I figured I’d write about a certain type of success.
The other day, I visited my family Doctor.
The aim of this visit is to apply for financial resources from the military.
The thing is…the military doesn’t believe it actually “owes” me anything:
I incurred a massive head trauma while employed by it; sure.
After my seizures, I was deemed “handicapped” and therefore it was impossible for me to get promoted or to take training; Sure.
I was instructed to wait in limbo for 5 years until my medical release got processed; sure.
And other things.
But the military doesn’t “owe” me anything.
Instead, it wants to provide resources for me to resume my health…
and those resources are of course predicated on the evidence that something is wrong with my health.
So therefore I must prove to them that I am …injured.
I suppose I am.
My fellow soldiers were there the time that I collapsed on the floor of the weight-lifting room. A friend at the time broke my fall — and my skull narrowly missed the cast-iron barbell weights.
There is evidence. There is a past.
Yet I must “prove” it to them, that the seizures continue to occur. That the headaches, the dizzy spells and such.
Yet I ride my bicycle.
Yet I take yoga.
Yet I create art.
My life is pretty good. But I must “showcase” to them that resources are required.
I am encouraged to exaggerate.
It is requested of me to fulfill the narrative of a fraud artist.
So this is what I do.
I tell the doctor the truth and he listens to it and he writes it down.
Now I return on the bus with the paperwork.
I sit at my table and I write in all the stuff on my end.
I do not go on Facebook.
I do not turn on the music and “nonchalantly” write it down.
I look at what is in front of me.
And the flood of rage and hate threaten to pour in from the back of my skull.
I sit there.
I look at every line, and I fill it in.
In one line, I explain the instances of temporary partial vision loss.
In another line, I explain the factors that might lead to a seizure.
This is all very clinical.
But it is not clinical.
I sit here and I write. I fulfill what is requested of me.
I make a photocopy of it all.
Then I leave the house.
I walk two blocks to the mail-box. I put it in.
Then I return home.
I am tired.
I sleep for about an hour.
I have filled out the paperwork.
It is perhaps not an accomplishment that most people would consider an accomplishment.
But for me, this is a success.
It has taken me years to reach this point.