Monday, July 29, 2013

Other People's Bill Collectors

Someone, who shall remain nameless, has used my name and  number as a reference on things in the past.  When you're a reference and said person changes addresses and phone numbers, you get called.  A lot.  So you tell these collectors of bills that you are NOT that person, do not SPEAK to that person, and sometimes that you don't even know who they are.  Please remove my information and let's not speak of this again.  Please and thank you.

And then you tell them that repeatedly over the course of a few years.  And then you report one or two of them to the Federal Trade Commission for harassment or for phishing or scamming or because their voice sounds stupid.

And then you get fed up.

Like, righteously and mightily pissed and well beyond fed up because JESUSCHRISTIDON'TOWEYOUMONEYWILLYOUPLEASESTOP!

And then the yelling happens.

Today I awoke from a nap because my mother was currently screaming at her oxygen provider because they wanted to re-bill her for something that was refunded to her because it should never have been taken out of her account to begin with and I know your name isn't George Washington Carver.  You're in India.  Your overly patriotic fake name doesn't make me identify with you and I can't understand a fucking word coming out of your mouth.  Elocution classes are a worthwhile expense, offshore call center people.

I also had a world class fucking headache because I'm all "I NEED GLASSES SO I WON'T DIE WHEN I READ THINGS" and then I'm just "I CAN SEE THIS SHIT PERFECTLY FINE SO I FORGET I HAVE GLASSES TO STOP THE HEADACHES" so then I get a horrible headache and have to wear the glasses after I eat a lot of pain relievers.  Even when I don't read things or need to navigate around large, easily noticeable objects because I tend to plow into them with a lot of force because I think they're over there when they're really like two inches away from me.

None of this matters or probably makes any sense,

Woke up.  Screaming.  Headache.  There we go.  I had a voicemail on my cellular telephone device that never has enough signal to be useful where I live, so I call it from the house phone and instantly become irate because these bill collectors have called again.  I filed bankruptcy to stop these calls and now I get them for people who are not me.  Righteous.  Anger.

I write down the number and call them back.

It rings and rings and rings and rings and my anger is just steadily growing because my head hurts and I hate whoever is going to answer even though they didn't call me personally.  I hate them.  Hard.

"Thank you for calling _____, how can I help you?"

"Well, you can start by removing my damned number from your system and leaving me the hell alone!"

"NO!  YOU can start by addressing me accordingly!"

(NO YOU JUST DIDN'T!)

"Address you ACCORDINGLY?  And how would that be?"  (I'm a little loud at this point, as is the guy.)

"I'm sure your mother (MY MAMA WHAT, SON?) advised you at an early age to answer the phone with 'hello' before you start..."

"YOU LISTEN TO ME YOU PEDANTIC LITTLE PRICK ----"

"NO!  YOU LISTEN TO ME! blarljfohifokhjfldkh------"

I hung up on him.

I was seething!  I have never been quite so angry about any 30 seconds of phone conversation in my life!  But I realized that he hadn't removed my number from shit and that this would keep happening, so I went outside and called him back.

*ring ri---* "Thanks for calling ____"

It's the same mother fucking guy, y'all.  The same.  Mother.  Fucker.

"Hello, Sugar.  How are you today?  I don't want us to fight anymore, but could you be a dear and do me a favor?"  (I'm Southern and have an accent, but I really poured it on thick here.)

"Yes, ma'am, what was.... I'm sorry.  I can't  *Dies laughing*  Oh my God.  *more laughter*  What did you need?"

Now, I'M laughing too because this whole thing was fucking ridiculous.

"I need you to take this number 000-000-0000 off of your call lists because I'm not the person you're looking for."

"So, you don't know ____ (Completely mangles last name)?"

"(Corrects last name.)  Yes, but also no."

"So you're not speaking to them?"

"That's right.  And I'm sorry about earlier.  I keep getting calls from these 855 numbers, which is a strange number, so I assume it's always the same company and I keep telling them to stop and they never stop."

"I understand.  I've taken your number off.  Have a wonderful day!"

"You too."

The last time I had gotten a call, I put the number in my phone but had forgotten to call back and go through this with THEM and so I called THEM too.

*ring ring*

"Hello, darlin'.  Did you get another call from us?"

I died.


