My Phobia Of Dentists Could Rip Your Jaw off and Beat It With a Stick

They finally got me. I’d been avoiding going to the dentist. The military has it set up that avoiders like me can only avoid for so long. And so something pinged on the higher-ups radar and I had to make an appointment. Dental Exam and Cleaning. *Shudder*


Last night, before the appointment, I had trouble sleeping. My stomach was in knots and I kept having the poop butterflies like I do when I have to speak in front of people. I kept waking up every 15 minutes or so, trying to figure out how much time I had before the dreaded appointment. By the time I got up and left the house, I had to turn around because I’d forgotten my military ID. And my sanity. My hands were shaking. I could barely talk when I finally got to the front and checked in. My jaw (and already irritated gums) was aching from clenching my jaw all night and morning. And then… I finally sit down with the nurse.

“I got to tell you something before you start.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“If you plan to even touch my mouth without knocking me out, you are going to have to tie me down.”


You see, I never liked the dentist before – who does? They are torture experts. Everything in their office is straight out of a horror movie, or a POW camp. But I used to be able to deal with it, until my last deployment.


See, I’d held onto my wisdom teeth for a while. The military usually likes to yank those bad boys out as soon as you join. But mine weren’t above the gums, or bothered me at all. Until a couple of years ago. And so, before deployment, I was in the doctor’s office. With an abscess in my gums but 2 wisdom teeth (and a tooth beside them) needed to be pulled right away. The doctor there said he didn’t have time to put me under because some blah-blah-bullspit about needing some months after surgery to check up on me. So he was going to just shoot me full of novacane… or lidocaine (one of those cane numbing medicines) and take out the teeth.


Have I mentioned that I have a super high tolerance for pain meds… and with already having a medical condition that creates abscesses throughout my body – I know that with an abscess you CANNOT numb the whole area. On top of that, my gums are usually so sensitive that they numb me up for regular cleanings.


He numbed me, and started. I stopped him. “Ah cun stew fweel evweyding.!” So he numbs some more. “Ah CUN STEWL FWEEL!!!” And he numbs some more. “OWWWWWWWW.” And he says


“You’ll just have to deal with it.”




There is nothing in the pain I’ve felt in the past that could compare to that time in the dentist chair. Feeling EVERYTHING as he used his saw, drill, and whatever else he had to remove those teeth. The feeling of the tooth being cracked and scraped and ripped from my jaw, the sounds, the pressure, the pain as I fought to stay still as my whole body was lifted over and over as he struggled to pull out those teeth.


Tears ran freely down my face. I felt HELL, and hell was a dentist’s chair.


Imagine being able to feel that crap. All of it.


I tried to find a happy place. I tried to tell myself that anything hurt more: childbirth or something. That the pain was all in my head. All the while this bastard has not tried to have any finesse and treats me like a dead animal that can’t feel.


Can you understand why I would avoid the dental demon doctor? It took me about 2 weeks to recover from that. And now they have the other 2 wisdom teeth that need to be pulled. Today, just during my exam my pulse was over 120 (which apparently is not good. They took it a second time and it was 117. Better? Who the frack knows, I’m not a doctor).

Luckily, this is not the same military base of pain that was the one that tried to torture me. These people today LISTENED. They gave me MEDICINE. They gave me PAIN stuffs so that hopefully I can get this infection down before they start the cutting, and sawing, and demolishment on my mouth.


I swear though… if they don’t stop when I have pain and try something else, I will fully give over to a psychotic break.


Relationship Stupidity Disease… Do We Have a Drug For That?


I’ve been enjoying my new relationship. And being a completely disgusting loveydovey couple with the Luke Wilson look-a-like. But when moving forward, sometimes you have to look back at your past just a bit…


Relationship stupidity should be an actual disease. I mean, if we’ve gotten to the point in America to call obesity a disease, why can’t we do it for those that let themselves become verbally, mentally, and physically abused all for the sake of a relationship? I may be on the right track now with much soul-searching, self-improvement, and self-study, but I WAS an absolute mess… with no clue how to get out. Some call that growing up. I call it the Evil Ex fiance and the nightmare years.


