excellent timing, brilliant planning
I'm fully aware that my life is not the crux upon which others' pivot. This is not a news flash. But.
But I do hold some place in some other peoples' lives, if only because I pay to be there. And it seems weird that...
OK, I've applied for Disability from the state and on a federal level, and actually have an attorney for the federal work, because there's just so MUCH of it. Well, I've been trying to keep her updated with the local crap, too, because it can have bearing on the federal, sometimes, but lately, every time I call or email, I don't get a response. And I get it, they're busy people, and really, what is there to say to "I agreed to a hearing via-telephone"? Not a whole hell of a lot, right? Though I did ask if she could come, like if that was part of the agreement, and I got no answer. *That* could have been answered.
Anyway, after about six months of waiting, I finally get a hearing date. Two weeks later, I get a letter in the mail from my attorney telling me that she's accepted a job with the Social Security Attorney's office and my case is being transferred to someone else in the firm, here, I need to sign this to make her my representative. My case goes to trial or whatever in, like, a month or less! CRAPPY TIMING! I mean, yea! for her and her new job, that's really cool if she wanted to move on or whatever, felt it was a better fit, is going to make more money/get the hell out of dodge, what have you. She was a nice enough person when I did see her that she a) inspired confidence in me that she could win my case and b) made me like her well enough that I would like her to have the kind of life she'd like, and if that's with another company, than that's with another company. I just wish she could have seen my case through.
It's been really morally suck-tastic, dealing with DHS, who claim I don't have enough medical evidence backing up my claim of disability. Well, no, the doctor they sent me to, who saw me for five minutes...no, he didn't have a grip on my physical state, despite his check marks and whatever the hell he wrote down. He checked boxes for things he didn't even ask questions about. He didn't even measure my range of motion, yet marked it complete. If there is one thing I have learned about repeat visits to physical therapy, it is that my range of motion is pathetically limited by my ridic tense neck and shoulder and back muscles. I over compensate by twisting my whole upper body. Apparently, many people can check their blind spot while driving by only moving their head. I did not know this until one of my physical therapists asked me how I did it and I was thusly enlightened. They said they only wanted the last year's worth of doctor's files, so I thought it'd be pointless to dredge up the last, oh, god, 19 years of treatment that has led to me finally asking for some assistance. It wasn't like I woke up with a headache and thought "Hey! Maybe the government can give me some money!" I had to be talked into this shit! (well, and then it became apparent I was *unable* to support myself). So at the last DHS hearing, I got turned down again because of lack of medical evidence, and, basically, because I pulled my shit together enough to sound like a person. Like, they could understand me over the phone, and I could use complete sentences, so they held that against me. Because if I could do it for the hearing, I must be able to do it for a job.
What they don't know is that I got home just after the migraine aura started, and didn't move from my bed for the rest of the day. That hour of pulling my shit together took all the energy I'd stored for a week, and the rest of the week's time to recover from using so much. I had a migraine that kept me in bed for the next three days, and practically worshiping the beautiful Zofran Gods that kept me from falling into a hurling cycle (because for me, it's not just enough to throw up, I have to keep doing it, on a schedule, regardless of my stomach's contents. Over the years, I've cultivated one hell of a gag reflex, in an incredibly boring and rather uncomfortable manner (note to those currently working on their own: if you're thinking a mantra might work, don't use the verbs you're trying to avoid taking part in. It's not "I'm not gonna hurl, I'm not gonna hurl...", it's "Everything is calm, I am relaxed, I breathe slowly in, and slowly out, everything is calm and relaxed..." You speak to the state you want to be in, not even mentioning or giving voice to the things that will impede you getting to that state. If you use the word, you get a mental image, which lingers, and sends impulses to the mental image's muscles. At least that's how I've always thought of it, and at this point, I'm wicked good at talking myself out of puking, whether it's migraine-related or not.) That's right, bitches, I cultivated a skill outta this shit. I'll admit, probably quite a few, but I don't really feel like talking about the silver lining just now. That's another one: I can find a fucking silver lining in just about any situation. Some are pretty fucking thin, some might be more glitter than a solid silver, or sort of a pewter than shiny silver, and many are speaking in relative terms, but I can find it in there somewhere. I find myself really annoying at times when I do that.
