I've had better days.
Overall, I am not happy with the place I'm going to get counseling. I had another hour-plus long wait to see a doctor for, like, two minutes, in that waiting room. The doctor said something vague about someone had threatened to burn down the building, which, yeah, I can see how that would throw your schedule off. That's pretty awful, and I am really glad nothing happened. But maybe they could have mentioned it at the front desk? Because I would not be angry about it if I hadn't perceived it at the time as part of a demonstrable pattern of behavior.
I've been treated so shittily by so many of the people who were supposed to help me, going back to my single digits, that being kept waiting under certain circumstances is triggering. It makes me feel neglected, unwanted, like I am dealing with people who don't want to deal with me, no matter how nice I am. It makes me into a worse person, an angry person, and if I let that show they treat me differently. But it's hard to stifle it. Normally I manage just fine and I'm polite about it and it's brownies and handshakes for everyone. But this is not "normally." I'm not doing well. When you aren't doing well, it's hard to crush that down. Especially when you have been proven right so many times. Especially when you are seeking help for an inability to cope with shit, and "shit" suddenly encompasses a newfound ability to freak out in clinical settings, like this one, no matter how benign. I thought I was over that. Apparently not. Congratulations! You've just taken two giant steps back.
I've made a big deal out of documenting my efforts to get mental health care and to get some disability benefits for that. So I'm going to write about this even though I really just want to leave it be, because I cannot change it and cannot get out of it. Even though I am pretty sure it will not seem that bad later, and I will be less angry and upset. Even though I was just triggered by being neglected -- A. GAIN. -- and my reaction is therefore probably excessive given that it was completely unintentional and not malicious on their part at all. Even though I am bipolar and therefore all of my moods are suspect, possibly meaningless. Even though it will probably all work out in the end. *sparklechimes*
They seem like nice people, and most of them seem like they maybe do really want to help. I think. I mean, they're nice, for the most part. But I don't like the prescribing doctor they have me seeing there at all, who seems to think that having a negative response to being kept waiting for an hour is a problem that means I need more meds. First, you have to be prepared for the fact that I am going to ask you to explain why you think that's necessary, and second, you had better believe I'm going to take my time thinking about it. Seriously. Dude, don't fucking spring that shit on me, especially not with your pen in your hand and your prescription pad out and you barely listening to me, and when I tell you that I would not like to raise the dose of the one genuinely scary drug I am on, seriously, don't give me a look like I'm the crazy one. Which I am, okay, I get that, but I am not fucking uncooperative. I jump through hoops like there were beautiful, naked young men holding baskets of blackberries and sex toys on the other side. I do my part, I ask for very, very little, the absolute minimum actually. Given how you treat me, I want to see you people less often. So when shit goes awry in a way that leaves me really, really uncomfortable, pardon me for being honest with you about how I am feeling and poking holes in your bubble of not giving a shit so you have to breathe the same air the crazy people are breathing for five fuckin' minutes. Uncomfortable? Motherfucker, you should be. I am your worst fucking nightmare. I am a patient who cares what happens to her too much to listen to people who are not listening to her.
They cannot schedule effectively and are always running really, really late. They'll schedule appointments for times the doctor isn't even there. If you're lucky, they'll call and let you know about it. If you aren't, they won't, and you'll get there, and they're like, "Oh, he doesn't even get here for another hour. Sry." Do they not have clocks on your planet? Is linear time that confusing? Is the guy just . . . Superman in disguise, constantly racing off to do battle with pissant local crime lords?
The waiting room TV is tuned to some horrible "health" channel that is really nothing more than a bunch of fear-mongering health-shaming bullshit that pisses me off just having to listen to it, let alone listen to it for an hour. I cannot believe they play that shit where people have to hear it. If I did a shot every time they started in with "obesity blah" and "lose weight blah" I'd be dead in a pool of my own vomit in about half an hour. And you get to wait in there for an hour at a time. They treat people in recovery for eating disorders in this place? Christ.
