Poem: "Ways to Make the Pain Go Away"
May. 6th, 2021 01:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysabetwordsmithThis poem is spillover from the December 1, 2020 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by prompts from chanter1944 and Anonymous. It also fills the "Peppermint" square in my 12-1-20 card for the Winter Fest Bingo fest. This poem has been sponsored by fuzzyred and hangingbyastitch in honor of the National Day of Awareness for Missing and Murdered Native Women and Girls. It belongs to the Iron Horses thread of the Polychrome Heroics series. For the introduction of the main characters, begin with "Whatever You Do to the Animals," "Reaching Out to Rescue One Another," and "To Prevent Future Tragedies." This poem is the first in a set of four, followed by "Quicker Than You Can Lower Them," "A Crazy and Drunk Life," and "Repair Just About Anything."
Warning: This poem contains intense and controversial topics. Highlight to read the warnings, some of which are spoilers. This is hardcore hurt/comfort. It includes rude language, PTSD, insomnia, brain fog, mood issues, a blown tire, flashbacks, problem drinking, self-medication with alcohol, reference to a drug overdose, drunk driving, nausea and vomiting, awkward caregiving intimacies, and other challenges. If these are sensitive issues for you, please consider your tastes and headspace before reading onward.
"Ways to Make the Pain Go Away"
[Friday, October 2, 2015]
Warshirt was having a shitty day.
He hadn't slept well the night before,
and gave up around dawn to go
split some firewood outside.
Not even coffee could do much
to cut the fog inside his head.
Spotted Deer didn't seem
concerned, but she also didn't
deserve to have him carping at her
just because he was in a bad mood.
Warshirt did his best to avoid her
without making it look like he was.
Then when he headed in to
Browning after lunch, his truck
ran over something that blew a tire.
The loud noise sounded like a bomb,
and the jolt felt like driving over an IED.
Suddenly he was back in Afghanistan,
trying to get the hell out of the open
before the enemy blew him to bits.
When Warshirt came back to himself,
he realized that he'd have to stop
and change the tire if he wanted
to avoid wrecking the whole wheel.
Crouching beside the road in
the wide-open space chewed on
what little was left of his nerves.
Finally he got the tire changed
and made his way into town.
When Warshirt saw the sign
for Ick's bar, he couldn't resist.
Inside, he found a couple of his friends.
Allan After Buffalo was an older veteran
who ran a cattle ranch west of town
and also did a lot of big game hunting.
Tristan Bear Hill was a more recent one,
discharged for PTSD and unable
to hold any kind of job after that.
"What happened, brother?"
Tristan said, staring at Warshirt.
"Couldn't sleep for shit last night,
and then a tire blew out on my truck,"
Warshirt said. "Now my stupid brain
won't leave me alone for five minutes."
Allan promptly handed him a beer.
"Here, drink up, it'll make you feel better --
or at least, it'll make you feel less."
Feeling less would definitely
be better than what Warshirt felt
now, emotions still sloshing inside.
He chugged half of the beer and
immediately felt some relief.
Then Warshirt noticed Tristan
was gazing into his whiskey
as if searching for answers.
"What's up?" Warshirt said.
"My brother overdosed last night,"
said Tristan. "They got him to
the hospital in time, but he's
still not in very good shape."
"That's awful," said Warshirt.
"Was he in the army too? I don't
remember you mentioning it."
Tristan shook his head. "No,
Kevin just has other issues.
His girlfriend dumped him."
"I'm sorry to hear that,"
Warshirt said. "I thought
he was doing okay, since
he's not in here with us."
"There are all kinds of addicts,
I guess," said Tristan. "We all
have pain, and we all look for
ways to make the pain go away."
"I'll drink to that," Warshirt said,
and finished his beer. He raised
a hand for the barkeeper. "Reload."
The barkeeper obligingly refilled
Warshirt's mug with more beer.
The day was looking up.
Hours later, even Allan
had run out of money
and stories to tell.
Everything had settled
into a comfortable haze,
though, and so the trip
into town had worked.