The other day I was going through boxes of stuff in my guest bedroom… things I hadn’t opened in many years. I came across a letter about 10 years old. I remember that back then I liked to write things out before discussing them (you know, before you could write out and rewrite a text message before pressing SEND).

This is not my hand. For one it is not chocolatey. And… my fingernails and polish are so much more awesomer 😛


The conversation that I needed to have with the Evil Ex shows just how naive, mentally abused, and under his control I was.


Here in all it’s cringeworthy glory:


“Evil Ex,

I have no clue as to why you are upset with me. Why you decided that you couldn’t even sleep in the same bed with me. What did I do last night to piss you off? I was a little drunk, but I don’t remember saying or doing anything. All I was trying to do is what you wanted. You’ve kept saying that you wished I would drink because I’m more fun when I’m drunk. But still it seems I did something wrong. Every time I try to do what you want, I do it wrong by your standards, or you change your mind about what you wanted. I am constantly trying to live up to your expectations, your ideals, but I keep coming up short. And then you can’t talk to me, look at me, because I’ve hurt or pissed you off in some way. But when you hurt me, somehow I always end up comforting you because you feel bad. If I mess up, you close yourself off from me like I make you sick.

Is this how it’s going to be? Someone constantly telling me I’m not good enough… oh excuse me, not being the best YOU know I can be> Tell me this: do you ever comfort me when I’m hurt? Or do you just turn it around and say that you’re hurting more than me. You want control. To dominate someone. I just want to love and be loved. Can’t we see eye to eye on anything? Can’t you just love me?”


*gagging sounds*


There are days I want to go back and slap myself into an alternate reality. And other days all I can do is thank the heavens at how far I’ve come. But the mental/emotional abuse I received from the so-called man who would make me write such a childish crazy letter… well, this letter was just a drop in the bucket of crazy, and not my fun natural crazy. He preyed on my insecurities, my youth (Evil Ex was old enough to be my father), my introverted-ness, my want of a relationship, companionship. He used my secrets against me instead of holding them as a gift that I shared with him. He took my issues with women from a childhood molestation and tried to live out his fantasies and fetishes as a way for me to “let go of the past”. He took my beliefs, ideas, and personal studies on submissiveness and what it meant to me, and twisted it into having complete control over what I wore, who I talked to, the decisions I made, my life. And he took my ongoing depression and exploited me and my feelings and my sanity until my family didn’t recognize me.


Do I blame him for everything? No, I actively pursued him and ignored all the warning signs. I was still learning what a real relationship should be like and thought he would work because he wasn’t the “type” I had in the past. But those rose-tinted glasses of like/love/lust had me to the point of cutting myself to escape the pain of dealing with a twisted relationship. And I couldn’t figure out how to get out. I couldn’t just break up with him, he’d sit in my parking lot, constantly calling until I talked to him… and accepted him back. Somehow that behavior made me believe he truly loved me. Until the cycle of “you must do what I say to make me happy” began again.


So…. I ran. I had a job related offer/excuse and I took it and ran. I knew that if I stayed in the same vicinity I might let weakness and loneliness keep those rose-tinted glasses on my visage of what was really real.


Now, I use my experience to talk to friends/ acquaintances that may be headed for, or have experienced the same thing if I can. And I’ve been pretty good at running the other way from any men that give me the vibe of the Evil Ex. I dodged a bullet in more ways than one. No lasting damage really… except the scars to my soul. But hey, you haven’t really lived until you have battle scars to prove what you’ve survived.


I threw the letter away. I don’t need it to remember where I will never let myself go again.


Screw You Guys, I Quit!… Crap, the Military Doesn’t Work That Way

Whine mode is engaged. I repeat, warning, whine mode is engaged.

