The Atlantic can't stop whoring for war on Syria. Elspeth Reeve offers another little war porn ditty with the title "Do We Have Iraq PTSD?"
Do the writers for The Atlantic have enough brain parts among each of them to assemble an entire brain if put together?
Post-Traumatic Stress is not a novelty or a fancy for you to play with. That you would think it was goes to how whorish The Atlantic is.
People with PTS suffer and, if they're lucky, they can find a treatment that works for them. I don't know why anyone would think PTS made for a flashy word choice or that it was something to make sport of.
I was asked in an e-mail this week how long I could write about Iraq, with the statement being made that it was "so long ago."
Forty years ago?
It's not that long ago and US troops remain in Iraq.
More importantly, I don't embrace the spoiled child approach. My children have manners and know to treat people fairly. They are wonderful adults because they're naturally wonderful (in spite of their parents) but also because lessons were taught. Such as, if they made a mess -- or contributed to one -- at another person's home, it didn't matter if I had to be somewhere else right then (even for a TV interview at one time that I'm thinking of right now), we didn't leave until they had either cleaned up the mess themselves or helped clean it up.
So I don't understand how you bomb and shoot up a country year after year and then, woops, I got other things to do, you can clean up the mess right, see ya!
The press is stupid and immature. That's not my fault. The US has an obligation to pay attention to Iraq because it was the US government that destroyed the country.
The straight answer is: This is year nine of this site and I'm sure I could write about Iraq for another nine years. I hope I don't, I hope I've gotten offline before then. But the story of Iraq continues.
The poetic answer can be found in Anne Sexton's "For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further:"
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing
to rage in your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself;
it was you, or your house
or your kitchen.
And if you turn away
because there is no lesson here
I will hold my awkward bowl,
with all its cracked stars shining
like a complicated lie,
and fasten a new skin around it
as if I were dressing an orange
or a strange sun.
Not that it was beautiful,
but that I found some order there.
There ought to be something special
in this kind of hope.
Like the e-mailer, The Atlantic apparently feels the Iraq War was so long ago that they can now make PTS jokes or belittle it.
Leave it to a War Whore to so little value the suffering of those who served in the Iraq and Afghanistan War. The Atlantic is disgusting.
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