Warshirt wobbled
his way to his truck
and drove back home.
By the time he got there,
though, the rough motion of
the drive made him queasy.
He went indoors, hoping
that he would feel better
if he could just lie down.
As soon as he shut the door,
his stomach lurched ominously.
At least he made it to the toilet this time.
Warshirt wedged himself between
the bowl and the base of the shower,
heaving up the beer he'd borrowed.
That was the biggest downside
to beer: you couldn't keep it.
You always had to give it
back, one way or the other.
His long hair slid down
his shoulders, hanging in
curtains around his face.
Warshirt clung to the toilet
and tried to keep from
getting anything in his hair.
He felt utterly miserable.
The next thing he knew,
gentle hands gathered his hair,
braiding it deftly into a long tail.
Trying to look around made
Warshirt wobble so that he
almost fell in the toilet.
"Careful," Spotted Deer said
as she caught his shoulders.
"Don't make sudden motions."
This close, he could smell her,
something warm and musky
with a refreshing note on top,
as if she'd walked through a field
stepping on mint and sage.
Unlike every other odor
when he was smashed,
this one wasn't nauseating.
Sniffing her would probably
look bad, though. Really bad.
Spotted Deer stayed with Warshirt
until he finally stopped heaving,
and she made sure he didn't
fall or drown in his own puke.
She wet a washcloth in
the sink and cleaned him up
without nagging him about
what a sorry mess he was.
He already knew it anyway.
"Come on," she said,
tugging gently. "You
have to help a little.
I can't carry you."
Spotted Deer got
him to the sink and
made him rinse
with mouthwash.
That cleared his head
just enough to think a bit.
"Go'way," he mumbled,
flapping a hand. "I gotta pee."
"I'll wait right outside, then,"
she said, slipping out the door.
Warshirt fumbled his pants open,
did his business, and zipped up.
Then he staggered to the door.
Spotted Deer caught him
before he could fall, and
steered him to his bed.
"Sit here a minute,"
she said. "I'll get you
a bottle of water."
Warshirt sat because
he couldn't move much.
"Drink," Spotted Deer said,
pressing a bottle into his hand.
It was cold from the fridge and
wet with condensation, slippery.
She had to steady it so that he
didn't pour it all over himself,
but it soothed his raw throat.
Once he finished, she said,
"Shirt off," and unbuttoned it.
Warshirt didn't argue. It was
so much easier to go along
with her than wrestle with
his clothes all by himself.
"Nightshirt," she said,
helping him into it.
The flannel was warm
and soft against his skin,
done in peaceful shades
of tan and turquoise.
"Stand up a little so
I can get your pants off,"
Spotted Deer said.
Warshirt wound up
sort of draped over
her shoulder with
his face in her hair.
It smelled grassier
than ever. He wanted
to fall asleep in the hay.
"Do not pass out on me
yet," she said sharply,
waking him up a little.
"M'not ashleep,"
Warshirt mumbled.
She got his shoes and
pants off, crouching with
him still draped over her,
and wasn't that awkward.
Spotted Deer tipped him
gently onto his side and
then straightened out
the drunken tangle
of his long limbs.
Everything was getting
fuzzy and far away now.
He had finally found a way
to make the pain go away.
Spotted Deer stroked
his face tenderly, trailing
her fingers over his lips.
Warshirt turned his face into
her palm. Grass. Mint. Sage.
It was just so ... soothing.
"Sleep it off," she said
as she covered him with
an autumn leaf afghan.
"You will feel better
when you wake up."
Warshirt actually
believed her.
He snuggled into
the afghan and let
himself drift to sleep.
* * *
Notes:
Tristan Bear Hill -- He has light copper skin, brown eyes, and short black hair. He is short but muscular. He is half-Blackfeet, half-American. He speaks English. He is 28 years old in 2015. Tristan is the older brother of Kevin, who has drug abuse issues. An army veteran, Tristan served in the Afghanistan war before getting discharged due to PTSD. He has been unable to hold a job since then. He deals with that by getting drunk frequently, preferring to drink whiskey because it works faster than beer. Tristan is a friend of Warshirt, and they both look up to Allan After Buffalo, an older veteran.