There's this thing about me that I hate sometimes. It's things I do, not everything, just a few things, sort of personality-wise, that I can't remember if they were there before I started having migraines or not. Like, is this, whatever it is today, *me*, or is it me because I'm sick? Like, I became that way to cope with all the constant pain? The thing is, it all started when I was 13. I'm never really gonna know. I was always sarcastic, I do know that. But it was never quite so...harsh. It didn't always bite. Was that something I would have just grown into eventually when I got older? I always deflect with humor, but I can't remember really doing so when people asked health questions when I was 13. Relationship status? hell, yeah. I was fucking 13, and usually the family member asking was just asking to be nosy as hell, not out of any interest in my personal happiness. But would I have kept it up to this degree, to where I have to remind myself before a conversation begins, during the conversation, and while it ends, to actually answer the questions that are being asked truthfully and without joking them off? I'd like to hope not.
I can't stand being in crowds, and I'm drained after spending time in a room with, honestly, even just another person, but if there are three other people in the room, I start planning exit strategies. I feel other people's tension, or where I imagine there must be tension, and it makes my skin crawl and my breathing short and my heart beat harder and faster and I leave before I get to full on Panic Attack. That's just four people in an average sized family room. What. The. Fuck? I do genuinely like people better than this.
But now I've done it.. jesus. I'm getting all...freaked out, and I'm only presenting scenarios that make me uncomfortable. They're not even events on a calendar!
There was this show on NBC that I adored. I really loved it. Mercy, it was called. It was about nurses, and focused on Veronica, a nurse who'd just come back from Afghanistan, working as a medic--or nurse, more likely, given her profession. The point is, she had wicked PTSD, and didn't want to talk, at all, about the war, or about being a nurse in the middle of a war zone. One of my favorite quotes ever came from that show, from Veronica: okay, we're not even talking about feelings right now, we are talking about a place where people go to talk about feelings, and I'm freaking out. The strength of my love for that quote is rivaled quite closely by the feelings I have for the following, also from the show and her: "I like my feelings pressed down, compressed. So they come out at random and inappropriate times." a wee bit painful for their truth, those quotes.
But, as it happened, the networked world was not ready just then for a show about our soldiers coming home with emotional baggage. It was way more prepared for some hot chicks to be sent to a Women's Correctional Facility, be strongly reminded that as Lily put it on How I Met Your Mother, "a woman's sexuality is a moving target," and wear Orange for a few years. Well, at least Taylor Schilling keeps getting a paycheck.
But I do hold some place in some other peoples' lives, if only because I pay to be there. And it seems weird that...
OK, I've applied for Disability from the state and on a federal level, and actually have an attorney for the federal work, because there's just so MUCH of it. Well, I've been trying to keep her updated with the local crap, too, because it can have bearing on the federal, sometimes, but lately, every time I call or email, I don't get a response. And I get it, they're busy people, and really, what is there to say to "I agreed to a hearing via-telephone"? Not a whole hell of a lot, right? Though I did ask if she could come, like if that was part of the agreement, and I got no answer. *That* could have been answered.
Anyway, after about six months of waiting, I finally get a hearing date. Two weeks later, I get a letter in the mail from my attorney telling me that she's accepted a job with the Social Security Attorney's office and my case is being transferred to someone else in the firm, here, I need to sign this to make her my representative. My case goes to trial or whatever in, like, a month or less! CRAPPY TIMING! I mean, yea! for her and her new job, that's really cool if she wanted to move on or whatever, felt it was a better fit, is going to make more money/get the hell out of dodge, what have you. She was a nice enough person when I did see her that she a) inspired confidence in me that she could win my case and b) made me like her well enough that I would like her to have the kind of life she'd like, and if that's with another company, than that's with another company. I just wish she could have seen my case through.
It's been really morally suck-tastic, dealing with DHS, who claim I don't have enough medical evidence backing up my claim of disability. Well, no, the doctor they sent me to, who saw me for five minutes...no, he didn't have a grip on my physical state, despite his check marks and whatever the hell he wrote down. He checked boxes for things he didn't even ask questions about. He didn't even measure my range of motion, yet marked it complete. If there is one thing I have learned about repeat visits to physical therapy, it is that my range of motion is pathetically limited by my ridic tense neck and shoulder and back muscles. I over compensate by twisting my whole upper body. Apparently, many people can check their blind spot while driving by only moving their head. I did not know this until one of my physical therapists asked me how I did it and I was thusly enlightened. They said they only wanted the last year's worth of doctor's files, so I thought it'd be pointless to dredge up the last, oh, god, 19 years of treatment that has led to me finally asking for some assistance. It wasn't like I woke up with a headache and thought "Hey! Maybe the government can give me some money!" I had to be talked into this shit! (well, and then it became apparent I was *unable* to support myself). So at the last DHS hearing, I got turned down again because of lack of medical evidence, and, basically, because I pulled my shit together enough to sound like a person. Like, they could understand me over the phone, and I could use complete sentences, so they held that against me. Because if I could do it for the hearing, I must be able to do it for a job.
