In the land of the medically indigent

Monday marked the beginning of my process of applying for Medi-Cal so I can see a psychiatrist and, hopefully, secure an appropriate prescription for anti-depressant/anti-anxiety meds. I arrived by about 8:30 am at the Primary Care Center where I was to pick up the application packet, and, I thought, be triaged to see whether my application could be expedited.
I got the app packet, but after waiting 2 1/2 hours to speak to someone in person, I had to leave to make it to my regular therapy appointment. I didn't think to check out at the lobby desk, to let them know I had to leave.

I left thinking it would be at least 30 days before I would even find out whether I'd been approved, and at least another 30 before I could see anyone - very disappointed, frustrated and scared. Imagine my surprise when one of the counselors called that evening, to find out what had become of me. Turns out it can pay off to tell the authorities "I'm having suicidal thoughts"; that really gets their attention! The counselor I spoke to was very helpful: She did some basic intake with me over the phone, and arranged to have me come see her Wednesday morning despite my "pending eligibility" status. She said I could expect to leave that appointment with a prescription in hand. I won't be able to afford to fill it for a week or so, but I figure I've been gutting it out for six months, I can grit my teeth for another week and a half.

So I showed up on time Wednesday morning, filled out my visit-request forms again... and waited until 11:30 for someone to call my name. When they finally did, it was to inform me that my person hadn't arrived yet, they didn't know when she would, and did I care to wait some more? I decided to give it another hour, despite the discomfort of sitting in that lobby surrounded by suffering people, many of whom smell bad and/or really don't know how to act in public. I at least had a book to get through.

Finally, I gave up for the day. Had to wait in line a good 20 minutes again, just to speak to someone to let them know I needed to reschedule. During that wait, I kept looking back over my shoulder to look at the TV, which was showing "The Young and the Restless". That never was my soap, but it was my sister's once upon a time, so I was familiar with some of the actors. Plus you know how actors move from soap to soap; imagine my surprise to see the actress who played Tina on "One Life to Live" back in the day when I used to watch it. I don't care a damn about the soaps any more, but I find I just can't look away from all the awful plastic surgery jobs. Actors I used to see every day 20-30 years ago are now barely recognizable, and kind of monstrous. Anyway...

There were two women directly behind me in line, discussing their situations. I kept making fleeting eye contact with the one closest to me every time I turned my head to stare in horrified fascination at the TV. Eventually I got tired of that, and was facing the front of the line when I started to get weepy. I guess my back heaved or something, because suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, giving me a comforting pat/squeeze. It was, of course, the woman whose eye I'd been catching. She looked just like Ina Garten from "The Barefoot Contessa" cooking show, but with lighter hair. I thanked her for the kind gesture, and we got to talking ourselves, just sharing a little bit of our stories and commiserating. It kept me occupied and not-crying until it was my turn. When I was finished, I turned around to give Nice Lady a farewell nod/wave; she was standing there with her arms outspread. Of course I went to her, and we shared a long, warm, sweet hug and blessed each other. I haven't hugged a stranger like that since the days of going to Grateful Dead shows... but by then she didn't feel like a stranger at all, even though we hadn't exchanged names.

If I'm going to allow myself to think/talk in terms of demonic forces (if not actual personified demons), then I guess I need to allow myself to acknowledge that there are also angelic forces at work. I'm actually kind of ooged out by the whole "angels watching over me" concept, and I very seldom feel comfortable even using the word. So I'm not prepared to call Nice Lady an angel per se... but I am sending out thankful prayers to her, and to the Universe for putting her lovingkindness in my path.

I'm going back tomorrow morning for my rescheduled appointment. Third time's the charm, right? I have a plan for an experiment to make the lobby experience more tolerable: Pay forward Nice Lady's energy. Pray for health, well-being and freedom from suffering for every single person there. If that makes me get weepy - so what?? For some reason I don't feel shamed or uncomfortable crying in public in THAT setting. Probably because I don't feel conspicuous, because NO ONE there is having a good time. I am not separate from any of them, not better or worse; everyone in that room is in a position they never imagined they'd find themselves in, and looking for help, just like me.

May all beings be free from suffering.

Depression = The Devil?

"Depression lies to you. It tells you all your pain is your fault. That the things that aren't getting done are because you're lazy. That the fact that you're hurting is a sign that you're weak. That you don't deserve help. That if you were a worthwhile person you'd just be able to snap out of it. IT IS ALL LIES."

Now, I'm no Bible-believer, but ever since I came across the above quote I've been thinking about the characterization of Satan as the Master of Lies. Substitute "the Devil" for "depression", and it still makes sense. Even though I don't have any literal belief in either demons or angels, I'm finding it useful to think of my depression as a demonic force that has taken possession of me, if not an actual, personified demon.

I've spent the past year believing every one of those lies, plus plenty of other, more specific ones. It took my therapist telling me that she thinks it's time for a psychiatric consult, to get a good accurate diagnosis and appropriate medication, for me to FINALLY see that it's all lies. I'm not weak, I'm not lazy, I'm not pathetic; I'm in trouble, I'm unwell, and I deserve help. I deserve to want to live. I deserve to make plans for the future, and my mate deserves that from me. I deserve to be supported and cared for while I'm getting better.

Too many repetitions; that word "deserve" has started to look like nonsense... How ironic.

My purpose with this blog is to serve as a sort of journal for my therapy and my adventures with County Mental Health - right now it's looking like that's where I'll have to start for the psych consult and medication, as I am without medical insurance or income. Yay for being a statistic! I've also been intending to start a narrative about my life history; the original goal was to share selections from that with my father. I'll still probably do that, but the larger goal now is to look for patterns and cycles in my history with depression and anxiety. At this point I'm much more interested in finding insight for myself; if I'm able to share some with BioDad, great... But it's not FOR him.

Frankly, he hasn't earned it (speaking of "deserve" looking like a nonsense word!). I have no expectation any more that he'll actually take in the most important aspects of it, but I do have reason to believe that "in writing" is the ONLY chance that he will take in any of it. Years of my experience, and others', demonstrate that the man simply doesn't have it in him to listen effectively. Which is fine, because presenting things in writing gives me much more control than trying to have a conversation with him.

I'm not here to require brilliant writing of myself; I'm here to store raw material for subsequent refinement. So, I'm endeavoring not to care if this is a little disjointed. For now I will close with a quote from Shawn Colvin's song "I Want It Back", the source of my title:

I lost the thread, I lost the map
It's not a feeling, it's a fact
I had it once, I was on track
Why won't it stay? I want it back