You know, I’m actually very loyal. This may or may not have already been apparent. But, I really mean it when I say so.

At one point in my life I very easily spoke behind others’ backs. Not because I was entirely fake but because it was nice to be able to make fun of or gripe about a person without them getting involved and causing a lot of headache and drama. But that being said, I also very easily betrayed people when the time came to be right.

The thing of it was that I was very opportunist and even today I collect and store countless amount of metaphysical and actual data on the people I encounter and interact with. During that time, this was very useful for surmounting an attack on someone should they ever fall out of my favour. Digging deep and worming my way all around was and is a skill of mine… but as of recently it is very relaxed and works only within a good amount of interest. Well, anyway, that’s what I did quite often. I sniffed about and remembered forever and used that to easily backstab those I was supposedly amiable towards. Any HHKer who still watches me will know this well.

I guess it was the eventual outcome for the way I grew up; friendless and against the world, why not turn around and bite back? But even still, when it came to injustice, the good person within me always boiled to the surface in some way. On some days it could either spurn or hold back those attacks I described above. Indeed, usually the attacks weren’t necessarily all about me, but instead more about vendettas or snipes at hypocrisy, and about half as much involved my own discontent as it did others’.

Okay I’m getting way off from where I was intending to lead this to. It’s a complicated and grey sort of past that to discern would require several posts or one long post. And that’s not where I’m going today.

No, instead, I’m going to tell a story.

I’ve despised my brother for quite a long time now. All the details of that is another story, but I remember one incident in which two of my classmates and lukewarm friends (I maintained a lukewarm level with all of them) were over, a boy who was my age and his sister who was a year ahead of us. I don’t quite remember what we were doing, but I believe the boy and I were playing a game in the living room, and my brother kept annoying us. He was being loud, throwing shit, jumping on the furniture. This was when we were in junior high I think; he wasn’t “too young” to understand how not to be a fucking dick. Finally at some point the boy snapped and either walloped him or screamed at him or something. Either way, he ran crying to dad.

We retired to my room with the sister, and were chatting it up. I think only I was aware of the impending doom, because only I knew about my father’s abusive behaviour, or, well, really understood how far it went. And eventually, my intuition proved true. My father came storming into the house, we heard his rapid stomping feet, and my heart pounded in terror as he literally bashed my door open (my door has many wounds in the wood from where he and my brother have beaten upon it multiple times).

He roared a demand to tell him what happened and who had done it. I stayed silent and stared ahead at my closet. Neither of them spoke up either, not even when he came to me and bellowed in my ear. He simply repeated his demands over and over, and I kept saying, “I didn’t do it!”. It was all I could say; how could I rat out one of the few people to ever treat me well? Someone I could invite over and play games with? Someone I could enjoy spending time with? He didn’t even do anything wrong, and, anyway, this was far from his battle, this family was not his war. So I let my father scream at me, call me a lying bitch, grab me savagely, not knowing how the other two were reacting, just knowing that I couldn’t stop saying it wasn’t me, I couldn’t say anything but that, it wasn’t right, none of this was but that didn’t make it okay to make it even less right than now. My brother wasn’t in my peripheral vision, but I’m sure he was lurking somewhere. He knew that I didn’t do anything, that it was the boy, but being his typical piece of shit self he said nothing, in fact, he never identified his enemy to my father at all. He knew he’d come for me and he did nothing to stop this. (And people wonder why I hate him.)

I flinched as I saw a fist rise above my head, I knew a blow would be coming soon. But then, finally, a drastic cry from one of the two (I can’t remember which) stopped him. Admission was given, but my father still shook me by the hair before he left, stating they had to leave and I was grounded from pretty much everything.

I never spoke about the incident with either of them again.