I have to remind them every time that they are not to weigh me, which is essentially the same as just letting them do it, because they are still fucking bothering me about it . . . I'm sorry, that's just disrespectful and inconsiderate. It's in my fucking file. If you need to, write it on front of the fucking file folder. It's not hard; the English language has an alphabet that is designed specifically for that purpose. I have to sit through their automated blood pressure thing, which really hurt this time, and now I'm going to have to argue with them about that shit too because I don't see why I should have to just sit there meekly while I get shooting pain down my arm and my fingers twitch convulsively. They truthfully don't need that information for any reason whatsoever, it's just part of the "woooooo we are medical professionaaaaaaals trust uuuuuuuuus" show. Which is flimflam, and does not work on me.
My case manager said she'd talk to someone about me not having a counselor, then that person left on vacation. I couldn't ask my counselor whether she'd gotten a chance to talk to her, because my counselor left on vacation, too. (When you say "I'll do that tomorrow," and then go on a vacation, I'm assuming that was deliberate assholishness, or forgetfulness due to stupidity, because vacations do not sneak up on you like that. So what else am I to assume? You're stupid, or you're an asshole. Pick one.)
In retrospect, the conversation I had with the prescription assistance program woman about how addicts need to take responsibility for their issues was awfully . . . blame-y (maybe not in the substance of it, which is that only you can change yourself, and I do agree with that since it's a demonstrable fact that nobody can do the work of recovery for you, but there was something really off in how she expressed it that nags at me). One more person there I am not sure I trust. And if you aren't sure you trust someone, really, that's just a polite way of saying . . . you don't.
Sargon still hasn't gotten in to see a counselor despite jumping through their hoops left and right. It's been four months. Getting prescription renewals is a tremendous pain in the ass, involving phone tag and doctors that keep irregular hours and a pharmacy that closes at three different times depending on what day it is. Good luck remembering.
I had to pitch a hissy-fit to get in to see anyone for counseling (largely fielded by Sargon, for which I am still ashamed), and I am still not 100% sure that will work out. I'm not, at this point, even confident. He's nice, but I am not sure he can keep up with me.
I go in there and come out fucking exhausted every time. It is taking more resources to deal with this than it is to keep myself stable otherwise. And those are resources that I now cannot divert to keeping myself stable.
This is just fucking unacceptable. It hurts.
I'm just tired of having to fight for every scrap, tired of having to call and harass people to get anything done, tireder still of having Sargon do it, and feeling worthless and nauseatedly guilty about it afterward. Tired of having to wait for completely unreasonable lengths of time for what is straightforward, very basic care that I actually make very, very easy on my end, tired of having to go here or go there or get this paperwork or do that other thing or talk to this person. I know they're working with lots of ill people, many of them difficult, inpatients or addicts, on a shoestring budget. Admirable. It truly is.
I am too fucked up to care at this point.
I don't have the energy to think lala happysympathy fuzzlewuzzle thoughts about how they're having to work really hard and it's not an ideal situation for anybody and they are doing their best and I should be grateful for what they are able to do. I only have energy to try to survive. If I make room for error they will err, and it will cost me. This has been proven to me at this place four or five times now. Sadly, trying to take care of myself now means fighting the people who are supposed to be helping me. And that means I am not being helped.
And the worst of it is, I have only once found any place that was not at least half this bad. The one place that was better was the best in the state at what it did, well-staffed, and priced accordingly. So I don't expect that if I jump ship and try to find something else, I will actually find anything better. I'll just be starting over on the same ride, delaying whatever eventually happens.
I don't . . . I don't know what to do.
I don't have a whole lot more energy to deal with both of us having these sorts of problems. We can't help each other enough right now and it's tearing both of us to pieces. He's running out of strength, way faster than me, and I just . . . I've done what I can. I don't have the strength to keep bearing him up, and me.
I've done what they asked, what you are supposed to do. "Get help." I can't do any more on my own.