Qualities: Good (+2) Combat Skills, Good (+2) Courage Under Fire, Good (+2) Drinking Buddies, Good (+2) Kinesthetic Intelligence, Good (+2) Strength
Poor (-2) PTSD
Allan After Buffalo -- He has copper skin, brown eyes, and long wavy black hair. He is big and tall. His heritage is Blackfeet. He speaks Arabic, Blackfeet, and English. He is 45 years old in 2015.
An army veteran, Allan served in the Gulf War. He continues ot mentor younger veterans, sometimes in healthy ways like taking them hunting but other times unhealthy ways like buying drinks for the table. He is friends with Warshirt and Tristan Bear hill.
Allan lives on a ranch west of Browning, Montana in the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. There his family raises Aspen Shorthorns, with Allan tending the male beef herd and his sister tending the female dairy herd. They run about 160 cow-calf pairs on 640 acres. A talented hunter, Allan brings home primarily deer, antelope, and elk plus an occasional bear. He is an avid activist protecting the right of native people to hunt, fish, and forage without paying for a government license. Instead, the tribe manages its own resources.
Qualities: Good (+2) Activist, Good (+2) Big and Tall, Good (+2) Cattle Rancher, Good (+2) Hunter, Good (+2) Naturalistic Intelligence
Poor (-2) Problem Drinking
Local-America has two forms of Heritage Shorthorn cattle derived from the original dual-purpose breed: Beef Shorthorn and Milking Shorthorn. In Terramagne-America, ranchers in northerly and mountainous areas favored the dual version, especially on reservations that often had poor grazing range. Tribal ranchers selected the most productive cattle, occasionally adding in new blood from outside. The result is the Aspen Shorthorn: medium to large cattle (cows about 1,200-1,400 pounds, bulls about 1,900-2,100 pounds) useful for both meat and milk. Most have short curled horns, though a few are polled. The coat may be red, white, roan, speckled, or a combination; tribal ranchers strongly favor the speckled and/or roan versions. Aspens are calm, hardy, efficient foragers that live a long time. They are sure-footed on mountain slopes and nimble amidst brushy pastures. The cows produce many calves and plenty of milk, although not as much as commercial dairy breeds; they calve easily and have strong maternal instincts. While they don't grow as fast or as large as commercial beef breeds, Aspens can pack on pounds from low-quality grass without requiring expensive grain. Few tribal ranchers supplement feed except for new mothers in a barn or in exceptionally harsh winters. Often the cows can't even be brought in for calving -- they simply disappear in to the bush and reappear a few days later with a calf in tow.
* * *
There are all kinds of addicts, I guess. We all have pain. And we all look for ways to make the pain go away.
― Sherman Alexie, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
Warshirt drives a 1990 Ford F150 XLT Lariat. See the left side, right side, interior driver's side, interior passenger's side, and bed.
See the exterior of Ick's bar in Browning, Montana.
The primary connection with the National Day of Awareness for Missing and Murdered Native Women and Girls is detailed in the previously published poem "To Prevent Future Tragedies," but the background of violence against women makes the relationship between Warshirt and Spotted Deer pretty fraught. He knows that tribal women get abused and kidnapped, he's dealing with the white and tribal survivors from Merry Acres, and it's adding to his already high stress level. Plus his personal issues sometimes make him aggressive enough to be part of the problem rather than the solution. And while Spotted Deer wasn't born to the tribe, the Blackfeet have taken her in.
PTSD can result from various types of trauma, and it's particularly prevalent among veterans. Common symptoms include sleep disturbances, mood issues, flashbacks, and substance abuse. Understand how to cope with PTSD or help a friend who has it.
Adverse childhood experiences also undermine adult health. Common ACEs on reservations include poverty, racism, domestic violence, and substance abuse in the family. There are ways to overcome a bad childhood. Here is a tribal toolkit.
PTSD often causes nightmares and other sleep disturbances. There are various ways to get some sleep and cope with nightmares.
