Sunday, September 15, 2013



I have been dealing with this situation for the last 6 or 7 weeks, which is already stupid, because I have better things to do than play Hot Potato with Doctor's Offices, Insurance companies, Pharmacies and Drug companies (I have used my 1 Cymbalta coupon for the year already.) I cannot get a steady supply of my Cymbalta. I take 30 Mg per day and it works well for me. Years ago, shortly after my mother died, I took Zoloft and was unable to get over that muzzy-headed, terrible limp, don't-give-a-shit feeling. I was still married, to He Who Shall Not Be Named, and he being the narcissistic asshole kept thinking I was going to bring him into the picture, with my analyst. I never planned on doing so, because I didn't trust him. At any rate, as I was paying out-of-pocket, I soon had to stop the sessions, as I could no longer afford them. Talk analysis is a bit over-rated I believe when you're pretty sure you know the causes of the pain.

At any rate, I have fumbled along with this since the age of around 16. My mother was depressed and tried to take her own life, something I will never, never do. The horrendous trauma and the complete bewilderment of my father, along with his feelings of betrayal and loss, even though she didn't die then, pretty much put the cap on what was by then, a stormy marriage. I was 7.

I was 1 year old and my father was in school. He was my primary care-giver.

This led me to vow that I would NEVER have children, and to my shame, I aborted my baby, and kept that vow. Of course, I felt horrible, worse than horrible, but the alternative of adoption was not a choice I could live with and I knew that child would have had as bad if not worse a time as my own; I would have been a horrible mother. I cannot say that with hindsight, I may have been an O-K mom, I just know that I wouldn't have been stellar mom material. Don't get me wrong, I love children. I play with them and can talk to them and teach them and relate well. It was just never, ever in the stars for me have them, so I leave my legacy another way.

Depression is a huge battle. It goes on and on and on and on. And even when you're having good days, you just enjoy the HELL out of the them, because they don't last. But then, what does? Nothing goes on forever. Maybe, depression is God's way of telling us this isn't forever and always. But, look around. If you're halfway aware in this day and age, people are dying; in Syria, now. Back in the 50s, it was the Korean “Police Action,” 60s and 70s, Viet Nam. None of this is new. I will be depressed when I die; that is a statement of fact. How I choose to deal with it, is another matter

What is new is this, the nihilistic attitudes of people who just don't give a good goddamned about their jobs, their relationships, their reputations; anything. What follows is an excerpt of what I have been dealing with for the last 6 weeks and there is absolutely no need for this. I have supplemental insurance, I have Medicare and Medicaid. I have boatloads of friends who are willing to pay for the Cymbalta prescription I already have and none of this is necessary. I just need people to do their goddamned jobs.

Like I did, like I know my readers do. I took pride in my viola playing and being able to do the things I did. I was excellent at it and I have the reputation to prove it. The same thing in IT and I have awards on the wall here in my little place that prove I was good at what I did. I still am. I am 100 for 100 in fixing and rebuilding computer laptops this last month, my colleague and I, and we take pride in that.

I'll fix it for ya, but like violins and Mozart, Unless you're an IBM Thinkpad I hate the bastards.

So, why, tell me, why do so many people not care? A case in point. A friend of mine, Nancy, has a “hoosier” cabinet at her house not very far from her that belongs to me and was given me by my mom when she died. I left my 3rd call today in as many days to Nancy, and said “I thought we were friends. At least treat me as a person of some consequence and Just return my call. Thanks, 'Bye,”

I wouldn't have been so direct with her normally, but this is what it is like trying to get things done. Being depressed and trying to get things done, doesn't help. Then, I think I went too far and will hurt her feelings. Fuck it. I've been having my feelings hurt my whole life and no one ever gave a shit. I want to turn the back part of our place into a little music place, where I can practice and get to my music, but our kitchen is small and my hoosier will give me extra counter space. Besides, IT'S MINE.

Anyway, depression, and a lifetime of dealing with it, makes our brains different than other people's brains. I'm not going to say “normal” because I don't know what the hell that means. I never did. But what it's mean for me is a lifetime of combating feeling unworthy, unloved, useless and in some cases, helpless. Being bipolar can sometimes be a plus; I get a lot more done, like right now and I have to take advantage of that. It also keeps me away from the general populace, which is a very good thing, since most are stupid and will piss me off when I'm like this in a heartbeat. This isn't my Asperger, this is just badly-repressed rage, pure and simple. Asperger is a different sort of "doesn't play well with others," for all you MDs, DOs, PhDs, and other alphabet-soup types out there reading this shit.

It can also be a huge deficit. I have a low impulse inhibition from my essential tremor (which has been remarkable stable through this turmoil, although my COPD is really, really bad) and I will go from 0 to batshitcrazyinsane in less than 2 seconds. Cymbalta kind of mellows that out and I am more liable to, oh, I don't know, think about the consequences before I punch that cholo in the face, with a right jab, who is pissed because I can't find my wallet in my backpack, because I can't see. Maybe I should have just hit him for being so fucking stupid, since I have a cane and glasses and it's apparent I have some impairment. The reason for my insta-insanity? He was clearly impatient and I apologized. So, I said, "Hey, Cholo, you got somewhere to be? I don't think so, don't be so shitty about it." At least I didn't say "Chinga tu madre." There would have been a brawl.

The nihilism is perhaps a defense for people like Becky, the receptionist at the Psych's office who, when I called for the 2nd time Friday afternoon, after talking to Juan at Simply Health and very kindly faxed doctor's authorizations to both my Psych's offices and then waited, per Juan's instructions for 1/2 hours, said, “Hi, This is Mary Walla--” she cut me off, with "hold please" and put me on hold. For 20 minutes. All I had was a simple yes or no question. All I wanted to know was did she receive the paper work that Simply had faxed to both offices. I tried to call the other office, as well. It was 4 pm on Friday, September 13, 2013. I tried and I tried and I tried. I couldn't get through to anyone at those offices. But to just put someone on hold and then turn off all the phones? That's the second time Becky has done that to me.

As most people in the medical community know, you cannot stop treatment for depression and then start, stop and start, stop and start. It's like that for lots of conditions and illnesses. Depression is one of the worst; the yo-yo effect is horrible and JC is threatening to put me in the hospital. But he can't. As long as I'm lucid he can't. I know he's worried about me, but this is not like the time I WAS Baker Acted. I had a psychotic break, then. I feel this; as the author Harlan Ellison interview I heard on NPR, “I wake up angry.”

My parents introduced me to Ellison when I was about 8. I've read his work off and on ever since. He is a keeper.

I agree with that statement. Rage against the machine. Rage against the injustice. Fury at the outer trappings of a society so corrupt it knows not when to fall. Fury at the men and women who lie, cheat and steal their way to the top. Fury at the connivers who pass meaningless, porous laws and then compel the citizens of the land to live or die or be imprisoned by them. Work up that kind of fury that is pure and hot and meant to burn away all the corruption, sybaritic don't-give-a-good-goddamned about anything, nihilistic people who have turned this world into a cauldron of rot. Then, turn that fury to good, write letters, run for office, go to law school and become a constitutional scholar. Stoke that fury. Because this rot is here to stay and it's chromatic in the sense that it runs the spectrum; top to bottom. THAT's how I'm going to deal with this situation; I hope. 

Post a Comment