I know that learned helplessness was consuming my soul at that time, but it wasn’t to blame for my held tongue. No, I distinctly remember telling myself, “Don’t you dare say who!”. It’s kind of funny, because the guy is actually a douchebag jock type, and a spoiled brat and cruel to his sister. I’ve even heard he might be misogynist, though I’ve yet to see or hear anything for certain (just calling someone something doesn’t make them so, after all). And yet, he’s never been anything but kind, inclusive, and friendly to me. He’s invited me to gatherings, to his teams, to places, and he’s even defended me from the scorn of our peers, including his own clique. We’re not very close, we hardly speak to each other, but there is always a fond atmosphere when I’m around him. Our friendship is still lukewarm, and yet it’s different from other such friendships. There’s no awkwardness nor secret hostility nor assumptions about each other nor do we pry into each other’s lives and feed each other gossip. It’s a very casual sort of relationship, exceedingly so, we can look like half-dressed slobs around each other and not care, in fact the lack of care is the backbone. It’s hard to describe… a sort of ghost friendship. Echoes of the past that are still pervasive enough to trump time but not enough to be anything but echoes.


Well anyway, getting off that tangent. Perhaps his continued good behaviour is a thank you? I dunno. Anyway, that’s the story of my loyalty.

I was pretty much the only active member of our high school science club.

Except for a boy.

He and I used to be neighbours and were friends at that time in childhood. Except I kicked him in the ass at school and he cried like a bitch and from that moment on teachers were forever prejudiced against me.

But soon after that he moved away, and in high school he returned. A fucking weeaboo loser, like Tavros except not adorable in the slightest just mindcrushingly stupid and even arrogant.

Anyway, so of course I wound up being forced together with him on the few trips we managed to take.

And in one of these trips, we ate at a restaurant, and I had the unfortunate luck to sit right across from him. He watched me eerily while I stared into space as I chewed, as I usually do. It was then that he called me a chipmunk.

I blinked into reality and gave him a nasty look as he explained in idiotic glee to everyone that I “eat like a chipmunk” because I hold things I’m eating with both hands very close together.

Regardless of how much I wanted to smack the shit out of him for that remark, I still eat like that because fuck the police.

Oh I had the story typed up, Anon, but my Internet crashed last night and I lost it. Saddest of sads!

Well, it’s a bit of a long story. I’ve only really told it once before, and that was years ago. Damn, time sure does fly!

So, how did I come to realize it? Well, honestly, looking back, I can see that I was always bisexual. But, the problem was, I was in the wrong environment entirely for any of that sort of thing. I was raised in a very sex and body hating household, and surrounded by other adults with the same attitudes. So, I came to hate myself, my nudity, and by all means anything to do with that mystical “down there”. I wouldn’t even change in front of my mother, I was so ashamed. And with that, I stuffed and snuffed any sort of sexual expression.

It wasn’t so much a problem when I was very young, but around the same time I hit puberty was when they began making us change for gym. I of course rushed to the toilet stalls to change, so ashamed of my body I was, but I could peek through the cracks and see the other girls, but refused to. Slowly I began to desperately yearn to look at the other girls, and their busts and their panties - thinking back now, we had so many beautiful girls - hearing stories of tall boys peaking down shirts when we turned them around and secretly wishing I were so tall… oh, but I denied these feelings, this need to peek and gaze on others, ANY others. When I saw the boys wearing too-small borrowed shorts, or without their shirts, I had that secret yearn too. But I denied it entirely. I felt horrible for these things. I forced them out of my consciousness and refused to acknowledge them in the slightest. I hated the idea of dating, and I wouldn’t kiss, wouldn’t hold hands, and wouldn’t hug, but that was for other reasons. I didn’t want others acknowledging me as sexual any more than I refused for them. And so everyone blossomed in their puberty while I huddled in my chair alone, with books to keep my itching eyes away from the world.

