...on my sausage muffins...

(Yeah, you know I hate coming up with titles.)

---

Bet you thought I'd never blog again.

(I was starting to think so, too.)

But I needed an outlet, so this is it.

(I ought to write in my diary, though, too...I can't tell you if I've put anything in there since coming back from Pine Rest.)

~*~

Here I am...twenty-six years old and facing the distinct possibility that I will be filing disability before the end of the month. But then I never thought I'd apply for food stamps or be in a mental hospital and here I am...food stamps intermittently for a couple of years now and a week in Pine Rest shortly before Halloween.

 

I've had medical coverage up until this point. Had to borrow money for copays and prescriptions more than a few times over the years (especially last year, being out of work for so long), but otherwise, everything has been okay.

But I've finally aged out of the system. The contract that GM/UAW has with Blue Cross states that after a dependent turns 26, their coverage expires at the end of the month (or something like that). UAW offered me COBRA, but they want seven hundred and fifty freaking dollars A MONTH! Isn't that insane?

I would buy my own insurance, like a big girl...except Macy's let me go at the end of the year. (I actually worked two weeks longer than I was supposed to.) And I applied for a position selling cosmetics, but I "didn't have enough sales experience". (I just checked again last night--there's nothing open.)

So I applied for Medicaid. At the time I applied, I told the receptionist, "I'm mentally ill. I've been in a mental hospital. Do you want me to turn in a copy of my file?" She said no...I'd get a chance to prove my case.

BULLSHIT!

I received a letter about three weeks after I applied, saying that I was denied because I was in the age gap, not disabled, not blind, not pregnant and not taking care of anyone who needed medical care. Plus, they're "not enrolling right now".

I called my caseworker and left her a voice mail. A day or two later, I sent her an impassioned email saying that I need my meds, therapy, etc., because I'll be going back to square one (without the meds, at least) and be back to the misery that started on October 23! I called her again this past Wednesday and she said that the decision wasn't hers and my only other option--outside of disability--was applying for the Barry-Eaton Health Plan.

So I called the health department and get jack shit on BEHP. I'll spare you the details, but I seemed to run into a major dysfunction of the phone system. (Only thing I learned was that, as of November, they have limited spots open each month. So my chances of getting in were probably slim there, too.)

I had one more chance (I thought). When I got out of PR, my counselor gave me the name of a group called the Justice in Mental Health Organization and told me they could help me with things that I couldn't get elsewhere. I called JIMHO after struggling with BEDHD for a while and the woman they transferred me to said that they prefer to stay out of the mess that is Medicaid. If I wanted their help in filing an appeal, that was fine, but otherwise, they're just there for housing help and that sort of thing.

I was crying by that point. All I want is the continued assurance that I'll be able to get my medications and survive in this life that I've carved out for myself since leaving Pine Rest, but I get balked at every turn. I'm twenty-six. Do you really think I want to file for disability? Do you really think I want to proclaim to the world "I can't work" (even though I can [as long as I'm taking my medications] and this is actually the only option I have to get continued health coverage)? Even though I keep telling myself, "This is your chance to try to make it as a novelist without having to try to make a living in the meanwhile"¹, it feels like the end of the road for me.

I was all ready to go in and reapply for Medicaid, this time marking the box claiming disability (because that's what my caseworker said to do). And this time, I was going to go in armed--files from my counselor, a copy of the paperwork Pine Rest sent to her, a copy of the part of my doctor's file saying she treated me for depression back in June, a copy of the hospital files saying that they treated me in the ER for a panic attack...whatever it took. (Sadly, nothing from my psychiatrist...I've seen her "a la carte menu" and it's something like $300 for her to help you file for disability. And insurance doesn't cover it.) But my counselor told me that she wanted to discuss it next session, especially since she's had a lot of experience helping people file for disability. So I wait for Tuesday.

 

Meanwhile, the thing on top of my mind is school.

I've been thinking strongly of dropping out, because there's no sense in training for a career if I won't be allowed to work.

But it occurred to me that I might want to see the semester through, because with LCC's new refund system, I might not get all my money back otherwise. And I want my money...I want/need a new laptop, I want to get my car painted (the replacement hood is red and there are places on the front bumper where the paint was stripped off in the accident), I want to go to the eye doctor next month (and may need to get a new prescription for my glasses) and I go back to the dentist in May. (Among other things.)

As I've been working on this post, however, I think I might come to a compromise and drop all but one of my classes. There's no sense in re-certifying in CPR/BLS if I'm not going to become a nurse, I don't think I'm getting pharmacology and I don't think my grasp of microbiology is all that great, either. But I wouldn't mind staying in Human Growth and Development. It's a psychology class, after all, and I do enjoy my psych classes. (And I just remembered that staying in class will keep the student loan people off my back, as well. Double bonus.)

