Laurapenpusher’s Weblog

I am so angry right now, I could spit nails. I remember a line from some movie with Richard Gere and Julia What’s-Her-Name…she was a hooker, he was a wealthy man and in the end they fell in love (and we all know how believable that is!) He commented on how much money he’d spent in counseling in order to be able to say, “I’m a-n-g-r-y! I’m an-gry! I’m ANGRY!” That’s what I feel right this moment!

One of my appointments today was to apply for state sponsored health insurance. I haven’t had insurance for over 2 years. Outside of back issues and arthritis that I’m pretty much able to control, I haven’t needed it. The last major treatment I received was for the PTSD. Now, unemployed since August, I truly need to talk to someone and per my previous therapist from 2005, I should be on meds again. Income, by state calculations, is based on my assets. I don’t own a house but rent a one-bedroom apartment; the car I drive is a 1993 Ford Explorer worth about $1500 according to NADA and that doesn’t take into account the vandalized radio/stereo, electric buttons that don’t work except from the driver’s seat (lucky for me), the brakes that need work, the electrical that needs work, etc. I have a 10-year old motorcycle that isn’t running right now due to dead battery or dead alternator. The formula used by the state says that I spend $155 on groceries every month, and they used my phone bill and utility bill. The equation says these are my expenses; therefore, I must have at least that amount of income and while I disagree with the logic, I understand it. I was approved for the insurance with co-pay for office visits, prescriptions, etc. The kicker is that they don’t cover out-patient mental health therapy according to the representative. If I should become a raving lunatic and be hospitalized, they will cover the hospital stay the same as they would if I were having my appendix removed. The list of centers that accepts state payment for any out-patient does include one where I can talk to a psychiatric nurse if I have enough money to make the co-pay. Others on the list don’t accept the state insurance but offer a sliding scale beginning at $35 for one, up to $55 for another. There are more options for out-patient counseling but not for medication management. No wonder there are so many people with mental illness who are also homeless walking around our city!

My first anger was at the system. The more the voices in my head began to argue though, the stronger my belief became that I shouldn’t be in this position at all! It started over 50 years ago with the abuse and the violence in which I had no choice regarding participation! The next view in my mind was a red telephone, one of those big heavy phones I’d used to dial “0” for the operator and help. The operator never got to the line because my step-father yanked the phone from the end table, one cord ripping the receiver from my ear and my hand and the other cord being ripped out of the wall. He spun around with the red telephone in his hand, the receiver airborne behind it, and in one smooth movement struck my mother in the head. I saw blood on my mother and nothing more. Damn it! My sister was born the first part of June, 1957; my mother simply disappeared and was gone for the last trimester. Sometime beginning in March, through April and May of that year, my little brother and I were left in the house with him. I was six god-damn years old. That son of a bitch! And here I am, 50 years after the fact and still can’t exorcise it from my brain.

My mother was caught in the cycle; out of multiple husbands, only one was not abusive but her arguments with him took their toll in my recurring nightmares. By the time I left home in my teens, I didn’t care any more. If she wanted to continue getting her ass kicked by every dick on the block, it was her business. I left home taking my presence out of the equation.

My innocence was gone early on. We moved constantly and I kept to myself deliberately not wanting to make friends because I only lost them in the end. Bouts of dissociation through the years left me with huge lapses in time with no memory of my behavior or thoughts and no feelings at all if there were any. I drive potential relationships away with my anger and mistrust and sarcasm. Voices are with me always; only their volume changes relative to given circumstances. The time and money I’ve spent on therapy only to discover the images are carved into my brain and I can’t get them out. Long periods of depression have taken me to the brink of suicide where I imagine I might finally find peace. My son, without realizing it, is my only salvation bringing me back from the edge because I don’t want to burden him with that kind of mind alteration.

I don’t know words ugly enough, bad enough, to describe my rage and hate for that man. That god-damned, son-of-a-bitch fucked up my life.