PTSD Now Covers Deep Disappointment

I do try to avoid the news, but sometimes I get bits of it while waiting for weather.


Yesterday, a very, very young man (although I'm probably being insensitive for assuming its gender) was bemoaning the SCOTUS rejection of hearing the case for open bathrooms.  "My heart hurts for all the trans students who are living in fear!" it wept.


Why? 


I know, they'll all be crowding the counseling offices to weep and shake and curl up into balls over this disappointment.  More than one will drop out of college and go back to their childhood bedrooms, pull the blankets up, and go on PTSD disability.


I'm laughing.


I have PTSD.  From being raped.  Constantly, age 3 to age 17.  And I function.  I do not expect people to tiptoe around me, I do not expect all men to apologize, and I do not expect everything in life to go my way.


And I have no sympathy for these fake-disorder crybabies.


That's all for now.  Just... grow up.  Life isn't elementary school, where your feelings are spared and you get awards for breathing.  And, increasingly, get special treatment for deciding your preferences before you even develop secondary sexual characteristics.