I tried. I tried. They aren't helping. They are, slowly, making it worse by requiring interactions from me, and then making those interactions such a tremendous pain in the ass I wind up inadvertently clawing gouges in the paintwork because my fingers won't stop clenching in rage. I can't do this anymore, but they are the only choice I have, and I can't, I can't let Sargon, just walk away from this chance. Especially him. Especially him. Because he needs this more than I do right now, he needs it desperately, and I am literally terror-stricken whenever I think about him walking out of there. Like, I have had crying jags about it, quietly, alone.
I feel weak. I feel weak and stupid and whiny. And it was pointed out to me today, rather sharply, that I am not weak. That a part of the problem here is that I am, in some ways, very strong. Strong enough to actually expect a certain level of treatment. Strong enough not to knuckle under and accept poor treatment, strong enough not to simply wash away down the drain when they are trying to piss me away. Strong enough to be angry when I feel I've been mistreated or neglected, and not just feel sad and go back to hiding, like I used to. But this strength can become inflexible, it can make me defensive. And perhaps I do defend myself a little aggressively. Maybe I don't need to get so angry. But . . . I don't know any other way to be right now. I am too tired to suck it up, like I have been for 35 goddamn years. I am too full of other ugly shit right now, and I cannot swallow back the anger this stuff provokes long enough to stop the cycle of becoming angrier. And people who think that is an unreasonable or somehow surprising response should volunteer at pet shelters and see firsthand what animals will do when trapped and confined, even with the best intentions. Some cower and cry, some just . . . die, and some become hair-trigger savages. And it's the latter ones that we get angry with, fed up with, give up on, put to sleep. So showing anger doesn't help. Especially if you need help. Especially if you are poor.
This is what it's like when you're poor. You're a good little animal-child, you do what they tell you, you go from room to room, lost every time because you are too tired to remember faces, and faceless because you are too unimportant to be remembered. You take what you can scrape from the bottom of the system's shoe, and you are supposed to be grateful, even when it's not enough. Sometimes it works too slowly. Sometimes . . . sometimes they take too long to get you help. Sometimes it's just bad care. And it's all you get, because it's all you can afford. Financially, temporally, emotionally. It's all you can afford.
And then you get blamed when you don't get better. Because you had access to care, and it didn't work, and that must be your fault. Because it was there. You should have been more patient. You should have tried harder. You should have been stronger.
You shouldn't have been sick.
You put yourself in that cage.
So, yeah, had better days. I just want all this to be over.
X-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment count:
I've been treated so shittily by so many of the people who were supposed to help me, going back to my single digits, that being kept waiting under certain circumstances is triggering. It makes me feel neglected, unwanted, like I am dealing with people who don't want to deal with me, no matter how nice I am. It makes me into a worse person, an angry person, and if I let that show they treat me differently. But it's hard to stifle it. Normally I manage just fine and I'm polite about it and it's brownies and handshakes for everyone. But this is not "normally." I'm not doing well. When you aren't doing well, it's hard to crush that down. Especially when you have been proven right so many times. Especially when you are seeking help for an inability to cope with shit, and "shit" suddenly encompasses a newfound ability to freak out in clinical settings, like this one, no matter how benign. I thought I was over that. Apparently not. Congratulations! You've just taken two giant steps back.
I've made a big deal out of documenting my efforts to get mental health care and to get some disability benefits for that. So I'm going to write about this even though I really just want to leave it be, because I cannot change it and cannot get out of it. Even though I am pretty sure it will not seem that bad later, and I will be less angry and upset. Even though I was just triggered by being neglected -- A. GAIN. -- and my reaction is therefore probably excessive given that it was completely unintentional and not malicious on their part at all. Even though I am bipolar and therefore all of my moods are suspect, possibly meaningless. Even though it will probably all work out in the end. *sparklechimes*
They seem like nice people, and most of them seem like they maybe do really want to help. I think. I mean, they're nice, for the most part. But I don't like the prescribing doctor they have me seeing there at all, who seems to think that having a negative response to being kept waiting for an hour is a problem that means I need more meds. First, you have to be prepared for the fact that I am going to ask you to explain why you think that's necessary, and second, you had better believe I'm going to take my time thinking about it. Seriously. Dude, don't fucking spring that shit on me, especially not with your pen in your hand and your prescription pad out and you barely listening to me, and when I tell you that I would not like to raise the dose of the one genuinely scary drug I am on, seriously, don't give me a look like I'm the crazy one. Which I am, okay, I get that, but I am not fucking uncooperative. I jump through hoops like there were beautiful, naked young men holding baskets of blackberries and sex toys on the other side. I do my part, I ask for very, very little, the absolute minimum actually. Given how you treat me, I want to see you people less often. So when shit goes awry in a way that leaves me really, really uncomfortable, pardon me for being honest with you about how I am feeling and poking holes in your bubble of not giving a shit so you have to breathe the same air the crazy people are breathing for five fuckin' minutes. Uncomfortable? Motherfucker, you should be. I am your worst fucking nightmare. I am a patient who cares what happens to her too much to listen to people who are not listening to her.
