Depression is like Blindness

TW FOR MENTIONS OF SUICIDE

 

Maybe I wanted to die. Wanted to die for real. Collapsed on the dorm room floor. The jar of pills rolling from the edge of my desk and scattering across the floor like candy. In what would’ve been my last moments, regret would’ve filled my body like the pills filled my stomach. Like cement. In those last moments, I would’ve had the will to live but not the strength to pick up the phone and dial 9-1-1.

Luckily, I had both. Coming back from the edge and learning to see again.

That’s how depression works. It’s much like blindness. For it’s not darkness you feel even in your darkest moments, it’s nothingness. As huge and heavy as the entire ocean in your chest, and as silent and empty as a room with only a whirring fan at its center.

It’s soft and quiet and filling and hypothesizing. It’s exhausting like nothing else you’ve ever felt. And before you know it it’s got you and all you want to do is close your eyes and die.

And eventually, you might try. And it will be up to you in that moment to decide whether you really want it. And you will either pick up the phone and call for help or you won’t. That will be up to you, and I hope you make the choice. It will either be the last decision you make or the first one on the path of change. That’s your call, quite literally.

Don’t give up if you can help it. Because somewhere, someone or something is going to teach you how to swim in that ocean that fills your body. And if you want it, you’re going to get better.

 

Being Chronically Ill Means Being Ill Forever

Days spin into nights and into days again. Summer dragging on and on. A hot beast by August every year, a threatening season despite its spring relation. By the end of summer, the ground is cracked and dry like the heels of my mother and her mother’s mother’s dry pale skin. Even the birds are tired by the end of August and all the people are angry and hot. But then the days get cooler and the fist of fall hits me on the chest, breaking me open at my breastbone to reinstill my winter bone ache. The blow forcing my lungs to expel very last breath of summer air. The leaves fall from the trees until they are thin skeletons, standing like a relic of another year gone by. Then it’s winter and the tight-lipped holiday season passes by. The ice moves in and we in Maine are buried by seasonal Nor’Easters until we are up to our throats in snow. My skin grows cold and my pale sinew is stretched over the bones of early nights. Wintertime depression moves on me like a ghost.

And before I knew it another year in sickness passes me by.

I think back on it. All my exhaling between my doctor’s appointments. I offer up my white arms for blood tests and I’m poked, prodded and rearranged until I feel unlike myself. Grilled with the same monotonous questions again and again. How are the voices? The pain? The sadness? Do you still hurt all the time? Have your migraines changed? Are you still sleeping too much? Eating too much? How’s your lower back? Do those terrible cluster headaches still wake you in the early morning, covered with sweat? Is your pulse still tachycardic? And that wakes you too when it races at night? How are the hallucinations? Are they still trying to read your mind?

The answers grow in the back the of my throat and are forced up from my stomach, rattling around my mouth like bitter candy in a plastic bag, “I’m fine,” I say and make my next appointments.

Then six months of winter lapses.

Then summer comes again.

Then fall, winter, and spring.

Being chronically ill means being ill forever.

But what else is there to do with this type of pain?

Give in?

Give up?

Certainly not.

Not while those with mental illnesses are still mistreated. Not while we are still killed by police who aren’t trained to handle situations of mental health crises. Not while more of us are in prisons receiving treatment than in hospitals. Not while treatment is so inaccessible. Not while mental illnesses are so misunderstood, and not while there is so much misinformation.

Not while we can’t talk about it.

And not while we can talk about it but don’t know what we’re talking about.

 

Saying Goodbye to the Affordable Care Act

I heard recently that an estimated 14 million people will lose their health care when the ACA is repealed. Now, that’s just an estimate, but I don’t think any reduction in the total could make this any better. The scariest part for me is that I might be among those 14 million people. As a poor Mainer, surviving off SSI only, which is just over 8,000$ annually, I qualify for MaineCare. (MaineCare is Medicaid) Not only to I qualify, but I rely very heavily on it. The cost of my medications alone is over 1500$ a month. That total excludes the cost of treatment, of possible ER trips, and possible psychiatric hospitalizations. Even if I could afford to pay for healthcare I could never, even with it, afford my current treatment.

Now according to an article published in the BBC just four days ago called Trump Health Bill: Winners and Losers, the people who will benefit most from the ACA repeal are the rich and the urban, along with young people paying for private insurance.

Unfortunately, I’m not any of those.

This is what the BBC had to say about the people who will get hit the hardest, (not shown here is the paragraph about the elderly who are included in the list of socioeconomic groups that will be most affected).

Poor: The new plan would roll back much of the provisions put in place to protect low-wage earners under Obamacare. It would mean significantly higher premiums and reduced tax credits for middle and low-income earners. It would end the expansion of Medicaid, which covers low-income people, and overhaul the entire programme. States would be sent a fixed amount of money per Medicaid enrolee, also called a “per-capita cap”. The additional federal funding that covered expanding Medicaid would be eliminated by 2020, leaving states to bear the responsibility of making up the difference in money. States could then reduce eligibility or cut provider payments. Enrolees making around $20,000 a year at any age would be hit the hardest, according to Kaiser.

Rural: Another group that would lose under AHCA is people living in rural areas, where the cost of coverage tends to be higher due to fewer hospitals and insurers. Research shows that health insurance premiums are typically more costly in rural counties and states. Rural residents also rely more heavily on public insurance than those living in cities. While Obamacare took local healthcare costs into consideration, tax credits under the Republican plan are the same as in states like Alaska and New York. If premiums grow faster than inflation over time, the proposed tax credits will grow more slowly than those under Obamacare, according to Kaiser. Medicaid cuts could also be harmful to rural hospitals, which are already struggling to keep their doors open.

On top of all of this when the ACA is repealed, as I am pretty sure it will be, Trump’s administration’s plans to cut funding to mental health and substance abuse treatment. According to this article by Psych Central, “in 2020, the plan is to move away from open-ended entitlements in Medicaid and switch to a per-person allotment to the states. This eventual change would likely have a devastating impact on the people who are covered under Medicaid — generally the poorest American citizens. The cap per individual in 2020 would be based upon how much funding the state was receiving in 2016. This effectively means the states will be working with 4-year-old, insufficient budgets — all the while healthcare costs continue to climb.Worse things happen after 2020, too, especially if you have a mental illness or substance abuse problem and use Medicaid to get your treatment. Beginning in 2020, the proposed GOP plan would eliminate the current requirement that Medicaid cover basic mental-health and addiction services in states that expanded it. Instead, the feds will allow each state to decide whether to include those benefits in Medicaid plans. In order to keep their Medicaid costs down, many states would rollback such coverage.”

I’ll be blunt here: people are going to die.

And I could very well be one of those people.

I’m terrified. I’m so terrified last night I say in the bathroom and cried. I cried for the 14 million poor and elderly people who will lose their health care for no reason, and I cried for myself, who will most likely loose my health care and have to go off my medications and say goodbye to my mental health treatment. It’s almost unbelievable…no I take that back, it is unbelievable. It’s murder. It’s unethical.

The worst part about it is not being able to do anything. I just have to sit here until I lose my healthcare and then continue to sit around until I loose my mind.

People are going to die and nobody can do anything about it.