Everything I do, and I do mean just about fucking everything, has a reason. My mind races so fast I put the equivalent of probably twenty minutes of thought into decisions that look to the rest of the world like they're impulses. Things that other people would just say "yes" or "no" to, I agonize over. I may be processing it for like, five minutes, but to me that's like a day's worth of agonizing over the decision.
That's how I go from zero to Hulk so fast. That's how I go from giggle giggle yay to completely shut down, or tears, or whatever in the blink of an eye. After all the therapy and all the meds I've been working with in the last five months I'm pretty much sure that the root of all of my problems is my mind's complete inability to shut up.
So what's this got to do with anything?
Last night I took my last dose of Seroquel XR. I thought I had more pills, but my shrink doubled the dosage, and in so doing cut my supply in half. I thought the coupon I used when I had insurance would keep working even without insurance. And I thought that the behavioral health center would have someone at least on call on the weekends. This is all stuff I had going on well before I told anyone that I was out of medicine. Which was last night.
I understand the instant reaction of "how the hell could you be so irresponsible?" I really do. There's a part of me that wonders the same thing. But the thing is, for the last three days (which is like two weeks, with the way my thoughts go) I've been fretting over this. Worrying at it like a goddamn bunny with one of those wood blocks. Trying to find a solution. The rent? My joblessness? That's felt like the better part of a year instead of three weeks (since I walked out of the hold-us-until job). So no, I'm not going to get mad at you for reacting that way. I'm going to let you have your say, and parse the whole damn thing for information that I can actually use to solve my problem...and then I'm going to let my mind race over how I can fix it.
Me getting mad doesn't fix anything. Me screaming that I've been losing sleep, unable to focus on shit that I enjoy (reading, gaming, my stream...this blog...), and have pretty much completely lost my appetite and desire to keep shlepping around this mortal coil isn't going to help. So yes. I will sit there, and I will stare at you, and nod, and not say a goddamn thing. Because I recognize that you have a fiery soul, and so do I, and the two of us combusting together is only going to cause a whole lot of collateral damage.
I'm scared. Scared as all hell. I've got applications out for aid from the county and state, but those only get processed so fast. I need fifty dollars' worth of medication NOW, not in a week or whenever Job and Family Services manages to get back to me. And that's not counting the Seroquel. That shit is five hundred dollars without insurance, and contrary to what I thought, Astra Zenica will only give a seventy-five dollar credit. It won't magically just be fifteen dollars. I don't know what's going to happen if I can't take those meds any more. I remember how unstable I was before they put me on my happy pill cocktail. I remember vividly not being able to kind-of control the torrent of thoughts, or stop myself from reacting to triggers. I don't want to go back to that.
But I can't talk about this, because it's all my fault. I knew two weeks ago that I didn't have insurance. I knew a week ago that I couldn't afford the pills without it. Yes, I thought I could get them for fifteen bucks, and no, I didn't double check because I was naive. I also just kind of assumed I would get unemployment because I'd been making over ten dollars an hour when I lost my job, and didn't realize that they can tell you no because you didn't make enough money in an eighteen month period. Again. Naive. Thinking that the systems in place will help me when I need them.
I won't go down the hate track with that train of thought. I've been there before. I've railed about everything from race to reproductive responsibility to sexual orientation and gender identity, and I don't want to sully myself with that much rancor. The system is dysfunctional. Blame the system, not the people it actually does help.
So now I'm at a complete fucking loss. Nothing I do today is going to get me my meds by 9pm tonight. Nothing. I can probably go to the emergency room, make up some cock and bull story, throw some tears at them, and at least get meds for the night. But after that? Who the fuck knows. Maybe they'll float me enough to get me to Monday, when I can go over to Behavioral and talk to nursing about maybe some patient prescription assistance. If they'll give me that without a medical card. Or...they'll fucking admit me to inpatient psych. Wouldn't that be a fucking hell of a phone call? "Sorry, honey, I can't come pick you up from work tonight. I was committed." Or better, "Sorry, awesome law firm I'm interviewing with on Tuesday, I can't make our appointment. I'm in a padded room."
But. Ultimately. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. I thought maybe after my morning meds had some time to get working, I'd calm down, but... I'm not. Which means that it's probably a good idea to just go to the ER. Maybe Freya will smile on me, and make this battle easy on me.
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