Brain fog is another common symptom of PTSD, often worsened by sleep disturbances. Learn how to reduce it.
Trauma commonly causes mood swings. There are many ways to manage moodiness.
Triggers include many things, depending on a person's past experiences; loud noises often upset combat veterans. They activate flashbacks, which are traumatic memories that intrude on everyday life. Know how to cope with flashbacks or help someone through them. Among the most useful techniques is anchoring, which allows you to create positive anchors and remove negative anchors. All of this takes work, but if you know what you're doing, you can reprogram your wetware with these techniques -- which is very useful if someone has shoved it full of malware.
IED stands for Improvised Explosive Device, which does a lot of harm in Afghanistan.
Alcohol misuse spans a wide range from problem drinking to alcoholism. Know the signs of a drinking problem. Warshirt's particular problem is binge drinking, usually to numb emotional pain. When he feels fine, he can have a beer or few with a meal and then stop; but when he feels bad, he tends to get totally smashed. Because the use is intermittent, it's not an addiction, but it is definitely a problem. Tribal drinking includes a lot of problem drinking.
Understand the stages of alcohol intoxication. Know how to tell if you or your friends have had too much to drink. There are ways to take care of a drunk person and prevent a hangover. T-American Colleges in particular, and sometimes towns in general, customarily have a safe ride van with flat transport, to discourage drunk driving and make sure people have supervision while severely intoxicated. Few reservations can afford this, except for those with particularly affluent casinos. Combined with the high rate of problem drinking, this runs up the rate of alcohol-related deaths from causes like drunk driving and alcohol poisoning.
See Warshirt's leaf afghan and get the pattern.
This is Warshirt's flannel nightshirt.
chanter1944 and Anonymous. It also fills the "Peppermint" square in my 12-1-20 card for the Winter Fest Bingo fest. This poem has been sponsored by fuzzyred and hangingbyastitch in honor of the National Day of Awareness for Missing and Murdered Native Women and Girls. It belongs to the Iron Horses thread of the Polychrome Heroics series. For the introduction of the main characters, begin with "Whatever You Do to the Animals," "Reaching Out to Rescue One Another," and "To Prevent Future Tragedies." This poem is the first in a set of four, followed by "Quicker Than You Can Lower Them," "A Crazy and Drunk Life," and "Repair Just About Anything." Warning: This poem contains intense and controversial topics. Highlight to read the warnings, some of which are spoilers. This is hardcore hurt/comfort. It includes rude language, PTSD, insomnia, brain fog, mood issues, a blown tire, flashbacks, problem drinking, self-medication with alcohol, reference to a drug overdose, drunk driving, nausea and vomiting, awkward caregiving intimacies, and other challenges. If these are sensitive issues for you, please consider your tastes and headspace before reading onward.
"Ways to Make the Pain Go Away"
[Friday, October 2, 2015]
Warshirt was having a shitty day.
He hadn't slept well the night before,
and gave up around dawn to go
split some firewood outside.
Not even coffee could do much
to cut the fog inside his head.
Spotted Deer didn't seem
concerned, but she also didn't
deserve to have him carping at her
just because he was in a bad mood.
Warshirt did his best to avoid her
without making it look like he was.
Then when he headed in to
Browning after lunch, his truck
ran over something that blew a tire.
The loud noise sounded like a bomb,
and the jolt felt like driving over an IED.
Suddenly he was back in Afghanistan,
trying to get the hell out of the open
before the enemy blew him to bits.
When Warshirt came back to himself,
he realized that he'd have to stop
and change the tire if he wanted
to avoid wrecking the whole wheel.
Crouching beside the road in
the wide-open space chewed on
what little was left of his nerves.
Finally he got the tire changed
and made his way into town.
When Warshirt saw the sign
for Ick's bar, he couldn't resist.
Inside, he found a couple of his friends.
Allan After Buffalo was an older veteran
who ran a cattle ranch west of town
and also did a lot of big game hunting.
