poly-tix”.