In The Red

Everything was good today, until the panic attack. Even now, hours later, my fingers still tremble and my heart still races. What could cause such a lasting and debilitating episode? My wife asked me to handle the horses for our farrier. This normally simple task instantly terrified me. But that was nothing compared to the self-hatred I felt for letting her down. She isn’t feeling well and I couldn’t step up and do what was right. I couldn’t be there for someone I love. That is the worst part about depression and anxiety; letting people down. Yes, I know she loves me. Yes, I know she understands and doesn’t blame me. And yes, it isn’t my fault. But right now, my son is out working his ass off, doing something that I should be doing, because I can’t talk to someone I’ve known for years. I’d say it’s emasculating, but I don’t give a shit about “Being a Man.” What I care about it being a good person. A reliable person. Someone that people can go to in their time of need. And right now, I’m not.

I had been doing very well for a couple weeks. I had a couple near misses, times when I almost freaked out, but I could control myself. Take some deep breaths and relax. Today probably wouldn’t have been a problem either, if it weren’t for the fact that I ran out of my meds on Monday and haven’t been able to get a refill, even though the prescription calls for one, because my insurance hasn’t given the ok on the one med that I AM NOT supposed to stop. And that is exactly what happened. Because some insurance company is looking at their bottom line instead of me. To them I’m a customer, not a patient. Hell, not even a customer. I’m a revenue stream. A soulless number to help them keep their books in the black as my health dips into the red.


I had to take a break from writing this. I was getting too agitated thinking about insurance companies. I’m ok now.

Actually, you know what?

I’m not ok.

I shouldn’t have to accept my fate at the hands of an amoral, unsympathetic, money hungry corporation. I am a person damn it. Instead of my insurance number, they should have to identify me by my picture. They should be forced to listen to my children asking why daddy is always in his room. Why I can’t take them to dance class or go to their school events. My children are growing up without me, all because the medication that works for me isn’t on the “approved” list.

But what can I do? I’d contact my representatives, but that scares the shit out of me. I could join the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance, but the nearest chapter is 85 miles away, and it’s faith based.

Or…..I could join the DBSA and start a chapter myself…….something to think about…..

Sorry this isn’t as funny as usual. I just don’t see the humor today. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll get back to the dick and fart jokes.


Anyway, thanks for reading.