Friday, July 19, 2013

Zoloft Zombie

I suck at this.  I don't even feel that bad about sucking at it either because I just really never WANT to do it anymore.  I've had SO many things that I could have entertained you with over this last year and I just didn't feel like it.  Those moments are gone and so is the rage that would have carried me through the posts that should have accompanied them.  And that makes me mad.  Those moments needed to be recorded for more than altruistic or entertainment purposes, which I will sort of cover in a bit.  

I do feel that I owe you at least a brief-ish explanation as to why I just disappeared for so long.  I'm not going to even try to make this funny but it may happen on accident.  It really just depends on how angry I become.

I made the truly horrible decision to injure my shoulder at work last April.  I compounded that stupidity with the truly enormous load of dumb ass known as filing a Worker's Comp claim.  My work life took a turn for the worse as you would expect when you hold your large box store employer accountable for their bad planning and your bad luck. 

The day after I filed this claim my (I can't think of anything to call him that's not derogatory) boss wrote me up.  He made it his mother fucking mission to ruin my mother fucking life.  At least at work.  He bullied me.  He pulled me into the "office" for stern talking-to's on a weekly basis with his pet bitch about how I was unproductive and kept disappearing, or so says the anonymous person who apparently gets paid to watch me and not do any actual work.  I had one functioning fucking arm.  My dominant arm was in a sling and I was put on restrictions where I wasn't allowed to use my arm in a job that requires two hands for just about everything.  So, yeah. I guess I was less productive than usual.  For months on end he would have these threatening talks with me that never resulted in any disciplinary action because he knew he was making it up and would have no proof of anything he'd accused me of if he pulled the security tapes like he should have.  I was also written up and threatened with write-ups up to the point where one bad move would get me fired.  It was illegal retaliation and discrimination and no one gave a flying fuck when I reported it.

It got to the point where I was getting so angry that I would have panic attacks on a daily basis.  This caused the PTSD to flare up in a bad way.  I wasn't sleeping, I could barely eat, and the thought of going to work and seeing him made me physically and violently ill which of course lead to absences and the aforementioned write-ups.  Right around the time the anxiety started flaring up I went back to the free shrink and had to start a daily regimen of Zoloft.  To be fair to the Zoloft, it did manage to take the worst of the edge off and allowed me push through the nightmare that was work without having a complete mental breakdown.  That's where my fairness with it ends.  It also blunted the edge of everything.  Fun.  Life.  Goals.  Dreams.  Whatever I found pleasant and fulfilling in life became a thing I could no longer summon any enjoyment or energy for.  So I stopped writing.  The major goal of most of my life was taken from me.  I blame that mother fucker whose name I want so badly to spread across the masses.  He's a childish dick who has never amounted to anything and takes pleasure and pride in belittling and putting down those that aren't like him.  Wow.  You made it to middle management on the store level of the largest employer in the world.  Feel proud, you useless cunt.  

I had an actual legal case with this, but haha, they don't pay me enough to afford a lawyer.  And another, bigger haha:  The promoted him.  Every single person in the store that had an ongoing Worker's Comp case was retaliated and discriminated against by him and we all complained.  He did what he was there to do.  I hope you choke on a dick, person whose name I won't say.  Yet.

Anyway, yes.  The Zoloft kind of ruined everything that he didn't, including this blog.  I stopped taking it the day before I had shoulder surgery in November.  I don't recommend the shoulder surgery.  I didn't regain "full use" of my arm for almost six months after it.  Which is another reason why I haven't blogged.  And then we add into it that even though Fuck Face is gone from my store, work has started to suck again and the edge is back because I wanted to grow back the feelings that Zoloft stole (they didn't come back, just the rage) and well, my PTSD is the worst it has ever been in regards to anxiety and anger.  I throw things now.  It's not as freeing as you would think because then you just want to throw more things.  All the things.  Just throw 'em all.  I'm just so Goddamned angry all of the time at everything.  Which is apparently hilarious to everyone until the throwing and screaming starts.  Then they just look really afraid of me.

I have a plan though.  A plan to get me away from the situation for awhile, to have a lot of fun, and the best part is... I think this fun escape plan is actually going to go a long ways toward treating my PTSD.  All will be revealed in time and know that I'm probably going to need some help from whoever it is that still checks in on this dead blog from time to time.

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