Vindicated

I just got off the phone with both my doctor’s office and my insurance company (this is after searching the car and concluding the fault MUST lie with the pharmacy, but I need to be absolutely sure of that before going to war).

The fault absolutely lies with the pharmacy. I was given NO scrips for my stomach and crazy pills in June by my doctor, I was given them in April (which is the date I knew). My insurance was not charged in April at all, but was charged on June 27 for those pills.

Both offices said that if the pharmacy tries to dispute it with me, I can tell them to call doctor or insurance and they would confirm that I am not, in fact, fucking crazy (on this count, anyway).

Tonight, after it cools down a bit as the wildfires have blanketed the city in smoke and it’s a smokey sauna out there, I will be going to the pharmacy to rain down fire and brimstone upon them.

Normally I don’t like confrontation, but their fuck up could cost me 90 dollars I don’t have, or make me go a month without my *life-saving meds*.

Normally I am more understanding about humans making mistakes, but this is exactly the sort of mistake I am not okay with. I didn’t fuck up — they did — and yet I’ve had to spend several days RUNNING AROUND LIKE A HEADLESS CHICKEN trying to rectify it, all while convinced that I’ve completely lost touch with reality because I don’t remember doing what they said I did.

I already suffer from dissociation. The past two days have been stressful as hell as I’ve tried madly to hold onto what I know is real.

And godsdammit, I will be damned if I let their fuck up break my streak of taking my pills EVERY DAY for the past 2.5 months. EVERY. DAY. Do you know how AMAZING that is for me? Every day when I take my pills I immediately tell my husband that I did, so that 15 minutes later when I forget I’ve taken them I can ask him if I did and he’ll know.

But that’s not the only part of the system I have to keep me taking my pills every day. I also have a weekly pill container (not refilled for this week BECAUSE OF MY LACK OF NEW PILLS) and I keep track in my habit tracker in my planner. This combination has lead to me having a near perfect pill-taking streak for 2.5 months.

Before this system, I was lucky if I remembered to take my pills every other day. I was a wreck.

Now I’m marginally functional. And no pharmacy fuckup is going to take that from me.

So I am vindicated today, and preparing for battle. I almost feel sorry for whoever is working at the pharmacy tonight.

Almost.

Finding Back the Glue

This post was originally posted on my Medium profile on January 13, 2016.


Sometimes I imagine myself as a table, holding a mug. The mug is my sanity, and the table is my life, it’s me, it’s the sum total of experiences and memories and everything that makes me, me.

The table has three uneven legs; they are wobbly and patched in places. One might actually be a real, human leg, but we’re not asking where it came from. Glued together, stapled, hinged, whatever’s available has been used. In the center of the table, between the legs, is a creature. It’s not human, not animal, not plant. We don’t know what it is. All we know is that it has many limbs, shakes constantly, and has a psychic link with my mug.

My mug is cracked in so many places it’s more glue than ceramic at this point. Every time it breaks, my perception of reality shifts a little bit. Every time it breaks, I lose a little bit of my mind. Every time it breaks, I’m left to glue it back together again, even if I’m not the person who broke it. My hands are cut and scored from broken pottery, flesh lined in tiny scars, fingers covered in that awful glue that turns your skin into a scaly nightmare as soon as it touches you.

I’ve glued my mug back together so many times I could do it in my sleep.

Continue reading Finding Back the Glue

“Nothing’s wrong.”

I say this a lot. This, and “I’m fine.”

I’m often lying when I say this. It’s not a passive-aggressive bid to get people to pester me into telling them what’s wrong, just so it can be proven they care about me. I know they care about me. When I say “I’m fine” or “Nothing’s wrong” and something is wrong, and I’m not fine…I’m really saying “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

Either with the specific person I’m talking to, or with anyone, or on the blog — in public. Sometimes this means I journal about it privately, on my Dreamwidth or LJ. Then, of course, people in my specific access filters can see it, but I’m not posting it there for them. I’m posting it there for me to work through it myself.

Sometimes I just sit with it, quietly, and don’t write it down or talk about it until I’m truly ready.

To be clear, I really hate passive-aggressive behaviour. I’ve been trained into it by a world that devalues aggression from people socially classed as women, but I fight hard against it. It’s an easy path to take whatever society has trained into you. An easy path worn smooth by generations before you.

So, trust me when I say I am not being passive-aggressive, trying to manipulate you into proving you care about me, when I say “I’m fine” or “Nothing’s wrong.” It’s just my short-form way of saying “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

With the Ogre, I’ve had to train myself to state, clearly, that I’m not ready to talk about it. Or that there is something wrong, but it’s nothing to do with him, so he can stop worrying. Otherwise he will keep asking.

With the rest of the world, I continue to say I’m fine or Nothing’s wrong. Because, unlike the Ogre, most people don’t respect it when I say “I’m not ready to talk about it right now.” They try to force me to talk about something I’m not ready to speak about. “Talking helps!” Yes, it does. That’s why I’ll talk about it at my own pace. Not yours.

People need to feel like they can help. We hate feeling useless in the face of pain or suffering. We need to do something.

Sometimes there’s nothing you can do. Sometimes support means a whole bunch of “Don’t just DO something, STAND THERE.” That’s a hard truth to swallow. It’s easier on everyone if I just pretend everything is alright; they don’t feel obligated to force me to accept help I don’t want nor need at the moment, and I don’t have to fight off a flurry of well-meaning torture as they try to get me to talk about something I need to avoid.

Everything is alright.

I’m fine.

Nothing’s wrong.

I’ll talk to you when I’m ready.

Dissociation

And in the end I guess I had to fall.
Always find my place among the ashes.

I can’t hold on to me,
wonder what’s wrong with me.

-Evanescence, Lithium

I was going to do the Weekly Writing Challenge this week and post my story today. I was going to write it yesterday, actually. Or, failing that, early this morning when I got up.

I didn’t, because yesterday I suffered a trauma and have been spending most of the time since in a dissociative state. This is sort of half on purpose; dissociating to a certain extent can help me keep the pain at bay until I can deal with it, in small pieces.

I thought I’d write a story about what happened to me, and post it as part of the Challenge, but I couldn’t seem to make it happen. Sometimes writing a story helps. Not yesterday; I was in a bad state.

Perhaps not today either. I want to talk about it when it’s not so fresh, and today is still too soon. I slept terribly anyway; woke up late. Will barely have the time to finish my work before leaving for the weekend.

Being in a body that’s suffered trauma is never an easy thing to live with. For myself I don’t know if I’ll ever fully heal; I often picture my being as a shattered mug that’s been glued together so many times it’s now more glue than mug, and it functions, which is a kind word to describe its existence. But the scars never really go away.

I have to remind myself that I’m human, and that I regrow my skin. Emotional scars might not fade, but the physical ones do. I can get to a place where physical trauma is, at least, a distant memory; not a noxious cloud that occludes my vision and breathing, that reminds me everyday that I’m broken.

I often read and reread this poem by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins like a mantra:

363_900I don’t even know the title of the poem, but it’s one I keep on my tumblr, scheduled to post in 2017.

Now I suppose I can schedule one for 2020, as well.

 


And in the end I ended up completing the requirements for the Weekly Writing Challenge anyway, so this post is tagged accordingly.