Recently, I hear this tale which really makes me hope even more that I don't ever have any trauma inflicted on me in Cold Lake.

One of Sean's work friends was cooking one day and went to grab something out of the fridge, tripped, and stabbed himself in the leg. He lost his shit, and pulled the knife out. Turns out he severed his femoral artery so blood started blasting out all over the place. His wife came running in, and presumably having just completed first aid training from Black Hawk Down, reached into this guy's flesh wound and pinched off the artery.

But wait! It gets crazier!

They call 911. The firemen show up first, bust down the door and do some basic first aid crap - pretty much hanging out waiting for the ambulance, who deign to show up fifteen minutes later.

You probably aren't familiar with Cold Lake, but you can pretty much get from one place to ANY OTHER PLACE in less. The EMTs come in, take one look at the guy, and say "we can't do anything."

Dude is unconscious by this point, but the wife isn't; she's just hanging out pinching arteries.

So the firemen are all "WTF?" and put a tourniquet (First Aid 101) on the guy.
They load the newly tourniquet'd dude onto a stretcher, wheel him out of there, and get to the ambulance.

But uh-oh, the incompetent EMT staff can't even lift him into the ambulance.

The firemen (who by the way aren't the TOWN'S firemen, they're the MILITARY fire department) say "holy shit, fuck y'all", load this guy into the firetruck, and drive him to the hospital themselves.

They get to the hospital, call in the surgeon. He walks into the room and also says, "I can't do anything about this."

So the military airlifts this guy to Edmonton and FOUR HOURS LATER, he gets medical treatment.

Too bad everyone seems to have skipped Tourniquet Day in their St. John's Ambulance course, because no one ever loosened the guy's tourniquet and the nerve damage is irreparable.

He said he doesn't intend on suing unless he loses his job, which is a possibility, because his leg doesn't have any fucking nerves anymore.

Eeeek! Get me out of here!

So, I'm in therapy three-four times a week for the next three weeks in a very intensive program to figure out why I'm so eff'd up. Finally, I get the help I need.

I just hope it actually does help and doesn't run like 98% of Alberta's public programs (read: doesn't).

I haven't been doing so well since Rob left again. My anxiety is through the roof and thanks to his tales of appendages on the side of the road, I can't close my eyes without vividly seeing the illustration to his stories, so sleep has been slow-going. I've been throwing up, suffering diarrhea every time I eat, waking up with nightmares every night, and finding concentration impossible. It's been crap, pure and total crap. I need to sort out a lot of stuff and I hope this gives me an opportunity.

This is what my head looks like now.

For questions about any other parts, don't ask me. In the attempt to paint a self portrait, I stumbled upon the realization that I have literally no idea what I look like.

Jarring.

OH, also if the snow could go away, like yesterday, that would be fabulous because I already oiled, shined and stroked my bike and would really love to be able to ride it without having to wear neon green slush pants.

I found a new and delightful way to waste four hours today when I went to the University hospital for a psychiatric assessment. My temper has exploded into a violent and uncontrollable mess and my depression has deepened and I decided I was sick of it and needed to do something.

So at 6 am, I rise and head over where I sit around for about an hour before being called in to talk to a therapist. Edith the Therapist came out and called my name. On our way back to her office, she looked at me and asked, "Did I pronounce your name right?" Please note that my name is Ashley and to pronounce it wrong should result in one losing their medical license. She then proceeded to assured me that my mother had abused me and didn't want to admit it because then I'd have to admit that I am abusive. She also liked to wordlessly stare at me. Once she did just that for three straight minutes and then said with a sigh, "you're so hurt." Erin refers to this patronizing as "kitten talk" and assures me that the mental health staff there loves it. Edith asked about my family, drawing a cute little flow chart full of symbolic lines (a dotted line means common-law, a violent slash across the line means divorce, etc.). She suggested I attend the "day program", which is group therapy all day, every day. It's the same day program Rin attended when she was told, essentially, that she wasn't crazy enough to be there. Anyway, it's not even an option - group therapy isn't something that could be beneficial for me and I actually need to work to live. Overall,Edith made a few legitimate points, but overall, didn't listen to a word that I said and frequently argued with things I already know. Apparently working at a University mental health clinic means you're a fucking Therapy God.

Next on my pointless road to "recovery" came French Lady the Psychiatrist. That appointment lasted about 10 minutes, where I was further patronized and enraged. I sat down and was asked about "my Understanding" of MS. Before she could delve further, I replied I know pretty much all there is to know. She then told me, and I quote, "...because this is something that's been going on longer than three weeks, it's just your personality."

Let me point out why I went: recurrent depression for almost a decade and a recent spike in violent and random anger. I admitted to occasional suicidal thoughts and an inability to control my impulses. Apparently, that's "just my personality".

The shitshow ended with a prescription for Remeron®, which although it is an anti-depressant is used mostly for and was prescribed to me for helping with sleep. I was also given another appointment for next week. Ha. Good one, Edes, it ain't going to happen.

Going to this place was a last-ditch effort for me. I think I'm going to have to go ahead and accept that I am permanently fucked-up and will never be happy or have someone in my life. Them's the breaks, I guess.