is kicking my ass. (And juggling the old medication adds to the ass kicking.)
"They" are right: I remember my dreams now. And my dreams are not nearly as violent as they were. I no longer put two hundred bullets through a handgun without changing magazines three feet from my target and he's still functioning, although he's no longer trying to kill me.
I shared that dream with the minders at the VA and they freaked but that's another story.
Now I know that I'm dreaming and the dreams are active, some anxiety-making. (Getting shot at with big stuff for x days in a row apparently has a price.)
Still, I can't complain. The VA are not going to fix me any further (yet another story) but I'm street legal, more or less physically functional, and the pills are free.
So I can't really complain. And compared with some of the patients I see at the Martinsburg hospital, I have no room to. Things are cool.
But good God am I groggy this morning.
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