They cannot schedule effectively and are always running really, really late. They'll schedule appointments for times the doctor isn't even there. If you're lucky, they'll call and let you know about it. If you aren't, they won't, and you'll get there, and they're like, "Oh, he doesn't even get here for another hour. Sry." Do they not have clocks on your planet? Is linear time that confusing? Is the guy just . . . Superman in disguise, constantly racing off to do battle with pissant local crime lords?
The waiting room TV is tuned to some horrible "health" channel that is really nothing more than a bunch of fear-mongering health-shaming bullshit that pisses me off just having to listen to it, let alone listen to it for an hour. I cannot believe they play that shit where people have to hear it. If I did a shot every time they started in with "obesity blah" and "lose weight blah" I'd be dead in a pool of my own vomit in about half an hour. And you get to wait in there for an hour at a time. They treat people in recovery for eating disorders in this place? Christ.
I have to remind them every time that they are not to weigh me, which is essentially the same as just letting them do it, because they are still fucking bothering me about it . . . I'm sorry, that's just disrespectful and inconsiderate. It's in my fucking file. If you need to, write it on front of the fucking file folder. It's not hard; the English language has an alphabet that is designed specifically for that purpose. I have to sit through their automated blood pressure thing, which really hurt this time, and now I'm going to have to argue with them about that shit too because I don't see why I should have to just sit there meekly while I get shooting pain down my arm and my fingers twitch convulsively. They truthfully don't need that information for any reason whatsoever, it's just part of the "woooooo we are medical professionaaaaaaals trust uuuuuuuuus" show. Which is flimflam, and does not work on me.
My case manager said she'd talk to someone about me not having a counselor, then that person left on vacation. I couldn't ask my counselor whether she'd gotten a chance to talk to her, because my counselor left on vacation, too. (When you say "I'll do that tomorrow," and then go on a vacation, I'm assuming that was deliberate assholishness, or forgetfulness due to stupidity, because vacations do not sneak up on you like that. So what else am I to assume? You're stupid, or you're an asshole. Pick one.)
In retrospect, the conversation I had with the prescription assistance program woman about how addicts need to take responsibility for their issues was awfully . . . blame-y (maybe not in the substance of it, which is that only you can change yourself, and I do agree with that since it's a demonstrable fact that nobody can do the work of recovery for you, but there was something really off in how she expressed it that nags at me). One more person there I am not sure I trust. And if you aren't sure you trust someone, really, that's just a polite way of saying . . . you don't.
Sargon still hasn't gotten in to see a counselor despite jumping through their hoops left and right. It's been four months. Getting prescription renewals is a tremendous pain in the ass, involving phone tag and doctors that keep irregular hours and a pharmacy that closes at three different times depending on what day it is. Good luck remembering.
I had to pitch a hissy-fit to get in to see anyone for counseling (largely fielded by Sargon, for which I am still ashamed), and I am still not 100% sure that will work out. I'm not, at this point, even confident. He's nice, but I am not sure he can keep up with me.
I go in there and come out fucking exhausted every time. It is taking more resources to deal with this than it is to keep myself stable otherwise. And those are resources that I now cannot divert to keeping myself stable.
This is just fucking unacceptable. It hurts.
