The Real Crisis

It was approximately eight thirty pm tonight, and I feel myself slipping further and further away, dissociation, by its technical term, a strange phenomenon but a real response to stress and fear. My vision becomes blurry, and my ability to hear is greatly reduced. My brain freezes, stops all cognitions, and at my worst, I am unresponsive to communication. I feel nothing, completely dead inside. The sensation can last for hours, or minutes.

Like most things in my life, it passes. I come back into the self-actualized me, and I’m fully aware of my surroundings again.

It was how I protect myself as a small girl in situations of abuse, but even as an adult, PTSD is genuine day-to-day problem for me. The best anti-anxiety medication for me is expensive, and has horrendous withdrawal symptoms, although it is not psychologically addicting like benzo’s. I’ve been living without it for the past few months for economic reasons, but I’ve noticed a difference. I have more anxiety attacks, and I’m more sensitive to being overstimulated.

Every day, I wonder how long I can go without health insurance, taking my chances already with my own wellbeing. I have few options of getting coverage. One of my professors who has been studying the health care crisis suggested moving out of state, where my medical records won’t easily be transferred. Before suffering needlessly (or going into further debt), I will go out of the country, either spend my last dime to fly to England or borrow a vehicle and drive into Canada. I’m hoping to be approved for Medicare within a couple of months, but with budget cuts and my nasty Republican governor, the odds are dindling. While SSDI is a national program, people who are selected for benefits are selected through state employees, making it largely a state problem.

I’m wondering if I could get a full time job with benefits, before I become too ill to work, if I’m forced with seeking treatment versus my own education. The University’s psychiatrist and staff doesn’t want to touch me, and they will be very unlikely to prescribe morphine, if they can at all. It’s a class II drug. They keep recommending county health, but I’m afraid to go because I’ve heard enough stories. Somehow I think if things become that dire, I’ll march to a different country.