ayyyyyyyyyyyyyggggggggh.
I know, I already had something major against insurance companies. from way back in the "I need residential days" when they refused to put me there and let me stay. there was some irritation then. when they kicked Tracy out of Rogers prematurely, and then she died more than a little fucking "prematurely" ... I developed some outright rage and upset and foam-at-the-mouth emotion. but what fucking world am I in that I now "want" to be labeled "dependent" and "disabled" and all this other shit just so I can have the meds that I take every day, to be *capable* of working through a life that feels painful enough *with* chemical intervention? hey? this morning, the villains told my mom that not only have they failed to reinstate me, it will take up to a month for them to 'process' this whole "do I really qualify for dependent insurance even though I'm 19 and not a student?" issue. (if I could be a student, I wouldn't have at least a few of these disorders for which I need therapy and medication. duh. and more appropriately, damn you.) I said I can pay for some pills while things are being worked out, and it's true- I can. I'll be bankrupt in about two weeks, but I'd rather do that then be without, and I'd rather do that then watch my mom scramble all over the place trying to find it. "Hi? My 'allowance' - which I do nothing for? Use it on the damn pills." She told me this morning (before I'd mentioned that I'd pay for them - starting with the Effexor I'm completely out of, which is five dollars a pill, and of which I take two pills daily... and moving onto the quickly-disappearing Desipramine, the per-pill price of which I don't yet know, but of which I take a total of *six* throughout the course of one day/night...) that she didn't mean to be bothering me with this; this is her issue. I was more than a little incredulous. "Yours? They're my fucking pills."
"The only thing you have to worry about in terms of 'you're fucking pills' is that you take them. I'm the one who makes sure you have them to take. That boundary is really clear." ...Oh. So I guess if I offer to pay for them with money you *gave* me anyway, you're not going to bite, huh? And why don't I feel better? Why do I feel guilty when we all know where the real cruelty is located in this scenario? Damnit. I hate meds. I'm sorry I'm sick, ok? Does that make it better? ...We only had a couple weeks left with this stupid insurance company anyway; it's left over from her job at the retreat center. She's been fighting like mad to get coverage for when this runs out (seeing as she's still unemployed - fucking Bush economy fuck fuck) which of course is only a problem because of...hmm...her? No, she's in great health - other than her one therapy appointment a week. Takes lots of vitamins, amazes doctors with her youthful test results. My dad? No...divorce ensues. Dad's bills are no longer hers to share. My other siblings? No, no, no, no. She does help John pay for his sessions, but none of them are insured through her or my dad. (Who can't insure me because he's self-employed...I don't even remember how he insures himself. Maybe he doesn't. Because he's so healthy. Aggh. I'm not even mad at my dad, so let's not go there.) What's that? Very good! It's me! Me, me, me, me, me. Effexor, desipramine, flurazepam, alprazolam, propranolol, and two fucking doctor visits a week. Nineteen, unemployed, not in school. In case I wasn't entirely clear how the world looks upon people who don't work or go to school after high school, I'm getting the message now.
And it's not my fucking fault!
~me