State of the State of the Union (Belated)

I was so enthralled by the ass-sault at Wal-Mart last night that I inadvertently put aside what I was going to write about- my day at the VA. I don't think I have ever come close to bitch-slapping someone I didn't know. But before I delve into the story, perhaps a little history would do you some good.

I have been suffering from migraines and insomnia for the last 18 years. Strangely enough, I was allowed to enlist. Of course I didn't have any time to sleep, let alone suffer a migraine episode without the expressed permission from the drill sergeants while I was in Basic or AIT. I was actually fine until my first year at my first duty station. I went a couple of weeks of sleeping two hours a day with a killer headache hanging over my right eye like a hemorrhoid. I was pretty functional but it took a toll on my appearance. According to the LT, I looked dead. So I went in to see the medic. The medic referred me to "the 4th Floor". Being a novice in the vast myriad of the hospital, I didn't know I was being referred to the puzzle factory. But, being a good soldier, I went. I just never understood why I went to a shrink for a migraine that was causing my insomnia. The shrink tried a whole host of anti-depressants, saying that I am suffering from depression, which is causing my migraines, which is causing my insomnia. Even then I thought it was bullshit. But could you tell a bird colonel that? I tried, and tactfully at that. Apparently it didn't work. Neither did the cocktail of drugs I tried. I was still getting headaches. Then there was a change in quacks. The new doc, surprisingly, asked why I wasn't referred to the neurologist. Fancy that, common sense in the Army. So I began at square one with neuro and finally got relief for my headaches. And I finally slept with a little help though modern pharmaceuticals (until I established a pattern). Problem solved. Well, at least until I went to Iraq. My headaches were manageable, but I couldn't sleep most of the time. I think it was the combination of working into overdrive, the fear of being killed while taking a shit in the honey bucket and worrying about my soldiers and my friends living the high life outside the wire. Oh yeah, there were the mortars, too-minor details. But sleep escaped me then and followed me home. I decided to have it documented if, in fact, one of the several hundred ccs of crap I had been shot with came up to be the cause of it or anything else that might happen in the future. Big mistake. I went back to the shrink who did nothing but inquire about my nuclear family. Enough already. Made no sense to go back.

I am not sure what they wrote about me in those little book of theirs, but it seemed to have resurfaced at the VA labeling me as me having some major depression issues. I didn't know this until I finished my initial screening with the health care provider last week. I had to turn in my little sheet to the admin cave when I looked at the top, I saw that it broke my percentages beyond what I received in my final judgment (another sore point of contention with me). It says that I am 10% service connected for major depression. WTF? A totally new one on me. What most people don't realize is that this could be a potential career killer in my line of work. I was livid, but decided inaction was the best recourse for the moment. (In fact, I think I am going to talk to that male wombat behind his cage about it later this week. If he could do anything about it, I am not sure.) The next day or so I get an appointment notification for Monday at 0900. Ok, I figure, I am going to go in and talk to a shrink and everything will be alright. Oh no. I went and it was a group session, "Depression and You" or some shit like that. I about flipped my gourd. How many times do I have to tell people I am not depressed? So I get up to leave. The little nice lady asked me where I was going. I told her that I wasn't depressed and didn't need to be here. She says I had to because I am on anti-depressants (my primary care provider had put me on Amiltriptaline for sleep, which may have tripped the group hug alarm). I told her I was given the meds so I could sleep. She countered, "insomnia is a symptom of depression". I was getting pissed. I told her nicely that I am not depressed and that the only logical reason why I cannot sleep is because my mind refuses to shut down long after my body does. I am always thinking. She said I was in denial and should sit for the session. It must have been obvious I was beyond livid because she added, in her sweet, little old lady voice, "you know, dear, aggravation is also a sign of depression." I just sat down. It was either that or I give them a reason for them to issue me my own love-me-jacket and a place at the padded Hilton.

I must be mellowing in my old age.