In Waves And War...

 is not the typical Netflixdocumentary(Sometimes I like the silly ones, but I can't say that Ken Burns is shaking in his shoes.) "In Waves and War" grabbed hold of me from the beginning when one of the veterans said at the beginning that he didn't see his own reflection when he looked in the mirror., but rather "a shell that pretends,"

The film follows a group of SEALS who were inspired by a combination of childhood trauma and the events of 9/ll to join and advance in the elite fighting force, but as the missions mounted up, the pressure took its toll and some of their comrades paid with their lives.

The established treatments for post-traumatic stress failed so many of these guys that they became desperate enough to try a treatment described by some as "hippie-dippy" and involving a pair of complementary hallucinogens. 

I'm Disabled, and I Want "abandon"

 

Still flipping through my friend’s book in between reading other things.  I put it down sometimes, even though I still like it, because, frankly, it gives me a pang or two. For the depictions of both long-time partnered love and clubbing craziness, both of which disabled life has kept from me.  (it’s complicated why—partly, it might be my body, partly it’s transportation that rolled up the sidewalks at sevenish(in a metaphorical sense, as far as I know, but again…how would I know?!) during my most amenable, gettable phase.

 Still holding out a tiny flame of hope like John Munch putting the candle in the window for his unsolved case, but it gets harder every year so the glint is not as strong, despite the fact that I know more people than ever.  I know more attached people than ever, more organizers outside my zip code than ever. It’s like a wish on “Fantasy Island”; Be specific 

  This morning, after a fairly  non- debauched upset-stomach night(little too much pre-Halloween sugar, perhaps, but I wasn’t William Blake Jr, climbing inside the bag looking for wisdom. Did that with Oreos once…can’t recommend, and not only because it put me off sandwich cookies for some time) the source of pain was a lot more subtle. 

 He writes that a friend ‘danced with abandon” and it made me picture it and think “Have I done anything with abandon, ever?” Not since I was a little kid on a swing, maybe, if I decide the dumb cookie thing, undertaken when I was old enough to know better, just because I’m usually the type to be, like, “Okay, that’s three.  Maybe I can have another one; it’s Friday night after all.”—even if I should have been able to foresee the results—still kind of shocking, really—doesn’t count at all and made Actual Mom resolutely anti-Oreo. 

 Never talked about it with her afterwards(Sorry for creating crip de-motivational speaking here, single-handedly) but it finally makes sense to me, personally.) I’m not sure that “wow, failed social experiment,” or “How much does my body suck at transcending arbitrary limitations?!” would have been much use in her quest to remove half-digested black crumbs from my sheets afterward. I’m not sure what I wanted to feel or learn, but not that.

We both pretended I lost count, though, as I’ve written, usually don’t.(And maybe that was who I was always supposed to be…probably expressed to my abled self as, maybe, “Oh, yeah, she *looks* hot, but don’t be fooled…she’s a real bull-buster.’ Et cetera.Maybe  I’d never fit the profile for “abandon”, want it though I might(And I do, which feels like the most controversial thing for a disability rights activist to ever say. It seems shallow, but maybe not.)

But maybe it is that:
It makes me uptight not knowing if I’ll fit through the door, or if I’ll afford your event next year.

Having to explain myself, always.(People often think I’m out and about because I’m lost.  Not great for letting one’s guard down!)