Pgh Lesbian Correspondents

Content Note: mental health, bureaucracy, aging, suicide, shed building

Last week. A dark and twisty series of days, events, and revelations.

It was pretty rough.

First …

First, there’s my struggle to find a good therapist who accepts Medicare. Or will. I have private insurance now through my spouse, but I also have a Medicare policy. When I was disabled at age 40, marriage equality was not legal. If I passed on Medicare, we would both be hit by penalties. For me, that would be 25 years of penalties, so I bought the cheapest plan possible and occasionally it does cover something.

Now my therapist is having to step back for her own health reasons. We are searching for a new provider together – I’ll see the new person 2x week and my current therapist 1x week for trauma processing therapies. We made a list of qualifications. My list had over 50 items; she pared it down quite a bit. Apparently, “not a skinny high femme white lady” is not reasonable.

But almost no therapists accept Medicare. The approval process is apparently very hard. Having been through the SSDI process, I can relate. Medicare seems to prefer community clinics over private providers. And that’s a problem.

I’m a demanding, complicated, and intense person. In therapy, multiple that by three. I expect a lot because I didn’t get much during my growing up years. I have three very serious diagnoses, one of which is among the most lethal condition. Bipolar depression lowers life expectancy by 12-13 years. We are 10 to 30 more times likely to die by suicide. Life expectancy is 67 years.

Add in PTSD or Chronic PTSD as I have and risk of death by suicide goes up and life expectancy decreases even further.

Medication absolutely helps as does good solid therapy. I’m not planning to die at 67. I have too much left to say. But I need a really good therapist or therapists (therapi?) who in fluent in all of this. Plus body neutrality, social work training, no faith based anything, and really nice and comforting. The list goes on … until it doesn’t because Medicare doesn’t care. I get who I get.

Last week, an entire practice turned me down as too difficult, not because of my illnesses, but because of the insurance situation. I responded by calling a local journalist who covers the health beat and asked her to consider a story on Medicare and mental health providers. She’s looking into it.

I’m interviewing with someone on Friday who seems like a decent fit on paper. All of my criteria went out the window except for Medicare and takes my diagnoses seriously.

This was soul crushing. I work really hard to manage my mental health. I’m a good patient because I put in the time, I do the work as they say, and I am actively engaged in every aspect. I don’t WebMD things, I read journal articles. I’m on top of meds. I know my symptoms, I know side effects.

I’m living with two potentially lethal chronic health conditions. I shouldn’t be penalized by losing access to the very best treatment providers.

Second

Then I had a party where I invited about 30 people and 8 of them came with a few guests. That on top of the Medicare sitch took me down a few degrees. But again, I did the work to process the feelings and monitor the symptoms. I didn’t skate near depression. I was sad and felt abandoned, but that I can deal with.

Third

I can’t get anyone to build a shed. I’ve got the shed. I have a location. Instructions. I need someone with a battery operated drill who can do the foreman and instruct other willing but unknowing volunteers. Why is this so hard? I’ve got like three weeks left before the ground will be too cold. Help me build this shed.

Fourth

I spoke with the lawyers in both of my legal cases. That’s always both helpful in terms of being up to speed and difficult in terms of having 100 million possibilities and not knowing when I’ll know. I do know that my housing should be secure through at least the spring. That’s something. It will likely be much longer, but that’s the possibility pile, not the realistic pile.

Next

My Thanksgiving plans went sideways. I can’t find the rechargeable batteries I just bought. The laundry piled up and needs attending to pronto. I’m worried about pet food donations. I’m worried about #ProtectTransKids. I need to raise money for everything and I just cannot do it.

I stressed my friends. To take care of myself, I went out yesterday with a friend to run errands. Then I came home and broke down party leftovers in freezer portions. Today, I went with another friend to see the movie ‘A Real Pain’ – it is good. Then I came home and wrote this blog post so I can use the benefits of those outings to reexamine things with fresh eyes.

So that was last week. Other crap happened, but this list is pretty long. Now we enter my favorite week of the year. So far my agenda includes a satisfying turkey dinner lunch at Bistro to Go on Wednesday. Hopefully, wrapping up an interview about the holiday pet food drive. Meeting potential new therapist on Friday. Buying cat food at Costco.

A shed foreperson showing up would make it excellent.

Oh, I took Gertie out twice – once to Camp Horne Road Giant Eagle and then to the Waterfront. I avoided having to stop on hills with one exception in Swissvale. But I roared through. I took the long way both times.

Gertie is lonely at night. The radio is not great. My phone is a bit older so it doesn’t fill that gap especially with a roaring chug chug through the dark roads close to the flat lands. She’s skittish on the highway.

But I did it. I got there and I parked and then returned to drive off to my next stop. I don’t stall any longer. Shifting is becoming more symbiotic.

It would be fun to do a ‘stuff Gertie’ food drive. She could handle it.

Please let this coming week be better. I need a good Thanksgiving week to help this demanding, complicated, and intense person keep shifting smoothly as I cruise past age 67 (I’m 54 now.)

See what I did there?

PS: It is day 24 of NaBloPoMo and I’m sticking with it.