Mar. 19th, 2016

naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
After trying three times to make myself understood and failing, I asked my social worker to fix this one very simple problem I had been unable to crack.  One phone call from her should have done it.  Five minutes, tops.

Four hours later, nothing.  Then a response saying that someone should be calling me, and if they couldn't fix it, to have them call her.  Wow, how many opportunities for someone to drop the ball can you count there?  Because I count at least four.  It was frankly an unacceptable response.  So much so that I didn't even dignify it with an answer because what do you even say at that point?  You have time to call someone and explain the problem and tell them to call me and then let me know you did that, but you don't have time to call them and explain the problem and then add the extra two words necessary to tell them to fix it?

I had to literally go down there with Bear and rattle a cage.  Took less than five minutes once I got it in front of the right person.

Which wouldn't have been that big a deal if literally everyone else involved in the process had not failed spectacularly to do what they were supposed to do, leaving me so frustrated, upset, and alone that I spent forty-five minutes crying uncontrollably into my pillow while casually observing myself doing this from somewhere far away, not really certain why I was crying in the first place.

That's dissociation, in case anyone fails to recognize it.  That's bad.  That's scary.

I don't know how to make myself understood.  "This is important.  I have been off my medication or undermedicated for three months; I need you to prioritize my care because I am at acute psychological risk."  How much more explicit do I have to be?

When I am in this state, I am not capable of steamrollering over problems without hurting myself.  But that is what I keep having to do.  I am constantly being asked to do more, to keep going, when I am clearly in desperate need of someone else to take the reins.

I am fucked up right now because the people I should have been able to trust, that I had been assured would help me, fucking failed.

I'm sure there was a reason for this.  I'm sure the reason was...well...reasonable.  It often is.  That's the worst part.  It's nearly always something totally understandable.

At this point that doesn't matter.  I can't keep coming in second to everyone, because that is how nothing is getting done.

And if I get angry at understandable delays I'm the unreasonable one despite the fact that taken as a whole, these delays are the most unreasonable aspect of the whole thing.  I try to make myself understood politely, and nothing gets done.  I just get hurt worse.

And at this point, I can't even articulate what form "getting hurt worse" would take.  I don't know what that would even look like.  Catatonia?  Because, I mean, that's happened before.  I don't particularly want to go back there.  I need to not be committed, thanks, because at this point I have less than no evidence that they wouldn't just beat me to death with socks full of gravel.

I don't want this.  I'm tempted to just find a way to do without the medication entirely because that would honestly at this point be easier and healthier than trying to get hold of it.  Maybe if I gave it time I'd be okay with just the Lamictal and nothing else.  Sure, I'd always have the pain of knowing that nobody who was supposed to care for me professionally actually did, but that's not a new sensation.

I want to be able to give people good news.  About all I can say is that the paperwork I needed faxed was faxed, and the applications for the prescription assistance programs are in theory where they should be.  That's forward progress, but not good news, and it certainly isn't the result of anyone else's work, just the result of them doing, without exaggeration, less than five minutes' worth of work.  Filling out and faxing three forms that have stupid-proof instructions at the very top.  How hard is that?  You'd think they were having to start at "inventing fire."

I won't be able to take up the matter of my case manager with her boss until Tuesday, assuming I can get out of bed.  I have had no reliable rest.  Getting up early or staying up late at least two days/nights a week because of actual appointments, and the rest just because things are so fucking broken.  At this point I don't even want to sleep because it just brings another day around, a day in which I can be ignored and disappointed.

I wish I knew how to give up, I wish I knew what that looked like, because I would very much like to do it.

Tonight I ground up the last of my shit-rate generic Seroquel and dumped it into grape juice to cover the flavor.  I can still taste it, and it's still bitter as hell.

Nothing changes.

Bottoms up.


naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)

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