In case you’ve been living under a rock, or smoking rocks, everyone affiliated with the government has been having a pretty rough time of it. Even little old dimensionthe5th. And it feels like the last straw when it comes to my military service.

I want out.

But… you see, like The Godfather, it isn’t that easy. After 10 years had passed, I signed my life away 10 more. And I’m over 5 years away from that. There is the 15 year retirement option, but that’s only open to select people. So far, I’m not one of them.

But I just can’t deal with the bullspit anymore. Or I can, but I think it may send me back to mental health, pffft.

See, there’s the government that’s been playing around with our money and livelihood for the past few year. I’m tired of every year having to wait on pins and needles to see if this “We can’t run the government so we’re going to make YOU, every last service member and DoD Civilian, deal with it.” I can’t stand politics, and I don’t care if you are a republican, democrat, or independent. When it all boils down to it, I signed my life away. Agreed? But at the same time, I signed my life away with the expectation that I have a pay check that cannot be fracked with.

I’m tired. One of the reasons I joined the military was to travel the world and not get stuck like so many family members in Nowheresville, USA. I was a military brat, and used to moving around. But… I’m tired. I still want to travel, but I want to hop on a flight, be gone a few days at the most, and come the frack back home. I love the area I moved to. It happens to be the same place I said I would always retire. But with so many years in the military left, they’ll probably move me again. I don’t wanna! I seriously don’t want to. They’ll probably send me overseas again. And my monster teen probably will have to switch high schools in his senior year.

What’s the other bee in my stylish bonnet? Office politics. You say, DT5, office politics are everywhere. And I will tell you from having worked civilian jobs before joining the military, from hearing stories from others, military/government office politics is another animal. Maybe it’s no worse, but I am frustrated with it. Just today, having a conversation with my supervisor, I was told that he tried to put my name up for a course, but his supervisor, without looking at what I’ve accomplished, what positions I’ve held in the past, just automatically dismissed the idea because I didn’t have the right rank.

Rank gets you a lot in the military. You can barely know how to tie your shoes on a good day, but if you kissed the right butt, had someone write your evaluations, plumping everything you really didn’t do, you will get promoted. And… you will get this big *ss award at your end of tour. Now, this doesn’t matter if you have less time and experience than Joe Blow standing right beside you. If you outrank Blow, Blow pretty much blows you.

My body is tired. My health is just slowly losing the battle with the military. If I have no choice and DO make it to 20 years, my body is going to be a complete mess. The back problems that refuse to go away, that I work through each day so I can continue to work out. My medical condition, Hidradenitis Suppurativa, that is definitely NOT the kind of disease you want for a military job. Disease is aggravated by heat and stress? Oh yeah, let’s go run around in the desert with a whole bunch of gear and weapons!!! There’s my knees which I know one day is just going to finally give out on me just like my feet did long ago, and then I’ll have 2 permanent profiles stating what I can’t do for physical training. Maybe then they’ll want to kick me out. As long as I get some partial retirement or medical or something.

I probably sound whiny. I feel whiny. I feel extremely whiny after being completely sick but continuing to work because our civilians were stuck at home twiddling their thumbs in frustration. I feel whiny whenever I have to see another email about being a service member and that SOME people who are never named are not living up to their military values. I’m tired of doing my job everyday, and taking other jobs on because I love to work, to be told “Well, all that’s good, but you need to take more college courses to stand out.” I have fun, but I’m tired of rolling around in the dirt unless for some godforsaken reason I WANT to roll around in the dirt. I’m tired of having no control over where I will be sent in 2-3 years. And the thing that sticks in my throat so badly is that… I chose this. And for over 10 years no matter what I’ve accepted my choice and stood by it.

Maybe I just need a glass of wine.

Attack of the E-Ciggies; Fighting the Addictions

This is a long one….

(That’s what she said. Thank you inner 14-year-old boy. Now shut up.)


