My Job is to be Me

A supreme effort was needed this morning to get out of bed, but I did it! I raced around, getting ready for my 9am appointment. Then caring for Dad and the animals started to eat up my time, and I tried desperately to stop all the activity, but it was no use. When I jumped in the car to race to the Mental Health facility, it was already too late for me to make it on time. But I raced away anyhow, trying to force the clock to go backwards-or just stop until I got there. I told myself the clock in the car was fast, and that the one on my phone wasn’t working right. I told myself not to look at the clock on the wall when I ran out of the door, so I had deniability.

As I got closer to the place, my mind raced with lies I could tell, about accidents tying up traffic, about a sudden illness ( I could throw my hand over my mouth and dash to the ladies in the middle of my tall tale), or about the sky falling. ANYTHING to take the sinking feeling of DISGUST towards myself for being late again.

You see, I can really talk up a good stink when I want to, say, like when a receptionist dares to scold me about missing appointments. I have been going to that “nuthouse” for about 8 years now, and the professionals there have helped me to change my life. I have been correctly diagnosed after 33 years of abject misery, and suicidal thoughts, and I feel that I am on the right meds, for the most part. But this place has a rule about missed appointments: you miss too many and the people won’t let you come there anymore.

Well, I have known that for years, and while I had missed an appointment here and there over the years, in the past 3 years since my accident I have missed many. It doesn’t seem to matter to them why I miss, because I have legitimate reasons. reasons like Chronic Vertigo, a Head Injury, Broken Ankles, Many days of pain, and a father I can’t leave alone, but who won’t get ready to go with me.

After I called in ill for many appointments, I finally made it in to see my psychiatrist. (This was the fourth one they had changed in the past year, because the place is state funded, I guess.) As I was leaving the office, I noticed that my therapist’s name was not on her door. I gasped out loud. She was the ONLY therapist I have been able to talk to in 35 years. She left me without saying goodbye, but see, I might have gotten to say goodbye if I HADN’T MISSED MY APPOINTMENTS WITH HER. So after this happened about 6 months ago, I have not been able to make or keep an appointment since.

Sure, I was upset when she left. I cried, and felt abandoned, like a little child. I was angry, because I couldn’t know where she went, I couldn’t write, I couldn’t say goodbye. Goodbye. 

Goodbye Maylene. There, I said it now.

So the point of all this is that I have not been dealing with things well here at home. I cry bitterly and often. I am incredibly lonely. I have no one to talk to but my poor sick Father who can’t stand to hear me talk. No, really. He complains when I am talkative. I am utterly alone in this funeral home of a house, with the blinds drawn and enforced quiet. I talk to my dogs, my cats, plants, clothes, strangers, dishes…and you, out there.

I just wanted to make an appointment when I called up there the other day. So when the snotty receptionist started quizzing me about all the missed appointments, and sounded like a nun at a catholic school, berating me for my tardiness…I snapped. Oh, I stayed relatively calm on the phone while I grovelled at her feet through the phone line. I kept my cool fairly well when I asked her could I PLEEZE see a doctor, and that I was SICK and that’s why I miss appointments. But I know how to do some things pretty well, and being my own advocate is one of the big ones. I am one of the little guys who has been called a loser, a doper, a burnout, a whacko, and a psycho, and I have taken about as much of that as I can ever stand. She was NOT a doctor, and she had NO IDEA what I have been through in my life. So I had given her a bad day at the office? Weel, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and hung up the phone.

My next move was to call her superior.

So today when I crept in there all sheepish and late, and they told me I could not see the doctor, I could see her in her office chair, sneering at me and laughing at my sorry *&$%. The funny thing is, she wasn’t really there at all…

She was fired.


Picture 088

Author: ST Martin

I am an Artist, Poet and Author. A Survivor of Violent Sexual Abuse and Rape, I have lived thru Severe Domestic Violence, Twenty Three years of Addiction and Alcoholism, Family Dysfunction, Chronic Pain, Dependence on Opioids, and 2 Venomous Snake Bites...I have Been Stabbed, Shot at, Tied to a Tree and Choked Unconscious. A Quarter Horse Rolled on Me, as did a Lawn Tractor. I also Wrecked a Harley into a Tree! I also have PTSD and Rapid Cycling Bipolar Disorder, and spent my 18th birthday in a Locked Psychiatric Ward. I am so much more than this: I feel like a tiny seed that sprouted in a desert, and now has grown into a Passion Vine. My Art is my Voice, Screaming, Crying, Praying, Loving, Laughing, Healing- all in Riotous Color...

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