WEEKLY WTF
11-13-23 Edition
Nature & Shit~ Trauma
Don’t let a trauma shroom pop up
Meat & Bone Tree
Roots are belief,
branches are thought.
All of your worry,
is bullshit you’ve bought.
There is an escape,
through neuroplasticity.
Thoughts coursing through,
just bioelectricity.
Neural branches grow,
reaching for light.
We get so confused,
what’s wrong and what’s right?
Examine your roots,
change your belief.
Grow some new branches,
get some relief.
We get so attached,
to sadness and grief.
Just chill the fuck out,
it’s only a leaf.
We search for happiness,
we stretch and grow.
Bound by our roots,
there’s nowhere to go.
Suffering is C02,
inhale without care.
Breathe and exist,
your job: just make air.
Endure every storm,
if it floods- then wade.
Let leaf absorb light,
offer your shade.
Whether cloud or sun,
endure all the funk.
Feel your own stillness,
inside of your trunk.
Winter will come,
and strip you bare.
You’re something beyond,
not bark that you wear.
A tree without fruit,
is never annoyed.
It grows and it breathes,
reaching into the void.
Spindly or leafy,
short or long.
Every tree is a note,
in a celestial song.
This is not about trees,
hello- it’s about you.
Accept who you are
find one thing that’s true.
Next time you freak out,
you’ll know how to be.
Just breathe and exist,
be a meat and bone tree.
Change Your Mind
It’s about neuroplasticity, give it a whirl!
Go With the FLOW CHART
Wanna watch a mental health video? if YES then knock yourself out. If NO then don’t.
K, Bye.
Happy Fucking Veterans Day
Happy fucking Veterans day, if Veterans day is a thing that is happy for you. For many, it’s definitely fucking not. Normally I’d post a pic of me when I was in the Coast Guard. I don’t actually have a lot of great pics from back then. Somewhere I have one of me holding a big ass 50 caliber gun, bald chin raised high in youthful pride. I have one driving an RHI in Bodega bay in which I look like fucking Matt Damon with a chew in his lip. One standing on a buoy somewhere off the coast of Woods Hole Massachusetts thinking to myself “Yeeeahhh Bouy". I think I still have one of me standing on the stern of our cutter while moored in Gloucester Ma, during what they later dubbed “The Perfect Storm” and made a movie about. We stood there at an angle leaning into the wind in Mustang suits trying to smoke cigars in 70 knot gusts of wind, watching our quadrupled lines stretched so thin to the dock they were humming. I have some pics from what we called the “Zero gravity chamber” which was the forward berthing area of that 110’ Coast Guard Cutter called the “Grand Isle” that was my off and on underway home for 2 years. A number of my zero gravity chamber shots are of my fellow crewmen sleeping in puddles of their own vomit, trust me you don’t want to see that shit. I wish I had a photo of training to be a heavy weather Coxswain of the old, now retired, 44’ Motor Life Boats during what was, at the time, the 3rd worst weather class they had ever had at the National Motor Lifeboat school at Cape Disappointment, Wa. But how to capture a tiny boat at night running the Columbia River bar in 20’ breaking surf, 30’ swells and wind gusts of 100 knots- a force which does kinetic things to a boat I could have never imagined otherwise. No one takes pics when they are just trying to not fucking die. Except that rare breed of reporter perhaps. However, if smartphones were a thing back then, my dumb ass would have probably tried.
The point is, that I didn't want to post a pic of me in the service. Although my 5 years in the Coast Guard was incredibly eventful, full of harrowing tales of dangerous rescues and dicey boardings and several times coming just a C-hair away from dying myself, being a Veteran is about what happens after all that shit is over. A service member doesn’t become a Veteran until the thing has been done and they suddenly find themselves in a world that they are no longer quite appropriate for, having been broken down in boot camp, re-built and fashioned as a tool or a weapon and pointed at or applied to something. A Veteran is someone who brings a mental machine gun to every proverbial fist fight because we were trained to do so. A Veteran is someone who was specifically shaped and mentally modified to fit as a cog into one single and specific point in an incredibly vast machine. When that meat cog wears out or finishes its term, it is removed from the machine and easily replaced by another meat cog. The problem is, what is a meat cog made for war or disaster or emergencies or enforcement to do in a world that does not necessarily need such a skill set or mentality? Feeling like a cog without a machine is fucked.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not service bashing. I did some incredibly crazy and cool shit while I was in. The Coast Guard is so small that pretty much everybody who is in, that’s not assigned to a large cutter, likely gets to do a number of interesting things. I turned 18 in Cape May New Jersey, during boot camp. I earned the third pick of billets and I chose a patrol boat out of Gloucester, Ma. as my duty station. At the time, my poorly educated dumb ass thought Ma. was Maine. I later found out, of course, that it was Massachusetts but I did not give a single shit as my only aim was to get as far away from my hometown of Fresno, Ca. as humanly possible. A place that I surmised would have either eventually killed me, put me in jail or perhaps even worse: had me submit to a mediocre life of have to’s and must do’s simply because I didn’t know any better. Serving in the Coast Guard shattered my life and default notions about how living could be in the best of ways, but there is a fucking cost to such a shattering.