Tristan Bear Hill was a more recent one,
discharged for PTSD and unable
to hold any kind of job after that.
"What happened, brother?"
Tristan said, staring at Warshirt.
"Couldn't sleep for shit last night,
and then a tire blew out on my truck,"
Warshirt said. "Now my stupid brain
won't leave me alone for five minutes."
Allan promptly handed him a beer.
"Here, drink up, it'll make you feel better --
or at least, it'll make you feel less."
Feeling less would definitely
be better than what Warshirt felt
now, emotions still sloshing inside.
He chugged half of the beer and
immediately felt some relief.
Then Warshirt noticed Tristan
was gazing into his whiskey
as if searching for answers.
"What's up?" Warshirt said.
"My brother overdosed last night,"
said Tristan. "They got him to
the hospital in time, but he's
still not in very good shape."
"That's awful," said Warshirt.
"Was he in the army too? I don't
remember you mentioning it."
Tristan shook his head. "No,
Kevin just has other issues.
His girlfriend dumped him."
"I'm sorry to hear that,"
Warshirt said. "I thought
he was doing okay, since
he's not in here with us."
"There are all kinds of addicts,
I guess," said Tristan. "We all
have pain, and we all look for
ways to make the pain go away."
"I'll drink to that," Warshirt said,
and finished his beer. He raised
a hand for the barkeeper. "Reload."
The barkeeper obligingly refilled
Warshirt's mug with more beer.
The day was looking up.
Hours later, even Allan
had run out of money
and stories to tell.
Everything had settled
into a comfortable haze,
though, and so the trip
into town had worked.
Warshirt wobbled
his way to his truck
and drove back home.
By the time he got there,
though, the rough motion of
the drive made him queasy.
He went indoors, hoping
that he would feel better
if he could just lie down.
As soon as he shut the door,
his stomach lurched ominously.
At least he made it to the toilet this time.
Warshirt wedged himself between
the bowl and the base of the shower,
heaving up the beer he'd borrowed.
That was the biggest downside
to beer: you couldn't keep it.
You always had to give it
back, one way or the other.
His long hair slid down
his shoulders, hanging in
curtains around his face.
Warshirt clung to the toilet
and tried to keep from
getting anything in his hair.
He felt utterly miserable.
The next thing he knew,
gentle hands gathered his hair,
braiding it deftly into a long tail.
Trying to look around made
Warshirt wobble so that he
almost fell in the toilet.
"Careful," Spotted Deer said
as she caught his shoulders.
"Don't make sudden motions."
This close, he could smell her,
something warm and musky
with a refreshing note on top,
as if she'd walked through a field
stepping on mint and sage.
Unlike every other odor
when he was smashed,
this one wasn't nauseating.
Sniffing her would probably
look bad, though. Really bad.
Spotted Deer stayed with Warshirt
until he finally stopped heaving,
and she made sure he didn't
fall or drown in his own puke.
She wet a washcloth in
the sink and cleaned him up
without nagging him about
what a sorry mess he was.
He already knew it anyway.
"Come on," she said,
tugging gently. "You
have to help a little.
I can't carry you."
Spotted Deer got
him to the sink and
made him rinse
with mouthwash.
That cleared his head
just enough to think a bit.
"Go'way," he mumbled,
flapping a hand. "I gotta pee."
"I'll wait right outside, then,"
she said, slipping out the door.
Warshirt fumbled his pants open,
did his business, and zipped up.
Then he staggered to the door.
Spotted Deer caught him
before he could fall, and
steered him to his bed.
"Sit here a minute,"
she said. "I'll get you
a bottle of water."
Warshirt sat because
he couldn't move much.
"Drink," Spotted Deer said,
pressing a bottle into his hand.
It was cold from the fridge and
wet with condensation, slippery.
She had to steady it so that he
didn't pour it all over himself,
but it soothed his raw throat.
Once he finished, she said,
"Shirt off," and unbuttoned it.
Warshirt didn't argue. It was
so much easier to go along
with her than wrestle with
his clothes all by himself.
"Nightshirt," she said,
helping him into it.