I don't know why I'm hesitating to drop my classes. Even if my counselor helps me get healthcare without filing for disability, I'm still leaning away from continuing my nursing studies. I'd love to practice medicine, but once again, I'm facing obstacles--I think I'm going to fail pharma (either via the math portion [which can kill your whole grade] or via theory...or both) and I'm unsteady on my feet with micro. I'm starting to think that medicine is just like going into the military--it's something my heart wants, but there are far too many obstacles for me to reach my goal. So if I am able to work, I might become a paralegal instead. Yahoo keeps listing it as a high demand field, after all. (I thought about medical billing and coding, but I'd have to take med terms over again, since I failed them at JCC--and that class was hard enough the first time!)

 

I guess I'll just have to wait and see what the gods have planned for me...

 

 

=====

¹ I realize you can get your disability taken away if you work too much/earn too much money, but hopefully that will correlate with me making enough money between advances, royalties and everything else that I feel that I can afford healthcare on my own. Believe me...if I find that I can eventually make it as a novelist, I'll get off disability...I have no intention of cheating the system.

So instead of a guy getting trampled to death, we had one person get shot because they refused to give up their purchases; and another twenty people were injured when some dumbass bitch thought it would be awesome to shoot people with pepper spray, just so she could get a cheap xbox 360. Really, people? Or should I say "retailers"? You're so goddamn greedy for money that you have to perpetuate the Black Friday Psychosis, rather than spread out the deals and...I dunno...save some lives?

*"what is this world coming to?" sigh*

 

---

 

I can't say that my life has been running much better. In fact, it's been a series of small-medium incidences the past several days.

 

~*~

 

Since my grandma left for Florida early this year and my Great-Great Aunt Grace decided she didn't want to join us, Mom and I went to our cousins' house (Karen and Gene) for dinner on Thursday. So here I am, rounding the curve onto 50 and I happen to check the time...and my clock is gone. I get there (I was the first one, but only by a whole five minutes) and my power locks won't go. Amy was still willing to start as of about ten after nine Thursday night, so it might be the alternator or some other electrical issue.

 

Yesterday, I pissed off the "Queen of the Store".

No, seriously.

There's this woman that has been working there for a Very Long Time and...well...you'll see. (I won't specify how long, because I don't want this to get back to her and cause more shit.)

It was getting near time for me to clock out for dinner, so to waste those last few minutes, I decided to ring up one of the two or three customers waiting in line. There was a gentleman waiting at the back of the counter with a big box, so I said something to the effect of, "Are you all set?" and before he could say something like, "No, I'm already being helped; thank you." the Queen jumps in my shit!

Apparently, I had "stolen" two other customers from her that day and since I was about to steal a third, the Queen was offended. She said something like, "I don't like saying anything in front of customers, but you've already stolen two customers from me today and I've had enough!" But she doesn't say it quietly...she says it in front of all the customers that were waiting at the registers and within earshot!¹ I guess the Queen's rule is, if you help them on the floor, they're automatically your customer and you are the only one allowed to ring them up. Isn't that insane?!² So I muttered sorry and went straight to the office. To ask for a transfer.

I figured if this whole "you're stealing my customers!" shit was going to be a regular thing (and I'm sure it will be), I didn't want to be based in home anymore. I wanted to be an uncategorized flex associate, so I could pick my own shifts and stay the hell away from the home department. To cut a long conversation with management short, I'm still assigned to home...nothing's changed. And apparently the Queen jumps in the managers' shit on a regular basis, too. (She must be a great seller or something, because I'd think that any other company would've told her to take a hike a long time ago. [Based on my experiences at Walmart, the managers I had would've canned her ass for insubordination post-haste!])

So I decided, "If you're going to be a bitch, I'm not going to tell you when I'm going to dinner. I'm just going to punch out and disappear." And I did just that, timing it in such a way that she had very little of her shift left by the time I got back. (I stayed out of her way after I got back, of course.)

 

As if all that wasn't bad enough, I woke up this morning with a bum knee.

It didn't hurt at all during work or during my quick trip to Meijer afterward, and if it hurt when I got home last night, I probably just blew it off as normal abuse after working ten hours.

