One does not simply go to Costco.

For me, Costco is always an experience—and almost never the experience I actually need.

Don’t get me wrong. I live off the lower prices. Bulk quantities are genuinely helpful, especially for non-perishables. And yes, I am absolutely susceptible to the siren song of gadgets I may want but definitely do not need. From a purely practical standpoint, the membership is worth it.

That said… can we talk for a minute about the members-only club aspect of Costco?

Yes, it’s a private club. Yes, it’s members only. But this isn’t a 1950s country club with a velvet rope and some mysterious vetting process. The sole requirement for Costco membership is the ability to cough up the annual fee.

And yet—some people act like they’ve been inducted into a secret society.

Most shoppers are just regular people trying to get through their day. But there is a particular subset of Costco members who behave like their membership confers a level of entitlement normally reserved for royalty. From the moment you hit the parking lot until the moment you escape with your oversized cart and questionable life choices, the experience is… hostile.

Parking Lots and PTSD Don’t Mix

The parking lot alone is a major trigger for someone with PTSD.

Crowded. Chaotic. Poorly designed. It’s incredibly easy to get boxed in, stuck, or forced into tight spaces with impatient drivers circling like sharks. I have quite literally been run over at Costco by someone trying to get a parking spot six feet closer to the door.

That’s not hyperbole. That happened.

By the time I even enter the store, my nervous system is already on edge.

The Entrance Bottleneck

Once inside, after showing your membership card, about 90% of shoppers immediately stop dead in the entrance to examine their shopping list, consult their phone, or have a family meeting—effectively blocking the entire flow of traffic.

Again: trapped.

For someone with PTSD, being trapped—physically or spatially—is not just annoying. It’s destabilizing.

Add a Service Dog to the Mix

Now layer in PTSD and a service dog.

Costco becomes a maze of potential triggers: crowds, carts clipping heels, people reaching over your head, sudden noises, blocked exits, unpredictable movement. Triggers and flashbacks happen without warning—that’s how PTSD works—but at Costco, they can stack. Multiple triggers at once. Over and over.

By the time I left, I was drained. Emotionally, physically, neurologically exhausted.

Usually, it doesn’t spill into the next day.

This time, it did.

I’ve felt washed out all day. Irritable. Raw.

Oh well. What did we expect?
The world is shit.
Off to the wasteland.

The Wasteland (and the Weird Comfort of It)

The wasteland has been… a little weird the last couple of nights.

I’ve had some genuinely good conversations with people I regularly play with—conversations with actual depth. This group of guys has been a real bright spot. Discussions range from absurdly light to unexpectedly heavy, and the group handles it all with a kind of quiet competence that feels rare.

That sense of camaraderie matters more than I probably admit.

My live streaming, on the other hand, has been pretty dry lately. One follower has shown up consistently this week—and that’s it. I know people have lives. No one owes me their time. But it’s jarring to go from having several people around most nights to… near silence.

Even the bots have stopped showing up to tell me how to “grow my channel” or redesign my graphics.

Which, frankly, makes me feel boring.

And yes—I can absolutely be boring. That part’s fair.

Grief, Anniversaries, and Valentine’s Day Hellscape

PTSD has a way of turning any situation into absolute shit, especially during already stressful times.

My mother died two years ago on January 28th. Her birthday is on Valentine’s Day.

So not only am I dealing with grief and loss, I’m also being relentlessly reminded that her birthday is approaching—thanks to the nonstop assault of Valentine’s Day marketing. The last two years—and now three—have made that especially unbearable.

People often apologize when they hear this.

I understand the sentiment. I know they’re trying to be kind. But honestly? I don’t think anyone needs to apologize for something they didn’t cause. Sympathy is fine, but apologies feel… misplaced.

What I’ve realized is that I don’t really need sympathy anymore.

And if I’m being brutally honest, I don’t feel much empathy either—not for what’s ongoing, at least. Loss doesn’t end. It just changes shape.

Forward Motion (Even If It’s Sideways)

I’ll keep blogging. It seems to be the only sounding board left.

I’ll keep moving forward, the way I’ve been trying to for almost three years now. I have no desire to die—I just don’t really want to be here. Some days I fantasize about selling the house, getting an RV, loading up the dogs, and disappearing into a string of quiet adventures.

A new diversion, perhaps.

Gaming will stay. It doesn’t require physical exertion, and it still gives me somewhere to exist safely.

And here’s the big thing:
I got the van back.

I sold our conversion van under duress, and this past weekend I was able to reclaim it. I’m getting ready to strip it out and rebuild it—slowly, deliberately—so it can be adventure-ready again.

I had so many plans for that van before I was forced to let it go. Getting it back feels like reclaiming a piece of momentum. A distraction project, sure—but a good one.

I’m not leaving the wasteland.
I’m just adding another road.

It won’t be completely free of Fallout either. I fully intend to do a Fallout-themed paint job on the exterior. Stay tuned—I’ll share photos for anyone interested.

My dog was thrilled to see the van back.

I still miss my mom.

Be good to yourselves.