Recently, I’ve switched from my regular Newports to e-cigarrettes. Not those retarded meth/science experiment contraptions, but one of the brands that look like an actual cigarette. I have this awesome feeling that with this, I may be able to break away from the last addiction that’s held me for years.

See, I have an addictive personality combated by a stubborn one. And small addictions that may not have killed me, did give me have a hard time being who I really wanted to be in life.

I refuse to cosplay her, because this is one of my girl crushes… I just can’t do her any justice.

What do you do when you have a heavy smoking/ heavy drinking father, who of course is your role model of cool? It’s not like your mom is someone who you look up to early on, since she’s treated more like a Maid, housekeeper than your father’s wife, and your mother (and you assume what your father tells her is the word of God – that she’s not very smart and less than you).

I remember making a huge class project on the dangers of smoking, and my father smoking and laughing as I practiced my presentation for him. I remember plenty of times that he drove with way too many under his belt. The best times were during the day, him and I in the car, and having to take the wheel when he needed to juggle both cigarette and beer. And of course this was during the time when little kids rode in the front seat with no seat belt. Was I scared? Of course not. Eighties babies aren’t coddled punks like the children of today, pffft.

But with that beautiful example, along with catching my father and his friends snorting suspicious white powder, I couldn’t help but to think that this might be okay. I learned early on that just because you see dear old dad sniffing white powder, you should not try to emulate by sniffing baby powder up your nose when playing by yourself. That mess burns like the dickens! I learned just because ammo was left all around the house, you should not put vaseline on them and pretend they are lipstick while playing. Not because it did anything to me, but that’s just weird.

I also learned to ignore what the schools had taught me about smoking and drinking. Hey, my dad smoked like a chimney, and still had nice bright white teeth, and no cancer. Hmmm. So I picked up my first cigarette at 13. My dad left singles all over the house and would never miss it. I was home alone one weekend. I smoked a cigarette and got dizzy. Ooooh, I got a buzz. So of course, I wanted another. And another. I branched out when I could get black n milds. And then of course, the ghetto cousins came along with marijuana. Luckily for me (or unlucky) I could not deal with the high, and stopped doing it. When your friends are turning into demons and jumping out windows a room away, and cows nod their heads to music that is only in your head, well, yeah, you shouldn’t be smoking that ish.

But alcohol was easy, too easy. By 14 I could also pilfer my dad’s alcohol without him noticing. When my parents separated, and I lived with only my father, he was never home and I had an apartment to myself. And I would drink every morning before heading to school. And later… I would have nights like this:

Age 17, New Years Eve. Went out to the club with my cousin. Hadn’t ate all day except for a snack bag of Fritos. Started drinking wine and wine coolers by about 5pm. From there get to the club using a fake ID and drinking many (lost count) long island iced teas. Got so drunk that apparently my cousin dragged me away from the dance floor because I was surrounded by 3 or 4 guys and one has his hand up under my dress. Put on a bar stool at the bar. Too drunk to sit and fall on my face off the bar stool. Given warning by guard, puke right there by the bar. Dragged out by security and put by the door while I wait for my cousin to get her mom’s car. Puke again. Kicked completely out into the December weather in nothing but a skimpy dress. Cousin gets me in the car. On the way home think I’ve rolled down the window, but just puke some MORE all over the inside of the window and door of my aunts car. Dragged myself into my mother’s house to be told that I was just like my father.

But, that’s just teenage shenanigans. It didn’t get bad until I joined the military some years later.

The military lends itself to an alcoholic mentality, especially to the weak-willed. To those already dealing with self-esteem issues, with depression like I’ve dealt with since 13. And you’re sent out overseas away from all support that you used to have. I’m not blaming the military. I’m blaming my own personal weakness. Depression of being away from my toddler son, the responsibilities that I had, the world I knew, felt like it could easily be filled with alcohol and sex. It wasn’t teenage shenanigans anymore. It was waking up and having a drink before morning physical training formation. Coming back afterwards and drinking before starting the actual workday. Drinking during lunch, and heading out to a local bar after work. And rinse and repeat. I lost a lot of weight because I was probably on a 75 percent liquid diet. Who knows if it was more or less, I suck at math.

