2017-05-04 - 8:43 p.m.
Jack's Disability Case Rejection Letter (2)
***Trigger Warning: I am feeling very triggered, manic, self destructive. There is some suicidal ideation and mention of self harm. I am in a generally unhinged self destructive place.***
It is actually in my best interests to just go ahead and get more and more fucked up.
Sicker and sicker.
My therapist tried to brace me for this.
Think of that first rejection letter as a good thing. It's just the next step in the process. They deny everyone the first time.
She reassured me that just being in this program pretty much means I will get it. That
Everyone was surprised how fast I got approved for the state cash assistance. (That keeps you afloat during the disability process)
Usually that takes up to two months. They must really think I need it and feel sure I will get disability. Otherwise the state has to eat the cost. They do not just give this out like candy.
Maybe.... just maybe... we would get a hole in one and I would get my disability the first time.
No such fucking luck.
My therapist can only lift my spirits about as high as kicking up the dust. I am just too used to my fucked up shit life.
I seem to have lost the ability to relax. Lost the ability to feel even the smallest amount of happiness, hope, relief or meaning to my life.
Only fitful unstable reprieves as life tosses and turns me. Throws my face into the wall. Smashes me off the floor.
It is always something.
It seems like every day there is some ominous letter waiting for me through the window on the edge of my landlord's kitchen table.
Sometimes it is good news but not usually.
This letter was not one of the good ones.
When I opened it I was in a horrified panic to see that most of my diagnosis was missing!
According to them:
"We have determined that your condition is not severe enough to keep you from working.
We considered the medical and other information, your age, education, training, work experience in determining how your condition affects your ability to work.
You said you were disabled because of bipolar.
Your condition results in some limitations in your ability to perform work related activities. We have determined that your condition is not severe enough to keep you from working. We considered the medical and other information, your age and education in determining how your condition affects your ability to work. We do not have sufficient vocational information to determine whether you can perform any of your past relevant work. However, based on the evidence in file, we have determined you can adjust to other work."
Basically you are as fit as a horse, get back in the fields you dumb ox. We believe you are fine and capable of finding some way to use up what is left of yourself.
Adjust to other work?
You have no idea. No fucking idea.
You did not even get my fucking diagnosis right!
I am schizo affective the bipolar edition with severe agoraphobia and panic disorder.
My idea of "adjusting" is completely shutting down and withdrawing from myself, my friends and life. Adjusting is "adapting" to living in a near constantly suicidal state, just waiting for the right thing to send me over the edge. Playing dead man walking around the ledge of the building for one more almost sadly hysterical meaningless day. Adjusting is crossing the wires, blurring the lines and developing feelings of titillation about suicide and self harm. Adjusting is getting off on self destruction. You have to deal with the pain somehow. Adjusting is me giving up and drinking my life and myself away. Maybe forever.
"Adjusting" is me losing my fucking mind.
In fact, I have adjusted so well that I can never fucking get comfortable or relax anymore.
I have adjusted so well I do not even know how to actually want to live anymore.
What does it even feel like to not always be ready to throw yourself out the passenger door of your life?
"If your condition gets worse and keeps you from working, write, call or visit any Social Security office about filing another application."
Ummm that is why I filed in the first place.
I am Jack's End Stage Depression
Any worse and I will probably be dead soon.
But that is exactly what has to happen. Get worse.
Because no one is taking me fucking seriously. Just like they never do.
I realize I am actually traumatized that no one ever takes me seriously. It is a major trigger.
And it has been triggered.
My therapist was supposed to call the lawyer with me today, but I took care of it. In my own awkward, frantic, fumbling manner.
As soon as you get the rejection letter you need to call. Because Social Security doesn't always bother to send the lawyer a copy.
The paralegal was very friendly, even cool. I heard her slip a "fuck" and a "shit" in an otherwise very professional conversation. She was being very real with me.
Well I was being very real with her too and started crying on the phone, though no tears were coming out.
I told her about what happened to my diagnosis and she said that must have been what all the doctors and hospitals said regardless of my updated and accurate diagnosis from the Master Interrogator.
She will send out a form for my therapist to fill out and said it will be considered official medical evidence and have a lot more standing than any of the notes my therapist said she would get from the clinic.
They are going to file an appeal.
Yes this is going right to court. It could take a year. But at the speed of these things, this is right to court.
I guess the lawyer does not have time for the shit games of filing and being denied over and over for years.
This is both good and bad.
I asked if I had to go to court? Do I have to talk?
Please is there any way I do not have to?
There are exceptions when the person is too weak or sick, but I am probably not in that category. But "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it" she tries to reassure me.
It doesn't work.
I told her I do not feel capable or fit to speak in court. I am just going to be shaking and crying the whole time. I could not even handle the interview with my caseworker for the cash assistance. I shook the whole time and my therapist did most of the talking.
But this is what they need to see.
My therapist believes that was why I was approved so fast for the cash assistance.
The paralegal believes for the good of my case I need to be seen.
I am fucking terrified of being interrogated or treated as if I am being prosecuted.
Having to fight for my life.
According to her it will not be like that.
But the medical examiner could either be my friend in this or the prosecutor by another name.
Just the thought of this makes me so fucking sick. Crazy and sick.
Yesterday I was so sick with this I could not get out of bed. I was in so much fucking pain.
I took my usual silver bullet, Motrin 600, but it wasn't helping.
The more I thought the more my head hurt. When I stopped thinking everything hurt.
(That made me wonder if I use obsessive racing thinking to distance myself from my body)
I became aware of the pain going down the back of my neck, running the sharply curving length of my spine as I curled into myself and died.
I am Jack's Full Body Migraine
I am made of broken bones, barbed wire and pain.
I realize the pain killer is not working because I am not letting it. But I can not relax. My mind or body. Everything is wound so excruciatingly tight.
Finally I make some honey water and take an Ativan.
This sends me off into a deep heavenly altered state of consciousness. Pure bliss. Even though I can still feel the pain in my face.
Finally I slipped into a deep but short sleep.
When I wake up the pain is weakened. Latent but present. I never completely got rid of it. Any even slight hold out can come back full force very quickly. Luckily it never did.
But this is what this shit is doing to me!
When I told the paralegal she was surprised and soothingly cooed at me.
She tries to comfort me that it is all going to be okay. The lawyer would not have taken my case if he did not think he could win.
My voice crying even though my eyes aren't, I tell her she doesn't understand.
This is my life on trial.
For me, this is life or death.
If this does not go the way I need it to, then I am offing myself.
My therapist keeps saying she will be there with me every step of the way. She will go to court with me. She will do everything she can within her power for me.
"Within your power. That's the operative clause, right there." I said.
I am just not stupid enough to be consoled.
These horrible scenarios keep running through my head. Is she strong enough to hold me back from running out in front of traffic? Maybe just running. Running. Running. Running like I am on fire. But never really getting away. Where will I turn up?
Can she physically restrain me?
Would she call the cops?
Would/will it be like one of those chase dreams?
What will happen to me if I am damned with no fucking hope of being delivered?
You only get to do this once. No matter what happens to you ever after.
Jack Lets Down Some Of His Silent Charade - 2017-06-25
Jack Is Never Okay - 2017-06-16
Jack's After Thoughts On His Paranoid Insecurity - 2017-05-17
Jack's Constant Paranoid Insecurity - 2017-05-12