Inmate Number…

It hit me earlier…I don’t have a name. I have a patient file number. Which is as good as having an inmate number. The depression is my cell and I am in lock down. I get an hour in the yard every so often? Woo hoo.

Today I got a SHOWER.

Was anyone stopping me? No. Was the water turned off? No.

Just held prisoner in this invisible cell called DEPRESSION.

Not even clinical depression. Nope. BIPOLAR DEPRESSION. The kind no one understands because, ya know, manic is the opposite of depression so even one episode a year nullifies the other 50 weeks of the year.

I showered.

For the first time in…days. a week. IDK.

I still don’t have my new ADD med. I called the pharmacy, they said it has to be approved by insurance. Which I assumed had been done ya know, last week, when the shrink personally called to explain the substitution. But Nope. I had to drive to the dr office, let them my copy my picture ID, leave the script at the pharmacy…and still fuck all.

I am frustrated. I get bottom lines and saving a buck but FFS!!!!! What is the point of a prescription plan if nothing is fucking covered?

So…That’s my day. Kids, kids, kids, kids, kids. Insurance issues. Frustration. Anger. And my only success? I got my kid showered AND I showered myself.

So many don’t get why this is a big deal. I get it.

But trust me. In a darkened mind…with an inmate number…It IS a big deal.

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