The flannel was warm
and soft against his skin,
done in peaceful shades
of tan and turquoise.
"Stand up a little so
I can get your pants off,"
Spotted Deer said.
Warshirt wound up
sort of draped over
her shoulder with
his face in her hair.
It smelled grassier
than ever. He wanted
to fall asleep in the hay.
"Do not pass out on me
yet," she said sharply,
waking him up a little.
"M'not ashleep,"
Warshirt mumbled.
She got his shoes and
pants off, crouching with
him still draped over her,
and wasn't that awkward.
Spotted Deer tipped him
gently onto his side and
then straightened out
the drunken tangle
of his long limbs.
Everything was getting
fuzzy and far away now.
He had finally found a way
to make the pain go away.
Spotted Deer stroked
his face tenderly, trailing
her fingers over his lips.
Warshirt turned his face into
her palm. Grass. Mint. Sage.
It was just so ... soothing.
"Sleep it off," she said
as she covered him with
an autumn leaf afghan.
"You will feel better
when you wake up."
Warshirt actually
believed her.
He snuggled into
the afghan and let
himself drift to sleep.
* * *
Notes:
Tristan Bear Hill -- He has light copper skin, brown eyes, and short black hair. He is short but muscular. He is half-Blackfeet, half-American. He speaks English. He is 28 years old in 2015. Tristan is the older brother of Kevin, who has drug abuse issues. An army veteran, Tristan served in the Afghanistan war before getting discharged due to PTSD. He has been unable to hold a job since then. He deals with that by getting drunk frequently, preferring to drink whiskey because it works faster than beer. Tristan is a friend of Warshirt, and they both look up to Allan After Buffalo, an older veteran.
Qualities: Good (+2) Combat Skills, Good (+2) Courage Under Fire, Good (+2) Drinking Buddies, Good (+2) Kinesthetic Intelligence, Good (+2) Strength
Poor (-2) PTSD
Allan After Buffalo -- He has copper skin, brown eyes, and long wavy black hair. He is big and tall. His heritage is Blackfeet. He speaks Arabic, Blackfeet, and English. He is 45 years old in 2015.
An army veteran, Allan served in the Gulf War. He continues ot mentor younger veterans, sometimes in healthy ways like taking them hunting but other times unhealthy ways like buying drinks for the table. He is friends with Warshirt and Tristan Bear hill.
Allan lives on a ranch west of Browning, Montana in the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. There his family raises Aspen Shorthorns, with Allan tending the male beef herd and his sister tending the female dairy herd. They run about 160 cow-calf pairs on 640 acres. A talented hunter, Allan brings home primarily deer, antelope, and elk plus an occasional bear. He is an avid activist protecting the right of native people to hunt, fish, and forage without paying for a government license. Instead, the tribe manages its own resources.
Qualities: Good (+2) Activist, Good (+2) Big and Tall, Good (+2) Cattle Rancher, Good (+2) Hunter, Good (+2) Naturalistic Intelligence
Poor (-2) Problem Drinking
Local-America has two forms of Heritage Shorthorn cattle derived from the original dual-purpose breed: Beef Shorthorn and Milking Shorthorn. In Terramagne-America, ranchers in northerly and mountainous areas favored the dual version, especially on reservations that often had poor grazing range. Tribal ranchers selected the most productive cattle, occasionally adding in new blood from outside. The result is the Aspen Shorthorn: medium to large cattle (cows about 1,200-1,400 pounds, bulls about 1,900-2,100 pounds) useful for both meat and milk. Most have short curled horns, though a few are polled. The coat may be red, white, roan, speckled, or a combination; tribal ranchers strongly favor the speckled and/or roan versions. Aspens are calm, hardy, efficient foragers that live a long time. They are sure-footed on mountain slopes and nimble amidst brushy pastures. The cows produce many calves and plenty of milk, although not as much as commercial dairy breeds; they calve easily and have strong maternal instincts. While they don't grow as fast or as large as commercial beef breeds, Aspens can pack on pounds from low-quality grass without requiring expensive grain. Few tribal ranchers supplement feed except for new mothers in a barn or in exceptionally harsh winters. Often the cows can't even be brought in for calving -- they simply disappear in to the bush and reappear a few days later with a calf in tow.