But then along came the Internet. Oh, Internet, how filled to the brim you are with naughtiness and the luxurious variety of the human body and sexual behaviours. Obviously, at first I quickly escaped from any accidental click, but, I knew that a part of me hesitated for an instance of an instance, and that the things I saw remained in my mind for what I thought was completely inappropriately long. I pretended that I didn’t intentionally “accidentally” look at erotica fanfiction and that I didn’t think at night about large breasts and large penises. It’s very typical of any curious teenager, but I didn’t want to be a curious teenager. So I continuously denied myself time and time again, denied that weird and delightful feeling I could get at the bottom of my abdomen and below.

But the Internet gets to us all, eventually! And I thank it for that, and the people who unwittingly assisted me, namely the online communities I became part of (for example, HHK). From their influence I matured in a way that I allowed myself instead to seek the artistic, platonic, completely objective point of view of nudity and sexual imagery and fiction, of the panty, briefs/boxers, and bra shots my friends would show, of the stupid shitty porn we’d stumble upon. I let myself look at these things for a while and think about them from a totally grey standpoint. Eventually, I easily accepted these things and didn’t blink or flinch or scurry away when I came upon them. It was after I had been in this frame of mind some time that I thought of “something funny” and made a thread stating “I think I must be bisexual, because god damn everyone’s so fucking beautiful”.

Although I had meant it as a one-time offhanded comment, for a long time after I mulled it over in my mind. Turning it again and again and cross-examining it for months and years. I might have casually called myself bisexual during this time, but it didn’t have any meaning yet. It was still just a reference, a throwback, to a “funny comment”.

And then along came Sam.

The story with Sam is a very long one and not the subject of today. In relevance to our subject, Sam and I met on a dA chatroom and accidentally wound up bonding. We invented characters, and a pair of them went to bed together eventually. The fierce artist in me demanded accuracy, after time and time again seeing amateurs before me flop on their faces in front of everyone - so I demanded accuracy, and researched sexuality.

That love for humanity and artistic streak, along with that slowly brewing long-awaited mental puberty, combined together beautifully when I stumbled into the field of sexology and sexuality in general. I quickly became obsessed and infatuated, and rattled off many tales to Sam that I edited and scrapped and corrected as I learned more, along with an annoying amount of fun facts. This only made our bond stronger, and at some point, on an extremely uncharacteristic impulse on my part, we made real plans for me to fly to his home and stay with him for a week. And it actually happened (he then still identified as a girl and so I was able to get parental endorsement).

And a lot of other stuff happened after that, again though that’s another story. But to summarize, I fell head over heels for him. And panicked.

Despite all the insight and love I had gained for this thing, I hadn’t yet applied it to myself. And I felt frightened, ashamed, dirty, and creepy, that of all times, it was now, and that of all people, it was him. I do remember even crying myself to sleep over it once or twice. I wanted to writhe and touch myself, I got extremely wet numerous times (and I knew what it was and what it meant now). After a very long time, I finally gave in, and masturbated for the first time in my life at age 19.

And since then, it’s only gone uphill for me! After that moment, I have had a crash course of all that awkwardness, anxiety, mistakes, experiments, and all that jazz everyone else got through their teenage years - except jammed into aaalmost three years (I think I’ve nearly got the hang of things now!).

I managed to look back and realize that it’s always been about anyone for me. I suppose at that pivotal moment I finally realized I was bisexual, accepted that I was so. Perhaps all my repression is why I’m so loud and proud about my sexuality and body as a whole, too - I will never again allow myself to be silent. In fact, it probably explains why LGBT and sexual freedom issues are so important to me as a whole.

Now, “struggling with sexuality” can mean a lot of things. I am not going to pretend I know exactly what you’re talking about. I am going to say this, though: Go with your heart and explore your depths in their fullest, and you won’t be wrong. Be a whateversexual! Just do whatever feels right, whatever makes you hot, whatever you’re interested in, whatever you’ve always wanted to try. It’s okay to hit deadends and turn around. It’s okay to take your time to sort through all your whatevers. I don’t want anyone to ever hate themselves as I did in order to eventually understand themselves. It’s good to be able to look at things objectively and with an eye for the inherent beauty of people, I won’t deny it, but the way I got there wasn’t good at all. This is an important part of your life, but because of that it’s OKAY to keep the jury out, to take deliberate care. It takes time to understand yourself in general, and most people never fully do. Just relax, you don’t have to decide right away. In fact some people never declare their orientation.