But it definitely hurt this morning. It woke me up at 9:30 and by 9:45, I decided I couldn't take it anymore. So I called and checked to see what time my chiropractor closed, called in "injured" to work, called Mom to say that she was getting her car back early, dressed and took off. Fortunately, my bad knee didn't turn into a bad day. Well, except for a couple of panic attacks. (*annoyed sigh*) Only a few more days 'til the psychiatrist...maybe she'll suggest taking a whole Klonopin, instead of a half.

The chiro on duty put my knee back together and adjusted a few other things (cleaning up more wear and tear from yesterday, most like) and then I caught up with my mom near Oak Park and we ran around town together.

Well, I should say that I drove her to the library and gimped to the nearest chair to wait for her. Then I waited for her in the car at the post office and the recycling center. And when we got the recyclables, I grabbed her purse, so she treated me to lunch at the Eaton Place and we brainstormed for Christmas presents. (It was a seriously productive lunch. And a delicious one...I love Eaton Place's olive burgers. ^_^)

After we finished there, we took a slice of lemon pie (left over from Thanksgiving) to Aunt Grace and had a short visit, then Mom took me home. (Or rather, I drove because I was feeling funny and dropped myself off and she drove her car back into town.) I did a few things (including start the laundry), then collapsed for a nap from about four to six-thirty.

 

 

Oh, I have to tell you what I'm thankful for this year?

Don't you already know?

 

William James Remar.

 

Of course.

 

 

(By the way...someone who is either a financial big shot in LA or really "no one at all" got lucky enough to have Jamie come over to his sister's house for the holiday. So I have a pic of him slicing a turkey.) (His head's down, but I know it's him...knew it was him when I looked at the preview on Twitter and could only see his hands and arms. You love someone long enough, you know every part of them.)

 

 

=====

¹ When I related this story to her, Mom said calling me out in front of a bunch of customers makes her look bad and is a great way to lose customers...they'll be sure to ask for someone else next time. (She would know...she has a degree in business and has been in sales since before I was born.)

² All I can think of is that it's the goddamn sales goals. Since the Queen is a vet, she was expected to do over 5k in sales on Friday, while I--as fresh meat--was only expected to do just shy of 2k. It sure as hell isn't commission--only women's shoes, makeup and fine jewelry are commissioned.

The last time I wrote, I was incredibly optimistic. I hadn't had a panic attack since before I was released from Pine Rest, I was feeling great, I was getting my life back together and feeling hopeful about the future...

 

Unfortunately, optimism doesn't last.

And neither does the panic-attack-free zone.

 

I suspect another big panic attack is in my future. And its name is "Black Friday".

I won't lie...I literally cried the day before I worked Black Friday the first time. That's how scared I was about working on a day I'd spent twenty years basically hearing horror stories about. It's the one day of the year that a small part of humanity suffers from greed-induced psychosis. I mean, a guy was trampled to death on Black Friday a few years ago...what else can you call it but psychosis?

The reason I'm thinking that I'm heading for another panic attack is to me, Black Friday is all about stress, stress and more stress. Customers at every turn, demanding your attention, demanding your help, demanding questions that you probably don't have answers for on your second day of work (and your first day in that department--both of which will be happening to me this year)...and poor little you, struggling through a ten-hour shift after ten months of not working and battling panic disorder at the same time. Exciting, isn't it? </sarcasm>

 

I don't want this disease to run my life.

I don't want to come down with agoraphobia because I'm so scared that I'll have a panic attack every time I step out of the house. (Although I don't know how that would work out for me, since all my panic attacks seem to happen in the house.)

I want so bad to go back to the way things were. It was one thing when I was diagnosed with acid reflux--there was always a possibility that it was a bacterium that could mimic the symptoms or even an ulcer. But mental illness just is...it never goes away. You can only get it under control and do your best to live with it. (Having been depressed for the last thirteen years, I should know about "living with it".)

When you're a little girl, you have big dreams about having a great career, a husband, children and perhaps even fame. You never guess that an illness might come along that makes each day a battle...

I've been saying for about a week now that I "went on vacation", but I didn't say where, I didn't sound excited about it and there were no pictures afterward.

That's because "went on vacation" is a euphemism I made up to hide the fact that I committed myself. (My parents told my professors and other non-family members that I was simply "in the hospital", but "vacation" is what came to me, so that's what I went with.)

 

On Sunday, October 23, I had a panic attack. Except I had no idea that that's what it was. My heart started beating faster, I had a hard time catching my breath (it felt like I'd gone for a brisk walk) and I was flushed. I tried for a while to calm down, but nothing helped--not my dad's suggestion of taking a deep breath, nor lying down (I tried both the couch and my bed). I finally put a call in to the hospital and asked the receptionist (a former coworker of mine) if she'd page the doctor on call. Twenty minutes, no answer. So I went to the emergency room.

