First Post

For the first time in months I haven't been scared to walk to the mailbox. Last week, a letter came from a social security judge that brought me such good news--the relief was like being in a new body, it was that intense. The social security adminstration judge ruled fully in our favor on some arcane issue regarding an overpayment in our daughter's disability case. The letter came seven months after the hearing, and we're getting back hundreds of dollars back now that the state has been taking out of my girl's payments.  I'd been so scared that the judge would rule against us--she'd said at the hearing that it could go the other way, that it was a 50/50 case with no precedent. It would not have been the first time social security messed up. My husband's charged the office before to correct them on their math, but this is the first time we had to appeal to a judge. 

Some people think living on welfare is coasting but it's work of its own--so many forms to fill out, so many lines to stand in, so much hassle. No sane person with other options bears this.

No one in this family is sane.

The husband was committed six weeks ago. It was his second involuntary commitment to a mental hospital in Louisiana in sixteen months. He was released within twenty-four hours, against procedure, without prescriptions, and because he was terrified to see the doctor who incarcerated him and Medicaid made it impossible for him to see another doctor, he went five whole weeks without necessary medications. It took the help of a pro-bono mental health advocate for him to get an appointment with another prescribing psychiatrist, but he has his prescriptions now. Finally.

I'm breathing a little easier. But I still have forms to fill out--two special needs children to care for, my husband who is wobbling on medication changes to look after, and oh, the same doctor who may have illegally committed my husband sees me for my bipolar 1 but I have no insurance and no option of seeing another doctor.

I like that doctor. I really don't assign that much blame to the clinics around here--they're understaffed, over-worked. People make mistakes. If I blame anyone it's the guy who announced his bid for the presidency yesterday--the governor of our state, Bobby Jindal. Louisiana's health care system was degraded before he got to it, but he fucked it to such miserable depths that one of my goals in recovery of my own soul is: thou shall no longer waste time imagining ways Bobby can die.

I could fill a book with those Die, Bobby fantasies. But ok, this is enough for a first post. Next post will be a slightly sentimental thingie I wrote for an anthology of mommies of special needs kids. My daughter had her first psychotic episode at age 7. Yeah, fun times. I figured the book I'd write would be how my life went to hell after that--because obviously, it came back from hell. I have some time to write now. The notes start here. I have others scattered here and there. I'll collect and share.

I'm afraid of the future still. If I weren't, I wouldn't be the one in charge.