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Some Of Us Have Lived With This Our Entire Lives, So Who Are You To Bitch?

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Ever since my second seizure in 2007 and especially after scores of pallets hit me in the head while working for Walmart, I have struggled with my temper.

I have no patience-especially for electronics, and I hate it when I blow my top.

I know I’m not supposed to do that, but there’s nowhere for me to go when it happens. There was once a time when I could go to a remote area and blow off steam for a couple of minutes, but I lose that race today, and the previous articles you read on the subject tell you why that is.

My frontal lobes are fucking fucked.

It reminds me of the time when an accelerator cable broke on the Golden State Freeway in Santa Clarita, California and I had to hope that I could get to the shoulder.  Of course, I didn’t.  No one would let me get over so that I could get there.  The funny part was that people had the nerve to scream at me as they drove by.

Sure, I gave them the finger.  Like you would have expected me to do anything else?

I tend to yell at electronics or whenever my memory fails me.  The writing of passwords does me no good, because I can’t find them-even if they’re in a book.  I get incredibly angry at myself for failure to remember, but I really shouldn’t.  I need to remember that it’s head trauma which has caused all of this crap.

What makes me angriest of all is that all of those soldiers who drove over bombs are given sympathy while we who have dealt with this condition throughout our lives are considered to have a bad attitude.

Hey, I didn’t shoot any civilians in Haditha, okay?  I also didn’t drive over a roadside bomb in Fallujah.  So, kiss my unwiped ass.  Anyone who went to that propaganda war made an appointment to get their traumatic brain injury.  You can’t blame a six-month-old for his and you can’t blame someone who had meningitis at six months of age and was hit in the head with pallets.

Hey, you’re damn right I’m going to go there-serves you sons of whores right for telling me to leave this country due to the fact that I proudly protested the Iraq War.

Guess what?  I also could care less about the 22 per day who check out, because I still choose to fight my condition.

Those pussies were never men in the first place.

A “veteran” of Iraq will never hold a torch to someone who fought in World War II or Korea-ever.  That’s because the men who fought in those conflicts carried on after the wars.  They didn’t whine about their problems like Iraq War cowards.  They “soldiered” on because they had families to raise.

That’s what I try to do-but I often fall short-and then, I try again.

To lose my temper over something so trivial as electronics is fucking embarrassing, because the conscious side of me realizes that it’s not the end of the God damned world. However, going step-by-step with the instructions and getting a different result than everyone else is infuriating.

Here’s an important safety tip.  Never say to someone, “It’s the user.”

Do that, and you’ll never eat apples the same way ever again.

You see, people who deal with traumatic brain injuries are known to struggle with their self-esteem.  This is because they have heard a lifetime of insults with regard to how “stupid” they were; how they “just don’t pay attention” or are “in a different world.”

That’s what really makes a returning war criminal from the Iraq War a little girl.

Hence, I kindly ask all of you who “served” in that quagmire and found no weapons of mass distraction, to spare us the crap about how hard it is for you to adjust and how you have trouble coping with the changes in your life, because this is what we have dealt with throughout our entire lives.

Maybe it’s your karma for making fun of us.

Maybe it’s your karma for firing us back when we worked for you before W. told you to answer the call.

Maybe it’s your karma for isolating us because you figured we just wanted to be assholes.

You mean to tell me you can handle bullets whizzing past you, but you can’t handle a little frustration with that jar of mayonnaise ?

You cuck!

 

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