I won't go into the finer details, but I had an EKG, a blood draw and an IV. (And found out that I have an "evil twin" out there somewhere, but that's another story entirely). The doctor decided that I did indeed have a panic attack, had a nurse give me some Xanax and sent me home with a 'scrip for twenty more.

Well, in case I've never mentioned it before, I fall apart when I get sick. I cry when I have so much as a cold (though it usually takes a few days) and I cry even harder when I learn I have a chronic disease. And since this was my second chronic disease in six weeks, I cried the moment the doctor stepped out of the room.

 

A little medical history sidetrack here:

• Lactose intolerant: self-diagnosed at puberty [11]. (I kept having to run to the bathroom when we visited places like Pizza Hut and Taco Bell. Plus my mom has it.)
• Depression: self-diagnosed at twelve when I announced I wanted to commit suicide, but confirmed by one of those written tests when I was eighteen.
• IBS: diagnosed at eighteen
• Acid reflux: diagnosed on September 12 after a trip to the emergency room. (I thought I was having an allergic reaction, but when I described all my recent symptoms to the doctor, he said I had GERD.)
• Anxiety disorder: diagnosed on October 23. (My doctor mentioned it in combination with depression at my new patient visit back in June, but since I didn't have a panic attack until the 23rd, I'm counting the later date.)

 

Two chronic illnesses in six weeks, on top of everything else I already had, made me feel like my body hated me. It made me feel like I was falling apart at age twenty-five and there was nothing I could do. I wanted to curl up and die--or at least take my personality out of my body and send it on vacation for a few weeks, at which point I could come back and everything would be all right.

I knew as early as Monday night (24) that I wanted to commit myself. It wasn't just because I had another panic attack when the power went out that afternoon, it wasn't just feeling like I wanted to curl up and die...it was because I also wanted twenty-four-hour medical care. It seemed like every little twitch in my body since September 12 made me worried that I was having another physical problem and I was starting to feel like I couldn't go through life without a nurse or an EMT or another medical professional constantly by my side to check me out. I knew that by committing myself, I'd get exactly what I wanted--help with my panic attacks (I figured the depression would go back to the back burner once the attacks were out of control) and nurses looking after me every minute of every day.

So the next day, I did it. I talked it over with my therapist and I was in Grand Rapids by 7:30 that evening and snug in my bed by quarter to twelve. (Processing takes a long time...be aware of that, whether you go voluntarily or involuntarily.)

I got what I wanted. I didn't really feel like the classes helped me and I didn't get individual counseling or tips on how to fend off the panic attacks, but I got medication that allows me to go through the day and not worry every minute that I might have another attack (despite the fact that it makes me tired). Better than having nurses just footsteps away, I had people checking on me around the clock. (It takes some getting used to, having someone peek in on you every five to fifteen minutes while you're trying to sleep and it's kind of annoying having someone check on you periodically when you're skipping class in favor of a shower, but...) More than that, I got other people. I got new friends ranging from 18-65 who were also suffering from depression and anxiety. Yes, there were professional staff members that we were assigned to in case we needed to talk (and came to us twice a day to have a talk), but there's nothing quite like sitting down next to a twenty-one-year-old who has some of the same problems you do and just pouring out your heart.

It was hard leaving. Part of me was like, "Yes! I can go back to having my razor and my conditioner and my shoes and everything else!", but there was another part of me that was scared to leave the nest and felt very much like a young bird who wasn't sure enough of her wings to fly. But it's been a week and I've made it okay so far. And I'll keep trying to make it; knowing that if I ever hurt so bad again, I can always go back.

 

 

And I'll tell you a secret: when they give you your life back after a week, you'll have no idea what to do with it.

(Or at least I didn't.)

There are two kinds of praise you can get from your mother: "mom praise", the sort of praise you get just because she's your mother and "real praise", which is exactly what it sounds like. Tonight, I--happily--got the latter.

 

My mom was the one that brought up Meet Ophelia this time and she said the same thing she said last time; that she wishes I would have fleshed it out more. This time, I remembered to point out to her what I think I mentioned here several entries ago--that it was written with the idea that the reader was familiar with canon, so I skipped over a lot of that material to avoid redundancies. Once that was said, my mother finally acknowledged that that could be her problem...that she wasn't completely familiar with canon.

That aside, my mother told me that she liked the way I put the words together and...well, she seemed to have trouble properly describing how she felt about my writing. So I guess that's a good thing. Bottom line, it felt like she was really impressed by my writing and it wasn't just "mom praise".

 

 

Which makes me feel good...