What they don't know is that I got home just after the migraine aura started, and didn't move from my bed for the rest of the day. That hour of pulling my shit together took all the energy I'd stored for a week, and the rest of the week's time to recover from using so much. I had a migraine that kept me in bed for the next three days, and practically worshiping the beautiful Zofran Gods that kept me from falling into a hurling cycle (because for me, it's not just enough to throw up, I have to keep doing it, on a schedule, regardless of my stomach's contents. Over the years, I've cultivated one hell of a gag reflex, in an incredibly boring and rather uncomfortable manner (note to those currently working on their own: if you're thinking a mantra might work, don't use the verbs you're trying to avoid taking part in. It's not "I'm not gonna hurl, I'm not gonna hurl...", it's "Everything is calm, I am relaxed, I breathe slowly in, and slowly out, everything is calm and relaxed..." You speak to the state you want to be in, not even mentioning or giving voice to the things that will impede you getting to that state. If you use the word, you get a mental image, which lingers, and sends impulses to the mental image's muscles. At least that's how I've always thought of it, and at this point, I'm wicked good at talking myself out of puking, whether it's migraine-related or not.) That's right, bitches, I cultivated a skill outta this shit. I'll admit, probably quite a few, but I don't really feel like talking about the silver lining just now. That's another one: I can find a fucking silver lining in just about any situation. Some are pretty fucking thin, some might be more glitter than a solid silver, or sort of a pewter than shiny silver, and many are speaking in relative terms, but I can find it in there somewhere. I find myself really annoying at times when I do that.
There's this thing about me that I hate sometimes. It's things I do, not everything, just a few things, sort of personality-wise, that I can't remember if they were there before I started having migraines or not. Like, is this, whatever it is today, *me*, or is it me because I'm sick? Like, I became that way to cope with all the constant pain? The thing is, it all started when I was 13. I'm never really gonna know. I was always sarcastic, I do know that. But it was never quite so...harsh. It didn't always bite. Was that something I would have just grown into eventually when I got older? I always deflect with humor, but I can't remember really doing so when people asked health questions when I was 13. Relationship status? hell, yeah. I was fucking 13, and usually the family member asking was just asking to be nosy as hell, not out of any interest in my personal happiness. But would I have kept it up to this degree, to where I have to remind myself before a conversation begins, during the conversation, and while it ends, to actually answer the questions that are being asked truthfully and without joking them off? I'd like to hope not.
I can't stand being in crowds, and I'm drained after spending time in a room with, honestly, even just another person, but if there are three other people in the room, I start planning exit strategies. I feel other people's tension, or where I imagine there must be tension, and it makes my skin crawl and my breathing short and my heart beat harder and faster and I leave before I get to full on Panic Attack. That's just four people in an average sized family room. What. The. Fuck? I do genuinely like people better than this.
But now I've done it.. jesus. I'm getting all...freaked out, and I'm only presenting scenarios that make me uncomfortable. They're not even events on a calendar!
There was this show on NBC that I adored. I really loved it. Mercy, it was called. It was about nurses, and focused on Veronica, a nurse who'd just come back from Afghanistan, working as a medic--or nurse, more likely, given her profession. The point is, she had wicked PTSD, and didn't want to talk, at all, about the war, or about being a nurse in the middle of a war zone. One of my favorite quotes ever came from that show, from Veronica: okay, we're not even talking about feelings right now, we are talking about a place where people go to talk about feelings, and I'm freaking out. The strength of my love for that quote is rivaled quite closely by the feelings I have for the following, also from the show and her: "I like my feelings pressed down, compressed. So they come out at random and inappropriate times." a wee bit painful for their truth, those quotes.
But, as it happened, the networked world was not ready just then for a show about our soldiers coming home with emotional baggage. It was way more prepared for some hot chicks to be sent to a Women's Correctional Facility, be strongly reminded that as Lily put it on How I Met Your Mother, "a woman's sexuality is a moving target," and wear Orange for a few years. Well, at least Taylor Schilling keeps getting a paycheck.