Not coping

I’m in that interesting position where I realise I’m not coping.  Really not coping, like "get me outta here" not coping.  The stupid thing is, getting outta here would have been so much easier the first time round, when I was in my teens, because I didn’t feel I owed anyone anything.  I had no close connections.  I acknowledged that my parents may feel attached to me, but since they had provided so little more than abuse up to that point, I didn’t really feel obligated there. 

It’s funny, I’ve patted myself on the back for never getting into debt, budgetting scrupulously and spending carefully.  I often feel downright righteous for not having a credit card.  No consumer debt spiral here, no siree.  And yet I’m in debt over my head to family, in obligations that result from their gifts, their subsidies and help over the last ten years.  Tens of thousands in mates-rates rent.  Thousands in health insurance premiums paid for me.  More thousands in money for the naturopath and "a few nice things".  And now I have in my head this absurd but awfully serious quote from an old movie; "it’s a sin to die with a debt unpaid." 

So, no easy options.  Geez, did anyone ever think suicide was an easy option?  Can you really criticise someone for not choosing an option that’s harder than murdering yourself?  The world’s fucked up, I tell you.  The Roman circus lives on in all of us. 

So anyway, I remember this place.  I’ve been here before, half a life ago.  It’s that point where you realise you’re going under, where you’ve lost the ability to do anything to get on top of it.  It’s the point where you say it’s pointless to experience this, because all you can do is suffer, not act.  You’ve reached the end of endurance.  And so you want out.  You want someone to come in and do something about it.  To fix it so you can breathe again.  To make it stop.  And somewhere a little voice sniggers and you realise that you’re locked in.  That it doesn’t stop when you say ‘enough’.  That no-one cares enough to do much more than watch for a second as they walk past.  And even if they did care, there’s not much they could do.  No-one can run in and say "Stop!  She can’t handle it anymore.  Leave her alone!"  and be heeded. 

Anyone you lean on for support gets tired of holding you up.  Anyone who helps with money finds their wallet drained.  Anyone who tries to be your friend finds themselves rained on by the storm cloud that’s always raining on you.  The pain is uncontainable.  It spreads and floods like a cold muddy river.  It sweeps away everything. 

I went to my doctor to have the Centrelink medical report filled in.  He told me I should hate myself for not contributing anything to society.  He said I ought to volunteer at the hospital, taking flowers to patients, because that way my life would be more useful.  He said I ought to go do a masters in whatever course will let me in.  Presumably full-time.  He did not ask if I had managed to cook myself dinner in the last fortnight.  He did not ask if I had the strength to do anything the day after grocery day, or how many days a week I usually spent sick or in pain.  And he filled in the form by copying much of it from the one he wrote three years ago.  One word answers scrawled in capitals over the paragraph given to answer questions phrased in three sentences each.  Apathy verging on a joke. 

What am I supposed to do?  That was my only doctor.  It took me a month of sleepless nights and nauseated days to find the courage to do that.  Anna thinks I should send it in and hope for the best.  Others don’t. 

Today I asked acquaintances for GP recommendations.  I have a few, though I don’t see how I’ll manage to do anything with them.  The best one most likely isn’t taking new patients.  And anyway, who’ll believe me if I go in there asking a doctor to fill in a medical form about someone they’ve never seen before?  I was going to try finding a new doctor, specialists even, earlier this year.  I’ve just been too damn sick and too emotionally fragile to do it!  It’s a stinking catch-22. 

You know the worst thing?  I start to wonder if I’m crazy.  What if I am really imagining it all?  And then I just count up how many days I’ve been sick so far this year.  More bad days than good.  How can the doctor’s arguments of "sometimes I drag myself to work when I’m sick" bear relevance to that?  I need a lawyer, and advocate to speak on my behalf to a doctor or Centrelink or someone.  I can’t do this on my own.  Not even with cheering from the sidelines.  I just don’t see how I can do it.  My head isn’t clear enough.  I’m too floored by these absurd judgements to know what to say to them.  I’m too involved to do anything but panic.  And that won’t solve anything.