Went to the VA hospital today for an interview about my bipolar disorder. Seems I asked them to consider this as a service-connected disability because I’d seen a psychiatrist when stationed in Abilene, Texas, back in 1971 and ’72. I thought all I was asking for was a reconsideration of the existing disability on my decrepit knees, but, no, they wanted to know everything about the nutso side of me.

As interviews go, it went well, I suppose. I don’t expect anything to come of it because the maximum retention period for military medical records is 10 years, which places me way out in left field as far as looking at what the shrink had to say about me way back then. I do have a chance, though, if there is a notation in my service record of being referred to a psychiatrist. That would be sufficient for a claim to be considered.

The interviewer was kind of cute in a motherly, medicinal way. I kept getting distracted by a fold in her blouse between two buttons which showed just a bit of her right breast, which, in turn, got me pondering the size of her thighs (a fetish of mine). I’d already seen her ass which hung daintily from relatively narrow hips. She was short, slender, and looked like she worked out on a regular basis. Her blonding page boy was neatly trimmed. If I was so inclined and had the means, I might have been interested in finding out her relational status with members of the male sex.

The questions went back to my childhood and progressed forward to today. As usual this brought up a lot of memories I would prefer being kept under the carpet, but she had to establish the total nature of my manifestation of bipolar disorder. She was neither condescending nor seemingly interested in my answers. She just entered what I said into the computer, though her leading questions were a bit pointed sometimes. She didn’t want me holding anything back.

I kind of liked her reaction when I said I knew I liked boys more than girls way back in high school, which is one of the reasons I was not involved in any, zero, activities. My self-esteem had been beaten down so much by my parents that the very thought of interacting with my peers was totally abhorrent. Besides, I didn’t want to get caught with my eyes staring at boys’ behinds. I was very much into asses back then. In fact, there was this boy in fourth, fifth, sixth, and beyond who had the cutest ass you’d ever want to ponder; and, the way he wore his Levi’s, woof, what a sight. My eyes followed him wherever he walked.

Anyway, after about seventy-five minutes, she called a halt to the interrogation and set me free to wend my way back to the shelter. You’d never know it by the way the locals talk, but Dallas has a terrific transit system, which includes light-rail that actually goes somewhere, at least it goes where I want to go. My trip from the shelter to the VA Medical Center takes about an hour and that includes the fifteen minute walk to the local station. (I could ride a bus over there, but that wouldn’t get me any exercise, which I desperately need.)