TOPIC 2: My mind is expensive to maintain.
Twice a month I go to the neuropsychiatrist, and it doesn't feel like too much changes. Maybe one adjustment a visit, that's not much, is it? Mainly a lot of questions get asked, a lot of notes get taken. It feels more like a check-in to make sure I'm not nearing a total breakdown than it is any kind of desperate attempt to normalize things. I think we've both given up on "normal."
So maybe I'm not sleeping--time to up to sedatives. Or I'm not focused enough--time to change the stimulants. The shadows are moving or talking more than they should--time to adjust those antipsychotics. Mania again--those dang mood stabilizers just aren't perfect yet. Uh-oh, I'm sad...really sad--antidepressants just never work like you think they should. The PTSD's been spiking--gotta try to get that daily anti-anxiety Rx at the right levels. Or wait, no, it's the panic attacks--maybe we should focus on the onset meds.
Then there's therapy, where I dole out a copay to draw stick-figure renditions of childhood trauma and narrate weird little comics with them. But hey, at least I get to nom on fun-size candies for "grounding" purposes while I work my way through repressed memories I'd rather keep buried. Though sometimes I wonder if it'd be smarter to spend the cash on my own Airheads and just start repressing stuff again. It seems less taxing.
And of course, after all of this, there's always even more talking. "How did your appointment go? What did you talk about? Did the doctor make any changes?" My brain is already vibrating from dealing with all the questions in-session, can we maybe tone it down for a little while?
But no. Now they just want another one, a neuropsychologist on top of things. Apparently it's the iatrist for the schizo, the ologist for the autism. Except the ologist doesn't take insurance, and won't see me without an entirely new evaluation to start. No big deal, eval only costs two grand. Let me just dig that out from under my mattress, or maybe select the requisite gold coins during my morning swim through the vault. And not to worry! The ologist won't do anything silly like start taking my insurance thereafter, no, they'll be sure to continue bleeding me dry for life. Or, I suppose, for as long as autism lasts. It's a couple week thing, like the flu, right?
At least my pills are covered! Well, you know, some of them. In certain doses. Usually in the manners of release my doctors don't want but we're all forced to settle for. And with those never-ending copays. But I remember when I first lost my insurance. I remember when the pharmacy first told me it would cost several thousand dollars per month to stay on my medications. And I most certainly remember going cold-turkey off all of them and spiraling wildly out of control. So hey, things could be worse, right?
Gosh I'm lucky to live in the Land of the Free where capitalism controls everyone's medical care! It's not like I'm both cursing my inability to afford my own proper care while also being stricken with survivor's guilt for receiving what treatment I am. No no. This is America.
Everything is perfect.
So maybe I'm not sleeping--time to up to sedatives. Or I'm not focused enough--time to change the stimulants. The shadows are moving or talking more than they should--time to adjust those antipsychotics. Mania again--those dang mood stabilizers just aren't perfect yet. Uh-oh, I'm sad...really sad--antidepressants just never work like you think they should. The PTSD's been spiking--gotta try to get that daily anti-anxiety Rx at the right levels. Or wait, no, it's the panic attacks--maybe we should focus on the onset meds.
Then there's therapy, where I dole out a copay to draw stick-figure renditions of childhood trauma and narrate weird little comics with them. But hey, at least I get to nom on fun-size candies for "grounding" purposes while I work my way through repressed memories I'd rather keep buried. Though sometimes I wonder if it'd be smarter to spend the cash on my own Airheads and just start repressing stuff again. It seems less taxing.
And of course, after all of this, there's always even more talking. "How did your appointment go? What did you talk about? Did the doctor make any changes?" My brain is already vibrating from dealing with all the questions in-session, can we maybe tone it down for a little while?
But no. Now they just want another one, a neuropsychologist on top of things. Apparently it's the iatrist for the schizo, the ologist for the autism. Except the ologist doesn't take insurance, and won't see me without an entirely new evaluation to start. No big deal, eval only costs two grand. Let me just dig that out from under my mattress, or maybe select the requisite gold coins during my morning swim through the vault. And not to worry! The ologist won't do anything silly like start taking my insurance thereafter, no, they'll be sure to continue bleeding me dry for life. Or, I suppose, for as long as autism lasts. It's a couple week thing, like the flu, right?
At least my pills are covered! Well, you know, some of them. In certain doses. Usually in the manners of release my doctors don't want but we're all forced to settle for. And with those never-ending copays. But I remember when I first lost my insurance. I remember when the pharmacy first told me it would cost several thousand dollars per month to stay on my medications. And I most certainly remember going cold-turkey off all of them and spiraling wildly out of control. So hey, things could be worse, right?
Gosh I'm lucky to live in the Land of the Free where capitalism controls everyone's medical care! It's not like I'm both cursing my inability to afford my own proper care while also being stricken with survivor's guilt for receiving what treatment I am. No no. This is America.
Everything is perfect.