[fer-get mee nots]: A forget-me-not is a kind of flower. It is traditionally given to someone so that person will remember you.
The House That God Has Forgotten part 90: Sorry it has been so long.
It has been awhile…8 months to be exact. Not a word, nothing on the radar.
Too be honest I have not had much to say really. I was put on sick leave, came back, got on it again and now have been back to The House God Has Forgotten for awhile now.
Stress they said… I was having 3 to 4 nightmares a night. Mostly about the people or the place: The House That God Has forgotten. Those have stopped (medicine adjustment and magical pills have helped that for the most part).
They put me in therapy. I meet someone once a week to discuss my awful childhood and things like this. Now I find myself having to really come up with stuff to get to keep on seeing them. They now want to cut my visits down to once every two weeks or so. “New patients.” they say.
I don’t feel sad about that I guess…but it is having someone to talk to that is nice. They let me babble about how I feel. I sometimes wish I had the balls to lay it all out here on the line. To say how I feel. To be honest, raw. Perhaps I should do that? I fear the consequences. I always seem to get shit for writing here…no matter what I say.
The whole “loyality” to the workplace gets on my nerves. I show up to work, I do my job, and am social and genrally have a good attitude. That should be as loyal as it comes. When you have conversations: “If I did not know you…I would think you were disloyal because of this blog.” Seem strange to me…
So I try and try to keep myself “held back”…thinking of consequences: everything has it’s price.
If I was honest the days blur into one and another. The same old same old: wake up too early in the morning, run and drive all crazy to get my daughter from school every other week, change my shoes and walk into The House That God Has Forgotten.
It gets old. I am tired of watching elevators go up and down, looking at energy drinks, and the clock wondering when the day will end. Then it does, then I start all over again.
I went to therapy the first day I came back to work. I cried. Anxiety. The thought about going back in…walking into those glass doors, made me feel like the world would end. I knew that it would be the same old routine.
I have stopped reading the wardens monthly letters. I don’t care about notating how long inmates are without contact with another person, or “vardegrunds” tips for the month.
I think those things like how to behave treats us like children. “Play nicely.” “Don’t eat the cat shit in the sandbox.” A group of people actually sit there in a meeting or exchange countless e-mails to remind us how to act like civilised human beings. In a way I find it very condensing.
Hostages get taken. They want Kebab Pizza. All of that trouble for a pizza party. The only thing missing was that they did not ask for party hats and a pinata full of candies.
Play group. That is what everyone does. Babysitting. Listening to people cry, taking them here and there. Then hoping the nice people never come back again, but knowing some will.
And then I think of random things. People getting attacked at the mall for going to grocery store. Some people can’t stay away from jail it seems like. It makes me wonder how I would react to that situation.
Would I be like “What are you doing?” to them…”Hey it’s me. Stop this. It’s not worth it.” Or would I even be the one to physically fight back.
I remember one time…way back when I worked in a convience store (gas station) it was in Texas, so they sell beer there. Two guys come in. Gang members. In the middle of the night. I am all alone. No alarm nothing.
They walk in and grab some beer and run for the door. I slither around the counter and stand in front of the door.
I stand there. “You are not leaving with this beer.”
“Oh come on. Let us take the beer.”
I hear a knock on the glass door.
The searched them and they had knives and drugs on them.
It all got filmed on camera. My bosses showed it to everyone. Real hard core gang members to me that they were from a rival gang in the area.
“No one will ever try to steal from you again.”
I could have been stabbed, killed, you name it. I really did not care so much about myself apparently.
I was the one that used to walk across the street not looking both ways.
I would never do that now that I have my daughter. So, I think this person should be praised. It should never be the point of who was wearing what. I have been harassed walking that tunnel. People calling me “fucking plit” and then bragging that they “sat in another jail”.
I looked forward and was really pissed off. I wanted to say something. I really had a hard time keeping my mouth shut.
So I don’t see the issue of why it turned into what clothes we have on. We should not have to walk around in hiding in our neighbourhood. It shouldn’t have mattered. It should have been more like: “are you ok?” and the information should have been…
“The person is ok.” “The person is not ok.” Put a little human information to the whole thing. I don’t think talking about uniforms is the most important information.
I care about the people I work with. I don’t care that I am too busy that I don’t have the time to change clothes inbetween driving all over town and making it to work and to and from school. So yeah I rock the pants with a hoodie.
Shit. I have this name tag with my first name on it. It’s not hard to find out where I live. No one else has my name in the whole entire country. There could just as well be people sitting infront of my apartment waiting for me.
BUT this person was not met up by someone in front of there apartment. They were met at shopping mall. One that I have seen everyone go to with their uniforms on (Including bosses) so it is not like there is some kind of good influence here.
I wonder if this person is ok. I would love to hear that they are. That they are forced to go to counselling. PTSD is serious.
Sure I have been through my shit. The army as a police officer. The connivence store. I have lived around violence. It is things I do not talk about. I keep it inside. It is things you don’t talk about.
But maybe, no it should be something we talk about. To our colleagues, to a therapist, to our employer.
Every-time there is an attack. When you get terrorised by an inmate verbally, we walk around with it. It is no matter what people say that they don’t take home with you. Of course you think about it! you come home in a bad mood. Or you are shook up.
Then you sometimes fill out a report to monitor statistics. You write something in their notes (that they can ask for) so they can wear it like a badge of courage and show their friends what a “bad ass” they were.
We go around being called “whores” and “Go fuck your mother” and what not by wannabe gangsters. We watch as someone has a fit and destroys there TV and gets a barnd new that was better.
Yet know one talks about it. We become people that do not understand our job. We get lower money in the budget every year because we are invisible. No one cares when they get locked up.
We get silent. We carry shit in our baggage we never talk about. It is like what I have seen in my life. It’s tragic. It’s seeing people at their worst. So I understand.
Of course it seems better now. You have your colleagues to share it with. What happens when you finally walk out of those glass doors of The House That God Has Forgotten? No one at your next life will ever know. It will become one of those things that are filled with secrets.
So I know what the leadership would say: You have access to free visits with a psychologist. (Those are 6 visits by the way. Good luck at fixing your issues then). You have Previa (which is payed for by the department of corrections) My experience with them has been awful.
I used to get sent there once a year to be seen if I was “ok” to work at the jail. I had to meet some nurse about my medicines. Then they wanted to call my doctor to see if I was capable.
I went to the union. They did not give a shit.
I quit the union.
I got to pay the price for being open about my diagnose. So who would want to admit they need help?
It has to be something that everyone should go to. Not where there is some guy that meets up with you colleagues and makes you write things on post-its about how you feel about how the leadership is.
Some people feel comfortable talking in groups. BUT others do not. It is like I always say: “The quiet ones are the ones you have to look out for.”
I know what it looks like to see someone shoot their heads off. I also had to spend the night driving with his wife being not able to tell her he was dead. She sat there crying.
Even though he had molested his 3 and 9 year old.
I have never talked about it in therapy. I don’t talk about it with my wife, my coleagues, my few friends I have.
I have the feeling you don’t talk about what things you have seen. Or what you know about people.
I can’t erase that night for the rest of my life. It will never go away.
And this is the first time I talk about it.
Have more courage that I do. Don’t make it about uniforms.
1 kap. Yttrandefriheten enligt denna grundlag
Syfte och grunder
1 § Var och en är gentemot det allmänna tillförsäkrad rätt enligt denna grundlag att i ljudradio, tv och vissa liknande överföringar, offentliga uppspelningar ur en databas samt filmer, videogram, ljudupptagningar och andra tekniska upptagningar offentligen uttrycka tankar, åsikter och känslor och i övrigt lämna uppgifter i vilket ämne som helst.
Yttrandefriheten enligt denna grundlag har till ändamål att säkra ett fritt meningsutbyte, en fri och allsidig upplysning och ett fritt konstnärligt skapande. I den får inga andra begränsningar göras än de som följer av denna grundlag. Lag (2018:1802).