I really can’t, and I don’t, complain about my service. It was a thing I’m glad I did. Desert shield began while I was in boot camp, or perhaps just after. I did not go to the meat grinder of war. I did not see my friends blown up or suffer permanent injuries. But I know those who have. My friend "Ferniculous" is such a person. Both he and I began having panic attacks around the same time. It was pretty clear that his experience in Iraq was directly triggering it but I felt utterly mystified about why it was happening to me. While I do not attribute serving in the military as a cause of what ails me, I now understand it to be a factor that’s involved but just one of many. Ferniculous fought an enemy that looked like him, meat tubes with appendages and faces. “What did I fight?” I would think. I made the mistake of comparison to make less of my own experience, perhaps as a means to not have to deal with or think about it because avoiding and not feeling shit had been my lifelong specialty applied to every situation whether it was appropriate or not. A person drowning because their head is being pushed into a toilet is as equally as fucked as a person drowning the the middle of the sea. I fought my foe, the Sea. I fought myself being violently seasick just about every day for 5 years, enduring the constant vomiting and dizziness and feeling ill but sucking it up and performing my duties and performing them well because there was no fucking way I was going back to FresNO. Imagine a 5 year massive hangover in which you are fully responsible for other people's lives, it was kinda like that. It’s funny though how time has a way of redistributing memories. A while after I got out I burned my uniforms next to the little canvas dome in the woods I lived in without power or plumbing for 2 years. Now I have a single CG jacket I kept with all my patches carefully sewn onto it. I don’t wear it, but I like knowing it’s in my closet. I think, for me, the experience gave me more than it took. It gave me an appreciation for freedom. I’m not talking about freedom in the patriotic sense, I mean personal freedom to do whatever the fuck I want whenever I fucking want to do it so long as it doesn’t cause harm to another. But Freedom is Freedom both macro and micro and it's a damn fine feeling to embrace. Like I said, I turned 18 in boot camp and I did not know what it even was to live as a man free in the world relying only upon himself. I did not know what having choices was like. I had to shave every day and didn’t even know if I could grow a decent fucking mustache or beard or not. The day I got out I decided to find out. I’ve shaved only twice since 1995, why? Because I fucking choose not to, because I can choose not to and it gives me pleasure to exercise that. The service gave me an appreciation to simply not have mother fuckers controlling and deciding every single thing that I do or don't do and I take advantage of this freedom to the fullest extent that I am able simply because- I can.
There is still a big part of my mind, its thinking process, that was forged in the Coast Guard. We were highly and well trained not just to survive extremely dangerous situations but to put ourselves into danger in order to pull someone else out of it. You can’t fuck around if that’s your job. You have to incorporate surviving danger into your mental muscle memory and you have to normalize it. You have to create a positive relationship with adrenaline, you have to always switch to fight, never flight. I think that’s something all services share in common. If you do a drug too long you build receptors on your cells and those hungry little mouths are always crying for more. Adrenaline is like a drug produced by the adrenal glands that sit on top of our kidneys. I believe we can become essentially “addicted” to our own adrenaline. It becomes very confusing though, when we get out and no longer get our “fix”. A fix we often don’t even know we are craving. I think many Veterans go through a withdrawal of sorts. A withdrawal not just of hormones but of purpose and meaning. When those 3 things disappear all at once, it can be devastating. 22 Veterans end their devastation every day, that’s how bad it is.
Everyone is different, every situation is unique, and I do not propose to have all the reasons why Veterans are having, and frankly have always, suffered so greatly. There are many layers to this thing and I can and will only speak from my own experience and observation. If you are a Veteran, and I mean a Veteran of fucking anything: of war or service, of a violent childhood, of domestic abuse, of trauma, of a job in EMS, whatever the fuck, if you are reading this and are in the shit right now at least know that you’re not alone and what you are feeling is very normal. It’s fucked and it’s hard, but normal.
PTSD was not a term until 1980, but the condition is much older. Mentions of this condition can be found as far back as ancient Greece. In the 5th Century Herodotus mentions it in regard to the battle of Marathon. Hippocrates documented it. It has been a thing for a very long fucking time. It’s been documented during the Hundred Year war fought between England and France (1337 to 1453). Shakespeare alludes to it in various plays. In the 1800’s it was merely termed “battle exhaustion” or “soldiers fatigue” also sometimes called the “thousand yard stare”. These were terms used to downplay it as simple exhaustion, which is bullshit of course. PTSD is not limited to soldiers though. In the late 19th century the term “railway spine” was coined in reference to people who had witnessed horrific railroad accidents which apparently were a common thing while we tried to figure our transportation and technology shit out. Next was “shell shocked” and you get the idea. In 1974 “Rape Trauma Syndrome” came about from the effects of being raped. I’m not trying to give a history lesson here, the point is THAT YOU ARE NOT ALONE. I think we have a long way to go as far as figuring it the fuck out but awareness is key and can keep us buoyant enough to not sink into to despair and shame.
This picture that I submit here is of me down near the Southern tip of Baja, up a canyon near a little town called Agua Caliente. I was hanging out with an old man who called himself “David the Duckhunter” and in this pic I am well above sea level thanks to some lysergic acid diethylamide that had been suspended in seaweed and encapsulated in a little black pill shaped bubble sprinkled with gold. A gift from an American surfer I met at the, then barren- now hotel laden, beach near El Pescadero. I vaguely remember David the Duck Hunter and I agreeing that someday we would both write about this pristine and weird moment deep in the Mexican desert. I have finally fulfilled that long forgotten, forgotten until just now that is, promise.
I drove a cab at night in Santa Rosa Ca. for 9 months after I got out of the Coast Guard, saved a bit of money then sold or gave away almost all of my belongings and traveled down to Baja with some friends in their old slow ass hippy bus with plants and shit growing out of holes in the dashboard and began my actual life. A life that started in the desert but was always within proximity of the sea which in retrospect is apropos. The smell of salt or low tide or the distant crashing of waves overwriting the same triggering smells and sounds hitherto associated with stress and urgency and action. The “me” sitting in this photo had no fucking idea yet how many knots I had that needed untying, from early childhood on. Partially because I was hiiiigh af in said photo, but also because in general I was a master of suppression. Young 4th grade me developed a strategy of not feeling shit in order to deal with death issues and violence and fear in my early life. The military helped bolster and reinforce that very unsophisticated strategy. The Coast Guard motto is: “Semper Paratus”- Always Ready. The unofficial motto is : You have to go out, but you don’t have to come back. They meant it too and “we” became the “them” that meant it as we adopted it wholeheartedly and when the time came, no matter fucking what, we always went out. We were always fucking ready. When we should have been relaxing or unwinding during down time we weren't. Wheels were constantly spinning awaiting the Search and Rescue alarm to go off. Or walking around somewhere waiting for that dreaded recall beeper to sound off its terrible cry. And on off days? Well our engines were revved up way too high and the only way to govern them down was with mass quantities of booze. But out here, dry soaking in the background of this photo- the unseen silent desert, with no plan to return to the U.S. my only thought being when to start soaking the beans or walking to the nearest town down long desert roads to buy a jar of honey, some eggs and to stock up on 40 ounce Tecates, I began to learn to pull the throttle back and just live life on my own terms for the first time. I was very fortunate I had this experience when I did. In my childhood my mind was always partially occupied with not getting shot. In the Coast Guard it raced and prepared and gobbled its adrenaline when it came like a man dying of thirst. I was lucky this was where I landed for a time but only in part. The bigger part was choice, I chose to leave it all and leave everyone in order to figure it the fuck out.
Anything we go through is partially governed by circumstance but is in part also what we make of it. It may not always feel like choice is part of the equation but that’s because the military makes all your choices for you and that faculty can atrophy. This old photo was taken at a time of almost mythical demarcation for me. The beginning of the Fools journey, stepping off the cliff into the unknown like a dumbass not yet knowing how hard the tumble would be and yet somehow sensing that it was worth reaching the bottom of that temporal chasm at all costs. I was breaking away from the old and familiar and forging my way into an exciting unknown. Wayfaring without a destination or a purpose other than to live and see life through a wrinkly pink meat computer and take in the data of the senses for the sake of a silent observer, the actual Rear Admiral within, experiential awareness. I suspect most of us are fixated on having to have a meaning or purpose or maintain a sense of value. These can be key factors to happiness but as is the case with all things in the universe they are temporary. Everything upon which we lean will eventually shift and suddenly we are back at the fucking beginning again. This picture represents a time when I first discovered that one can simply live a life and experience whatever showed up in the moment. What an exhilaration this was, a grand epiphany but a hard earned one because it required not just breaking through intense training and harrowing experience but also millions of years of evolution and social pressures and etfuckingcetera- you get the idea.