My best friend, who is known as Florida in these posts, went to our command to help me get help. And to people I tell the story to, it worked. For the depression anyway. For a couple of months anyway.

The alcohol phase for me didn’t really end until about 2 years later. When you black out and wake up in what you thought was a guy friend’s room, when that friend (that yes, was a friend’s w/ benefits guy) takes advantage of the fact that you’ve had way too many shots of 151. When you wake up and places hurt that shouldn’t because of things you hadn’t allowed when sober, you know you’ve reached a horizon.

After that, I did have one last long slip up with the horrible evil ex fiance whose name is never said in my presence. But I finally learned while breaking free of him that I was using alcohol as a crutch. I had to learn how to be myself without it.

But I never really gave up my cigs. For 2 years I tried, having crazier than normal dreams from Wellbutrin, chewing my way through a box of toothpicks satisfy my oral fixation. Heck, I was trying to abstain from sex at the same time too. It’s a wonder I didn’t lose my daggone mind.

But I went back right along. And years passed without me even thinking about trying. Even when my doctors tried to guilt trip me with my upped chances of cancer from my medical condition. Even as I got bronchial asthmatic more in the winter. I was stubborn… Screw it I’m going to die, dangit, I’m going to die doing whatever the frack I want to do.

If someone asked me today why I switched to the e-cigs, I have a whole bunch of canned answers. But honestly I got tired of being ashamed when someone sees me smoking for the first time and says “I didn’t know, you don’t look like a person who smokes.” I’m tired of being ashamed that I feel bad if I have to be close to a nonsmoker and they have to smell my leftover smoke funk. Or trying to spray and spritz the smell from my clothes and mouth before a date, or close talking. I’m not judging anyone for smoking, heck, I haven’t quit, I just switched a cleaner method.

But I tell you one daggone thing. I feel so much better about myself.

Tales of Growing Up: The Wacky Tobacky Trials and Why I Can Never Smoke Even When Legal

Once upon a time I was a teenager. And like all teenagers I wanted to show I was bad, tough, all the retardedness of being a teen. So at 13 I started smoking cigarettes. Less than a year later my cousin was offering me marijuana while I stayed the summer in the hood.

Since I was in full on rebellion stage, I was super terrified, but willing to do stupid things. So we walked the hood to meet up with a friend who sold weed. As far as I remember, my tryout was free. And the guy was cute (my eyes were really bad then, or time has not been kind to the hood’s local weedman). And I wanted to impress my cousin. Exact opposite happens.

Right in some random neighborhood weeddude lights up. I’m as jittery as a guy about to see his first boobs at a strip club. We’re doing this in public?! Out on the street?! Where anyone could see us?! Egads!

I am not nerdy enough, nor was I that nerdy then to say Egads!

Embellishment. Ahem. To continue…

Egads! I cried in my head, as the weeddude to a puff puff and passed to my cousin. And she puffed and puffed and Wow she has great lung control.

And then its my turn. I’m sweating like a hooker in church, and its laughable but I’m actually praying right then and there that inhaling this mess doesn’t randomly kill me or make me crazy for LIFE.

I inhale. And try to hold it in as I was told to do, but this crap burns like tear gas that I’m less than 10 years away from experiencing when I join the military. Instead of exhaling all smoothly I hack it all out, and Oh My Sweet Baby Jesus lying in the manger with swaddling clothes this mess burns like the fires of Hell!!!

I swear I turned into a cartoon at that moment because I felt the burn and fire pouring from my ears! And while weeddude and the cuz are roaring laughter I feel my ear drums dying and my throat crying. I call to my cousin to ask the obvious. “It burns cuz! Why does it burn?!” Which sends her into another roll of laugh at my newbie pain.