I'm just tired of having to fight for every scrap, tired of having to call and harass people to get anything done, tireder still of having Sargon do it, and feeling worthless and nauseatedly guilty about it afterward. Tired of having to wait for completely unreasonable lengths of time for what is straightforward, very basic care that I actually make very, very easy on my end, tired of having to go here or go there or get this paperwork or do that other thing or talk to this person. I know they're working with lots of ill people, many of them difficult, inpatients or addicts, on a shoestring budget. Admirable. It truly is.
I am too fucked up to care at this point.
I don't have the energy to think lala happysympathy fuzzlewuzzle thoughts about how they're having to work really hard and it's not an ideal situation for anybody and they are doing their best and I should be grateful for what they are able to do. I only have energy to try to survive. If I make room for error they will err, and it will cost me. This has been proven to me at this place four or five times now. Sadly, trying to take care of myself now means fighting the people who are supposed to be helping me. And that means I am not being helped.
And the worst of it is, I have only once found any place that was not at least half this bad. The one place that was better was the best in the state at what it did, well-staffed, and priced accordingly. So I don't expect that if I jump ship and try to find something else, I will actually find anything better. I'll just be starting over on the same ride, delaying whatever eventually happens.
I don't . . . I don't know what to do.
I don't have a whole lot more energy to deal with both of us having these sorts of problems. We can't help each other enough right now and it's tearing both of us to pieces. He's running out of strength, way faster than me, and I just . . . I've done what I can. I don't have the strength to keep bearing him up, and me.
I've done what they asked, what you are supposed to do. "Get help." I can't do any more on my own.
I tried. I tried. They aren't helping. They are, slowly, making it worse by requiring interactions from me, and then making those interactions such a tremendous pain in the ass I wind up inadvertently clawing gouges in the paintwork because my fingers won't stop clenching in rage. I can't do this anymore, but they are the only choice I have, and I can't, I can't let Sargon, just walk away from this chance. Especially him. Especially him. Because he needs this more than I do right now, he needs it desperately, and I am literally terror-stricken whenever I think about him walking out of there. Like, I have had crying jags about it, quietly, alone.
I feel weak. I feel weak and stupid and whiny. And it was pointed out to me today, rather sharply, that I am not weak. That a part of the problem here is that I am, in some ways, very strong. Strong enough to actually expect a certain level of treatment. Strong enough not to knuckle under and accept poor treatment, strong enough not to simply wash away down the drain when they are trying to piss me away. Strong enough to be angry when I feel I've been mistreated or neglected, and not just feel sad and go back to hiding, like I used to. But this strength can become inflexible, it can make me defensive. And perhaps I do defend myself a little aggressively. Maybe I don't need to get so angry. But . . . I don't know any other way to be right now. I am too tired to suck it up, like I have been for 35 goddamn years. I am too full of other ugly shit right now, and I cannot swallow back the anger this stuff provokes long enough to stop the cycle of becoming angrier. And people who think that is an unreasonable or somehow surprising response should volunteer at pet shelters and see firsthand what animals will do when trapped and confined, even with the best intentions. Some cower and cry, some just . . . die, and some become hair-trigger savages. And it's the latter ones that we get angry with, fed up with, give up on, put to sleep. So showing anger doesn't help. Especially if you need help. Especially if you are poor.
This is what it's like when you're poor. You're a good little animal-child, you do what they tell you, you go from room to room, lost every time because you are too tired to remember faces, and faceless because you are too unimportant to be remembered. You take what you can scrape from the bottom of the system's shoe, and you are supposed to be grateful, even when it's not enough. Sometimes it works too slowly. Sometimes . . . sometimes they take too long to get you help. Sometimes it's just bad care. And it's all you get, because it's all you can afford. Financially, temporally, emotionally. It's all you can afford.
And then you get blamed when you don't get better. Because you had access to care, and it didn't work, and that must be your fault. Because it was there. You should have been more patient. You should have tried harder. You should have been stronger.
You shouldn't have been sick.
You put yourself in that cage.
So, yeah, had better days. I just want all this to be over.
X-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment count: