Disability, just deny me already.

I’m so tired of seeing the following words on the Social Security Administration’s website:

“As of today’s date, a decision has not been made on your application.

The Disability Determination Service in your State is processing the medical portion of your claim.”

They were pretty good about communication when they wanted information from me.  But now that I want information on my claim from them, it’s another story altogether.  It’s been a month and a half since my exam with the contracted clinical psychologist.

It hasn’t been a great day.  Rock Steady and I got out of the house this morning, but I really felt like I might go to sleep behind the wheel on the way home.  My medicine is not right.  I refuse to believe this is all my illness.  The longer I’m out of the Local Friendly Mental Ward’s program, the more I believe that my meds were screwed with just for the sake of screwing with them.  I don’t believe my regular pdoc will be happy next week.  That’s if I can make it to next week.  J and I seriously considered going to the ER tonight because I’m starting to show symptoms of low sodium, which can be a side effect of the nearly doubled-dose of my Trileptal.   Last night and this afternoon it was chest pain.  For over a week it’s been a foggy feeling just in general.  The more active I try to be, the more beaten down I feel.  It’s exhausting and at times like this, it’s hard to tell if it’s the illness causing depression or if the effects of the meds are causing depression.  And on days like this, I say bipolar is crap.  I mean, I’d love to see anybody get pumped full of crap meds like this and feel great.  Remeron is for depression and sleep but it causes wonky dreams and weight gain.  Abilify evidently has such extreme side effects that the Local Friendly Mental Ward doc didn’t even want to tell me what they were.  On days like this, I’d rather somebody just locked me up somewhere and let me be off my meds and crazy out of my mind when I felt like it.  I mean, let’s all be real:  It’s either be locked up physically or locked up emotionally by these drugs.  REALLY.

Once upon a time I thought I could be something.  I graduated with departmental honors from my philosophy department in college.  I could have been something once upon a time.  Now I do believe that everyone’s relieved that I’ve applied for disability.  Now I think everyone’s relieved that I’ll likely sit around making little cheap trinkets for practically nothing for the rest of my life, living off government handouts ’cause we all know that I didn’t work long enough to actually earn much in SSDI.

There.  I’ve said it.  I don’t want disability.  I want a job.  But it’s really my only choice at this point.

My children deserve better care than they get when they’re with me.  That costs money.  Money that I was only ever just barely qualified to earn anyway.

There are medical bills, always will be medical bills.  I will likely need to do the program I did (or one like it) at least once a year for a good long while.  Our insurance is pathetic compared to what we had when we were in Grinnell.  But in Grinnell, there was no mental health care– just one psychiatrist for the entire area.  Piece of advice for those traveling in the Midwest…do not go to your local small-town ER presenting with mental health issues…not pretty, I speak from first-hand experience.

So we rely on family and I’m grateful but I miss being independent.  I nearly had to kill myself in a job that I wasn’t really qualified for (and working conditions were intolerable, to say the least) to barely be comfortable.  Since then, it’s all been downhill.  I’ve stopped looking at the bills and J doesn’t remember a good number of them.  So I have no idea what the state of our finances are and I’m getting to the point where I just don’t care.

I’m feeling pretty beat down tonight.  And my husband, bless his heart, gets upset with me because I’m not polite to him at the dinner table and a few other things.  He rarely asks me what’s wrong anymore.  He has no clue.  He really doesn’t, if he’s worried about crap like that when I’ve got all this going on in my brain.

Whatever.  I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning.

 


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