I barely get a buzz that time, and of course, I have to redeem myself. Weeks later, back visiting, I try again, this time at weeddude’s house. I’ve learned my lesson and fight my throat not to cough. And I get totally weird and wrong. The first thing that starts to bother me is that my eyesight and started to go in and out of focus like a drunk video camera. The second is that I’m in one room sitting, but feel like I’m about to tip over and fall out the window… in the next room. And third, my natural paranoia went to “Warning Will Robinson” levels and I was sure everyone could read my thoughts and that the police were on their way from reading my thoughts.

Not to mention, weeddude’s eyes turned into demon eyes.

This. This is what I saw.

And it wasn’t just the one time. Each time I tried, things got weirder and weirder until I had to stop myself and ask “Is this really fun, or giving you nightmares and destroying your mental stability more than your normal crazy?” When cows begin to nod their head to the music that is only playing in your head. When green buildings begin to look like Emerald City, when you start to not know the difference between reality and what the drug is telling you is real… Well, you’ve entered the real life version of the movie “A Scanner Darkly” or you just have a bad reaction to the wacky tobacky.

I stopped. And learned later through my mother that my father had the same reactions. That he lost a whole weekend not knowing who he was and just wandered, making snow angels where there was no snow.

I believe marijuana should be legalized. I know many people with my medical condition (hidradenitus suppurative, see my previous post: that are so severe pain that it’s all they can take. But for me, oh no. No thank you. Give me some percocet or something NORMAL for me.

My Couch is My Boyfriend… Oh God, Either I’m Becoming Really Weird or Pathetic

So, when I come home after work, I throw my bag down and instead of getting out of uniform, I run right to my couch. Of course, that’s where my laptop is and yes, I may have a small internet addiction, but that’s not it. On weekends, Fridays where I don’t go out. I fall asleep on my couch. The Monster Teen has learned not to try to make me go to my room. He just turns off all the lights. I have a pillow and blanket there.

My couch is my inanimate boyfriend. I name him forever more… Hector.

This is not Hector. Hector is more handsome in a solid sage green. And he’s bigger. Bigger is better when it comes to my sofa Hector.

Hector is there for me. We sit comfortably together. He doesn’t tell me I’m fat (even though I’ve lost over 25 pounds in the past 2 months, go me!). Hector doesn’t care if I decide to hang with him in PJs, unbrushed teeth, and my hair a mess with no makeup. Hector is the PERFECT inanimate boyfriend.

He’s not like my bed. Cold and empty because my picky butt still hasn’t found someone I’m willing to share it with, no matter how many online dating sites I join.

Oh god, its depressingly hilarious that I have a closer relationship with a frackin couch than any man right now.

For that reason, I’m going out on a date today with someone who while attractive, may be just trying to see the dimensionthe5th knickers color. But, as much as Hector means to me, this relationship is bad for my mental health!



Its Not The Way I Want It – Awkward Fracktardery

My life, that is.

This is about to be an extremely short and whiny rant.

I stop, or argue with my family and friends, because you know, by now I should be married right? At least once? And screw me saying that I want to do it once and right, even though that’s the truth. It’s kinda now “Have another baby, or get married, or do something dang-it!”

Because my life has turned into: work, Monster Teen quality time, church, internet surfing, rinse and repeat. My phobias of crowds and talking to people outside of work has gotten worse. I don’t know how to interact, without sounding like an awkward fracktard. What do you do in this situation? Because I seriously feel like I’m turning into my mother. After my parents separated, she had one doomed to fail relationship. It went so badly that she didn’t date for over 10 years. She swamped herself in work, family, and church.

And here I am, following along the same water slide without a way to stop the speed. It’s not like it’s all about relationships. I even have trouble making friends outside the office and internets. I want to do more, but I have no one to do it with. All my friends are married or in serious relationships. I’ve surrounded myself with what I want, but still cannot get it.

How do I reach in and pick myself out of a slump like this? I feel like I’m sinking.