Sunday, July 12, 2015

open letter to fancy psychiatrists.

a plan of action which i thought up still isn't working. this plan is, simply, to get the proper treatment for my mental condition. this morning, i upped the ante: the superidealist-self now wants the *best* help and refuses to settle for anything less.
the nearest city- an expensive place- is where i decided i would find the best help. heck, my current stepmother, from whom i've estranged, is a psychiatrist stationed in this city. if i'm related to one kinda, how hard could it be to get my paws on a psychiatrist who would suit my needs? how hard could it be to obtain therapeutic treatment that would also suit my needs? inevitably, i've searched the living bi-jesus out of the net.

apparently, psychiatrists from said nearest city don't like, ever accept insurance.
this partly explains the homelessness problem (prepare yourselves as i delve further into this subject)- therein, those pesky street people who mutter their lives away. the truth is, those street-people and i don't live a reality responsive to scientific evidence. if you're anything like me and you gauge according to natural selection, in order to survive you totally have to respond to scientific evidence- the shared stuff.
unfortunately, a lot of us don't have a say in the matter. often, it's because we cannot *afford* it. for-profit help is really, really expensive. i'd certainly be streetpeople-y myself if i didn't have my mother. because i'm sick as shit and not getting anywhere as far as progress goes.

yesterday, i did accomplish a goal that i had wished to accomplish yet wished not to accomplish at the same time. this "yes and no at once" i experience is quite textbook-like of what is known as dialectical reasoning. i don't know how to deal with this incessant maladaptive way other than by "splitting". splitting is how i move through life.
i imagine "splitting" as a baby is being torn slowly, roped between two trucks driving in opposing directions. i offer a g-rated version: splitting like how string cheese does. ain't that cute?
how i resolve this is by choosing the one extreme of the two extremes that seems it would offer a catharsis.

the goal i accomplished yesterday was the following: i threw that gourd that's been in my kitchen for like a month. i'd been fantasizing about throwing it through a window.
i didn't throw it through a window, though. instead, i went outside with it and threw the gourd against my oak tree, kali. it took several tries to smash the gourd. i scared myself, not because what i was doing was indicative of something being "off", but because i felt rather violent and horrifically mean about how hurtful i am. i hurt that poor gourd, and i hurt kali, my oak tree. my *giving tree*.
when the gourd finally smashed after several tries, i took "him" in my arms, sobbing and cradling him and apologizing to the poor thing. sometimes you just don't know about the plausibility of an animist personality until you smash a gourd against a beloved tree.

earlier that evening, i had sobbed profusely in the hallway. the hallway is where i go when i'm being brave enough to leave my personal headquarters- generally, as an attempt to save myself from say... a hurricane...or panic disorder (same thing); or maybe i'm being all hellbent on a desire to melt into the carpet if i feel myself melting but very, very slowly, so i need to speed it up by freaking myself out with leaving my headquarters.
i'd seen my mother cry two other times during my life. yesterday was the third.
during this minor catastrophe, i wound up asking my mother to kill me. it struck me as a solution. kill me, i don't have a life or a personality or happiness. i want freedom but i am a deer in headlights when it comes to that kind of thing. every thought hurts. i don't possess anything *meaningfully*. i'm a ruined thing of compromises and of zero chance at self-love. a condition in a shell. a test tube baby that wasn't supposed to happen. an accident. an alien among aliens among aliens. just fucking kill me for peter's sake. it would like, be nice of someone to do that. duh.

fancy psychiatrists, how does this make you feel?

i digress.

my emotional mind wants to say rich people make unconscionable choices, but my logic disagrees with what my emotional mind says. that logic would like to present, in the most idyllically titled way one can, as the "the marie-antoinette complex". the marie-antoniette complex denotes being conditioned into a rich person's life all around, unknowing of other ways.
of course, if you have been conditioned into such, you aim for wealth. however, consider someone like myself, a poor person, knows that social status doesn't mean much. it's not because i'm poor and humbled by my poorness or my poor upbringing. it's because people are easy to understand. i'm a person, after all. therefore, you can do it, too!
people with a lot of money are of a differing socioeconomic level than i. but like, that's about the only difference. i imagine people of all socioeconomic sorts are capable of the same knowing, this is because conditioning doesn't end. it's constant, always subject to change.
there is more to life than socioeconomic status, unless you're one for class consciousness. that's a different story.
calling anyone unconscionable is indeed absurd as we all believe we are doing what is right. it's also mathematically erroneous, as well as emotionally bitter. intellectually, knowing this isn't going to get me anywhere i know this sort of thing ought to be dropped. i know very well that if you're not mindful of what you have, than you're not growing. perhaps one is not willing, or perhaps one is not ready or prepared or matured- these are all valid. *but it is also valid when one knows more than what you have without objectifying the other people and what they have*.
if you have a doctorate, perhaps you're smart and educated. if this is the case, than perhaps you have the capability of intellectualizing varying socioeconomic statuses happen for different reasons but they are reasoned all the same. us poor people struggle as much as the rich do, but in different ways. it isn't an absurd thing, on either end. so i want to remind those struggling in the face of a marie-antoinette complex- of what exists outside of versailles: us. we need you guys. i personally don't want to kick your ass or anything, but like, i'm not going to lie, i desperately need your help.

not being able to find a single state-of-the-art psychiatrist who accepts insurance is a major bummer. on a similar note, not being able to get into the state-of-the-art therapy program i need for the benefit of my well-being sucks way, way worse. all because of money. is it possible i will ever feel better?
you hear about suicide and you hear about homicide. you hear that people who commit these extreme acts suffer from psychiatric illnesses. is the narrative so one-dimensional? we're just fucked up and that's that? i refuse to give into that stigmatizing; sensationalizing. let's look a little deeper into this: like, why *don't* we do anything about our extreme tendencies? why are we ridiculous? why do our lives suck so bad?
allow it to slap you across the face when i type "we can't afford to move past it. and you can afford to look away.. you have other things that are more fun to afford."

the suffering of the mentally ill human being is quite mysterious and often neglected. additionally, it's never cut and dry. it's of the brain.
i can outstretch my leg and see a bruise, unaware of how the heck or when that happened, but i accept that it's there. that is so beautiful. however, i can't even accept my migraine condition. i can't bare to accept my epilepsy diagnosis- i feel like i just made up my seizures to "get attention". my mental illness? *forget it*. i always find myself believing i'm just making it up, "malingering", and just being lazy and stupid. my therapist argues against this as much as my neurologist does. i can't outstretch my brain and see what's there. i do know that if something is happening in my brain, that's a very scary threat. wow, the most vital and precious force of energy known to man is all bruised up and stuff? sounds pretty unbelievable. and i can't see it. my sensory intake is overloaded; on fire, but i cannot generate acceptance of anything being wrong with my brain. i can't see it. it's not there.
everyday, i attempt to meditate on my conscious mind. i want to step away from the spinning and the heaviness of my thinking. the more i try, the more i sink. the more it hurts. i feel stuck. stuck in fucking gravel, surrounded by claustrophobia.

i don't give a fuck that life is not fair. but i do care that epidemics exist, such as the ones i suffer as a result of being a component of, because the street people and i *can't afford help*.

fancy psychiatrists, please find it in your juicy, beautiful minds to take care of us who need you just as much as anyone else. our minds are just as beautiful as anyone elses. we don't *want* them to deteriorate. our lives are at stake.

all the best and definite xo,
peach.