I have no plans concerning where this post is going or what it means to me, or to you, or the world. What does anything really mean to the world, anyway? She’s a cold bitch. She scoffs at us all equally. Time for my morning scoffing.
I got a job. That’s right. Look at me growing more mundane by the moment. I am now a security guard at one of the major chemical plants in a neighboring town. Hilarious how their background checks do not include mental health records.
I’m working toward the midnight shift but for now they’ve got me training with the head guard during daytime hours. I’m off today. Joy.
I get a fucking nightstick and a pair of handcuffs. That’s about as far as my power goes. I’d rather dole out my ass kickings by hand anyway. Ninety percent of my time will be spent on my ass in front of security camera feeds in a tight little room. It’s alright. It’s not totally foreign to my alley. It beats McDonalds. The money’s a little better than minimum wage. I get to remain a night owl.
I had applied for disability a couple of years ago, and the bastards turned me down. My lawyer told me that in order for me to apply again, I’d have to earn another six grand. Has to do with how much money I’ve paid into their crooked system. This could be my ticket back in.
It really pisses me off, what they did to me. I was as fucking disabled as I’ve ever seen anyone; mentally, anyway. I’ve met people here with ADHD alone, who are getting a couple grand a month from those fuckers. And here I’ve been, disabled to the point of cowering in a corner the majority of my days. Apparently that’s not enough.
My new medicated mindset has reiterated the fact. I feel more capable of holding a job now than I ever was. And you know what, fucking disability people?, now that I’m capable, I’m fucking doing it. Don’t you think that if I could, I would have a long time ago?
There was a time I let it eat me alive, and I forced myself to get over it. Now that I’m working again that old irritation has returned. I want to write them a letter, but I’m certain they wouldn’t read it without the right paperwork and cover letter. Too bad. I can write one hell of a pissed off letter. Perhaps I’ll do it anyway just for the therapy.
Speaking of therapy, after my discharge from the hospital I was given several follow-up appointments with a therapist and psychiatrist. That didn’t quite work out. The old therapist I saw a couple of years back, the blind man, no longer takes patients without Medicaid. The psychiatrist was going to cost me fifty bucks a month just to refill my psych meds. I’ve convinced my primary care doc to keep me refilled on Lithium and Risperdal, although it isn’t normally in his job description. That’s one bit of good news. He fills my scripts for three months at a time, and since he’s already prescribing me other medications, I’m still only out the forty dollars every ninety days I would have had to pay anyway.
I’m sure a therapist and psychiatrist would have done me some good. I just can’t afford it right now. Perhaps in the future.
Unfortunately I’m wondering if the 300 mg of Lithium a day I’m currently on is quite doing the trick. Just less than a week ago my head was in the clouds, and now I’m, well, not depressed, but pretty fucking blah. I’m not sure how the good Doctor K will feel about changing my dosage, since it’s not his field. I’m thinking 300 mg in the morning, 150 in the evening would be a safe bet. I am going to ask him. I see him on Wednesday and I’ve got another mile-long list for the poor man. I’m going to ask to have my blood levels checked again as well. I certainly put the ‘practice’ into his work. I’m probably one of his most complicated cases. He better earn that fucking doctor’s salary!
–A Special Case