* * *
There are all kinds of addicts, I guess. We all have pain. And we all look for ways to make the pain go away.
― Sherman Alexie, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
Warshirt drives a 1990 Ford F150 XLT Lariat. See the left side, right side, interior driver's side, interior passenger's side, and bed.
See the exterior of Ick's bar in Browning, Montana.
The primary connection with the National Day of Awareness for Missing and Murdered Native Women and Girls is detailed in the previously published poem "To Prevent Future Tragedies," but the background of violence against women makes the relationship between Warshirt and Spotted Deer pretty fraught. He knows that tribal women get abused and kidnapped, he's dealing with the white and tribal survivors from Merry Acres, and it's adding to his already high stress level. Plus his personal issues sometimes make him aggressive enough to be part of the problem rather than the solution. And while Spotted Deer wasn't born to the tribe, the Blackfeet have taken her in.
PTSD can result from various types of trauma, and it's particularly prevalent among veterans. Common symptoms include sleep disturbances, mood issues, flashbacks, and substance abuse. Understand how to cope with PTSD or help a friend who has it.
Adverse childhood experiences also undermine adult health. Common ACEs on reservations include poverty, racism, domestic violence, and substance abuse in the family. There are ways to overcome a bad childhood. Here is a tribal toolkit.
PTSD often causes nightmares and other sleep disturbances. There are various ways to get some sleep and cope with nightmares.
Brain fog is another common symptom of PTSD, often worsened by sleep disturbances. Learn how to reduce it.
Trauma commonly causes mood swings. There are many ways to manage moodiness.
Triggers include many things, depending on a person's past experiences; loud noises often upset combat veterans. They activate flashbacks, which are traumatic memories that intrude on everyday life. Know how to cope with flashbacks or help someone through them. Among the most useful techniques is anchoring, which allows you to create positive anchors and remove negative anchors. All of this takes work, but if you know what you're doing, you can reprogram your wetware with these techniques -- which is very useful if someone has shoved it full of malware.
IED stands for Improvised Explosive Device, which does a lot of harm in Afghanistan.
Alcohol misuse spans a wide range from problem drinking to alcoholism. Know the signs of a drinking problem. Warshirt's particular problem is binge drinking, usually to numb emotional pain. When he feels fine, he can have a beer or few with a meal and then stop; but when he feels bad, he tends to get totally smashed. Because the use is intermittent, it's not an addiction, but it is definitely a problem. Tribal drinking includes a lot of problem drinking.
Understand the stages of alcohol intoxication. Know how to tell if you or your friends have had too much to drink. There are ways to take care of a drunk person and prevent a hangover. T-American Colleges in particular, and sometimes towns in general, customarily have a safe ride van with flat transport, to discourage drunk driving and make sure people have supervision while severely intoxicated. Few reservations can afford this, except for those with particularly affluent casinos. Combined with the high rate of problem drinking, this runs up the rate of alcohol-related deaths from causes like drunk driving and alcohol poisoning.
See Warshirt's leaf afghan and get the pattern.
This is Warshirt's flannel nightshirt.
(no subject)
Date: 2021-05-06 02:02 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2021-05-07 02:49 am (UTC)If they can afford a flop room, that might be better than nothing. The First-Aid training might be cheaper in Terramagne than here, and I'm sure someone can scrounge up something to use as a cot.
If town is small enough, some guy with a truck could be an improvised safe ride van, for anyone who isnt sobered up at closing. (Might not be as useful if in an area where crossroads are 1/2hrs drive - yep, America's /big/.)
...I also have the odd idea of Saul sometimes being the safe-ride guy when in town. (He's got the big truck, seems pretty chill with grumpy people, and has an easier time finding childcare with two-almost-three other adults in the house.)
Thoughts
Date: 2021-05-07 05:07 am (UTC)That's true.