I guess what I am trying to say, in my long winded way, is that no matter what, no matter how bad it was or is, you can get through it and you’re not alone. There was a time when I did not want to exist. A pain that was physical, mental and emotional consumed me. Every day was an experience of dying in the form of a massive panic attack that I hid and contained. It felt absolutely impossible that I would ever break free and if I’m being honest, sometimes it is impossible to find the strength or motivation within to escape the sea of suffering due to our own sense of worth and self esteem. I’ve thrown many a lifeline in the Coast Guard and pulled out or towed many a motherfucker to safety and yet there I was drowning in an ocean of my own misery that I could not escape, sadly not for me or my family and the shame that accompanies that helplessness is terrible in and of itself. I needed a lifeline, and no one was there to throw me one. Then at my worst, above all else, suddenly trumping my own misery and self-pity arose an incredible outrage. I became so fucking pissed off that this particular degree of suffering should ever be a thing that anyone has to go through. It was an affront to existence itself and in that moment of rock bottom of feeling alone and drowning it occurred to me that if I could somehow manage to un-fuck myself then with that knowledge- if I could just help one single person to not have to go through this, then it would all be worth it. An imagined person I’ll never meet in the future threw me a lifeline which I used to pull myself out so that I could help prevent them from drowning and, well, here we are. Life is full of fucking surprises, surprises that only require not giving up in order to experience them.
We have to find a lifeline outside of ourselves if we can’t find one inside. Then it’s a matter of deciding that we’re going to unf*ck ourself no matter what and our life becomes relentlessly aimed towards healing, RELENTLESSLY aimed. Relentless determination means no rock is unturned, no method ignored, no thought avoided. It means every fucking breathe is devoted to it, I mean literally, close your mouth and start concentrating on every fucking breath being drawn in and out only through your nose, start there. Every breath you’re aware of is devoted to getting better. Everywhere your eye goes- it’s looking for something that helps or heals. I mean read shit, google health solutions (for fucks sake don’t google symptoms) Being relentless with this shit means every step is towards this goal. Like literally go for walks and get exercise it helps brain chemistry. It’s not easy, it's the second hardest thing you’ll ever do but the first hardest thing is marinating in the sea of suffering.
You have to look for and find your lifeline, then decide, then do. I promise you can do it. You aren’t your thoughts or your brain chemicals. This whole being present thing isn’t really a thing you do, it’s not through effort that we’re present. It’s just what happens when we unfetter ourselves. Presence is who we are. Try to remember what you actually are behind the training or trauma so that you can run the thoughts and emotions and not be run by them. Hello, you are the fucking Admiral or General, it’s your life don’t be a Grunt or a Seaman apprentice. The problems compound when we totally identify with our thoughts and emotions. It’s not about disengaging though; it’s about embracing but from the right vantage point. See them for what they are. It gets better when we don’t view and judge life looking through the shitty lens of our past memories. Don’t try to be happy, happy comes and goes, just try to heal, grow and unfold, that’s the way. Nature doesn't try to be happy or run from sad, it just unfolds. What’s better than happy is overcoming suffering and feeling what “normal” is supposed to feel like. An appreciation for normality after a long suffering is even better than happiness. Also and finally, for fucks sake ask for help. Seek it out and accept it. No one can fix you, you’re not broken this shit that we all go through to some degree, or another, is absolutely fucking normal. It’s about healing using your own cognizant mental immune system. It’s about distilling our experiences into something that actually means something that’s bigger than ourselves. It's about making it worth it. Or it’s about embracing the miracle that you exist, even when thoughts and emotions run contrary. We’ve endured thus far and we have won every battle, I know you have because your ass is still here so, don't be a dumbass and make permanent bad decisions based on temporary misunderstood and perfectly natural physiological and emotional responses to the shit you’ve been through. Your mission: figure it the fuck out.
Happy fucking Veterans day, Toodaloo
Talkin’ Shit~ Steve Hassna
Vietnam Vet, tunnel rat, paratrooper, point man, drill instructor & certified BADASS: Steve Hassna
Alrighty, well… have the week you want not the week you’re given. It’s up to you. You’re the one livin’.
Toodaloo
