The Health Insurance Waiting Period

I'm very fortunate that I have a full-time job doing something I absolutely love. I am even more fortunate that my job offers a comprehensive health insurance plan that includes psych. I'm the most fortunate that my therapist and a handful of psychiatrists (they're just hard to find) take my insurance.

What I'm not fortunate with is the waiting period. I'm at the point where my medical insurance from my previous job ended, and although I am enrolled in my new insurance, it is not active for a little while. So I came to the dreaded point--my medication ran out. And that struggle has been real.

In my world, a lot of people don't seem to understand just how dangerous and difficult it is when meds run out, and in this post I hope to shed some light and show just what this perilous time looks like.

For me, it looks like this:

I looks like not sleeping in 3 days other than an hour a night.

It looks like getting up at 5:15 every morning, dragging myself into the shower, and getting ready for work.

It looks like driving to my job, my mind in a complete fog, GPS is the only way I can get there, and mentally pulling out my theatre training.

It looks like becoming an actor and acting like my brain is perfect, and my body isn't breaking down under the strain. The performance, for over 8 hours, is beyond exhausting.

It looks like forcing a smile and small talk with co-workers.

It looks like locking myself in my classroom to have silence, and attempting to complete the checklist system my therapist put in place for me.

It looks like teaching, and fully enjoying part of my day. Being fully in the moment, educating my kids and loving every second of it. A moment of respite from the misery.

It looks like closing the door after my students leave and collasping in my chair drained.

It looks like taking deep breaths and somehow finding the strength to teach again, and again.

It looks like texting and emailing my therapist daily, and her getting back to me every single time.

It looks like not eating and hating the concept of food.

It looks like staying late at work, and knowing if I let myself go for one moment, give into the siren call of my brain and body, I will lose everything.

It looks like for the first time realizing how much I'd have to lose and how much I am willing to fight.

It looks like crying in my car after work, riding the wave of anger and sadness, letting the exhaustion take over for just a minute.

It looks like popping an icepack and practicing a TIPP skill so I can safely drive home.

It looks like being in constant motion like a shark, walking for hours on end just to expel the excess energy.

It looks like apologizing to friends for being out of touch.

It looks like shaking hands and fuzzy thoughts.

It looks like curling up in a ball, crying.

It looks like collapsing in my therapist's office, my head in my hands, too exhausted to speak.

It looks like N. sliding a cup of coffee to me, and smiling. "This must be so hard for you, we'll get through it. I'm here for you."

It looks like N. realizing I don't actually want to talk, so she launches into a mini-monologue.

It looks like me admitting to wanting a pet hedgehog and beginning to speak.

It looks like N. working hard to make this session go somewhere--even referencing Sherlock Holmes so I'd at least try to engage.

It looks like N. trying to discuss my manic activity, and me getting embarrassed to admit I almost drove four hours for a Tinder hook up.

It looks like her helping me come up with better alternatives that "won't get you dead or arrested."

It looks like silence.

It looks like N.'s eyes narrowing--she's figured something out.

It looks like her mentioning the play I've written, and beginning to bring up the source of nightmares I always have when I'm like this. Nightmares we've never discussed.

It looks like a moment of pure compassion that brought me to tears. "It's not your fault. It never has been, it never will be. Perceived hindsight--I made up the term--is when you think that choice A was shitty, so choice B would have been amazing. Your life would have been so perfect if you had only chosen B. That's bullshit. There is choice A and choice B but there's also choice C, D, E and so on. This happened to you--it was shitty, he's a fucking shitty person, and I'm hurting for you. But it's not your fault. If you leave here and have listened to nothing else, take away the fact that this was never your fault. You were a child. And then you were an adult who made the choices you needed to make to survive. Anyone would do that--we want to survive. It's not your fault."

It looks like my shoulders sagging, a weight coming off them I didn't know I had. "No one has ever truly said that to me. Not like that."

It looks like N. smiling. "Well now someone has."

It looks like N. realizing how desperate I am for meds, and advocating for me to get them ASAP.

It looks like sitting in silence, my mind starting to slow.

It looks like me driving home, tears in my eyes, but feeling somehow lighter.

It looks like broken promises and dreams, that circle my head in the dark.

It looks like a countdown on my calendar until my meds arrive.

It looks like whispered prayers to a God I stopped believing in long ago.

It looks like missing my mom more than anything else, and wishing beyond measure she could lay next to me, and hug me in the tight way that only a mom can. I'd feel safe then.

]It looks like too many deadlines and not enough time.

It looks like numbing myself with X-Box at 2:00 AM.

It looks like losing all hope, and yet hanging on. Dialectics--life is shitty AND it will get better.

It looks like wanting to give up, but finding that one glimmer to hold on to.

It looks like realizing living is a choice and making the choice, no matter how hard it gets, to stay.