>> The First-Aid training might be cheaper in Terramagne than here, <<
Typically, yes. Reservations with a college have an edge. The Blackfeet Community College offers several health-related degrees and one-year certificates. Logically they should be offering classes in basic first aid, CPR, drunk care, overdose first aid, etc.
>> and I'm sure someone can scrounge up something to use as a cot. <<
Hopefully, but it remember that reservations include the poorest counties in North America. A few with casinos are rich; the ones with colleges, like the Blackfeet Reservation, are doing tolerably okay; and some still have people freeze to death every winter for lack of heat.
>> If town is small enough, some guy with a truck could be an improvised safe ride van, for anyone who isnt sobered up at closing. <<
That's a good solution.
>> (Might not be as useful if in an area where crossroads are 1/2hrs drive - yep, America's /big/.) <<
The Blackfeet Reservation contains about 3,000 square miles. The distance between Polebridge and Cut Bank is about 129 miles by car, or 90 miles straight. Some people on a reservation are far-flung, but a lot will be in the town around the bar.
>> ...I also have the odd idea of Saul sometimes being the safe-ride guy when in town. (He's got the big truck, seems pretty chill with grumpy people, and has an easier time finding childcare with two-almost-three other adults in the house.) <<
That makes sense. You could prompt for it with
Re: Thoughts
Date: 2021-05-07 07:02 am (UTC)By improvise...a bench and a pillow. A couple of yoga mats, or those moving quilt-mat things, or salvaged couches. Carpet remnants laid on the floor. Someone's thick winter coat could make half a matress. A backseat from a junked car. Heck, the floor and a pillow, maybe with a blanket, could be useable, and a lot of stuff can be used as a pillow. Adjust depending on what you can get, what impression you're going for, and assorted considerations like space and cleanliness.
I've seen houses where walls are bedsheets and winter insulation is plastic taped over windows. Y'do what y'can. If they object, they can find a better solution or get outta the way.
>>Some people on a reservation are far-flung, but a lot will be in the town around the bar.<<
Alternately, have an in-town person to drop far-flung frequent flyers with?
>>That's a good solution.<<
In Terramagne they could do a tip jar for gas money, or something. Of course someone'll eventually tuck in a random snack or something.
Re: Thoughts
Date: 2021-05-07 07:27 am (UTC)Tribefolk tend to collect blankets. Even if there's no spare bed, they'll make a nest of blankets, or rack out on the couch.
>>I've seen houses where walls are bedsheets and winter insulation is plastic taped over windows. Y'do what y'can. If they object, they can find a better solution or get outta the way.<<
Yyyeah.
>> Alternately, have an in-town person to drop far-flung frequent flyers with? <<
That's a likely solution, especially on a reservation where most people are related to and/or friends with most others.
>>In Terramagne they could do a tip jar for gas money, or something. Of course someone'll eventually tuck in a random snack or something.<<
LOL yes. Most T-American bars have a skippy jar.
It doesn't seem to be as common on reservations. They probably rely more on stashing someone with a relative. But it doesn't always catch. When you're used to a lot of the population being vaguely tipsy or publicly smashed on a regular basis, it kind of stops registering that there are things you shouldn't do then.
Re: Thoughts
Date: 2021-05-07 03:58 pm (UTC)So collect old blankets and designate some of the thick ones as mattresses. Has the added bonus of being easy to pick up for rearranging or using the space for other things.
>>When you're used to a lot of the population being vaguely tipsy or publicly smashed on a regular basis, it kind of stops registering that there are things you shouldn't do then.<<
Any bad thing becoming sufficiently common soon registers as normal. Drugs, bombs, sexual harassment, wayward behavior...and then gets a very underwhelming response.
Reminds me of a story idea I had where two different cultures (one that tends to go heavy on recreational drugs and such, the other with severe generational trauma) manage to deal with each other's weird idyosyncrancies...to the complete befuddlement of the third culture which doesn't have those issues (or possibly a "You think this is /normal/?" if #3 has invented enough psychology to recognize that 'Houston we have /so many/ problems.')