If you’re wondering what brought up the post on objectifying people, it’s because this boy I catch rides with home from work is being

really

fucking

obvious

about his interest in me, but being very sleazy in how sneaky he thinks he is. Like, maybe this is just the 7:30 am talking but uhm now that I think about it it actually is kind of worrying how he responds to me… I can’t describe it but it’s extremely annoying and also just like almost gives off that feeling of a kid who just got away with something horrid and is smiling maliciously at their victim who took the blame, that nasty sort of smirk you saw your enemy give you when your parents made you “hug and make up” with them, that pride in how devious and bad you are without being noticed. Maybe this is just because of childhood experiences but that is fucking unnerving to feel from someone trying to get in my pants.

Especially when he won’t leave you alone about going with him to places, just you and him, at weird hours, very far away.

Yes, he was here for over six hours. He showed up unannounced and uninvited, assumedly just to return my work badge when he held it up, but then he didn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave until I lied about going to bed. He kept whining about gambling alone tonight. Then he kept pointedly complaining about how I wouldn’t go with him. Then mom called, and it gave him the idea to continuously pester and poke and prod me about going to breakfast with him in a town forty minutes away. I said no, I said no, and I said no, AND I SAID NO…. and still he kept making passive aggressive statements and fake pouts like he was being cute, all with that aura of what was addressed above. Finally I said he could take me to the gas station to get an ice cream. He acted minutely pissy about it, in a way where you wonder if they’re pissy or not, but then said all right. While I was getting my ice cream, he told the cashier lady that I wouldn’t go to breakfast with him. The two of them then proceeded to verbally gang up on me about how and why I should go with him, one of them being, “I’m twice your age, do you know how long it’s been since a guy has asked me to go to breakfast?” - apparently, I’m supposed to be grateful and accept right away (which reminds me of why I left FML: the misogyny there, and example being when a woman submitted a FML that was about how she hit a guy with her car, and he said he’d let her off the hook, then asked her on a date, and when she refused time and time again, he spitefully retracted his offer, and the commentators were calling her shallow, ungrateful, bitchy…).

So yeah, I wouldn’t go with him anywhere, he kept doing that passive aggressive fake pouting shit, and then, he wouldn’t leave until nearly 6 am, when I said I was going to bed. He even asked how long I would be staying up, an hour or so before. When I said “I dunno”, he said “Oh, good”. Uhm woah okay who said you could stay until I go to sleep please go the fuck home?????? TV was off, I was near my computer, there was silence, why the hell didn’t he catch the hint to GO AWAY? What made him think it was okay to stay?

He kept asking REALLY PERSONAL questions, like about my medication, my childhood, my depression, my school experiences… It’s not necessarily like I don’t reveal these things easily here it’s just okay who the fuck do you think you are? And I’m starting to really think I shouldn’t have answered frankly. I need to remember not to be so frank, because, people take frankness about things differently than I do. They’re not objective, they think revealing this shit means something, they think talking openly about me, my life, my sexuality means I’m personally comfortable with them instead of you know not seeing an issue with talking about this shit in the first place. Oh, and, apparently! He came because MOM TOLD HIM TO, indirectly. SHE TALKS TO HIM ABOUT ME, TELLING HIM “ABOUT” ME. And today, she told him that I was HOME ALONE and HAD NOTHING TO DO (which I actually did but she doesn’t consider it something to do!!!) and so what fucking happened that she knew would, especially after she kept insisting on the phone I go with him somewhere? HURR, looks like mom’s trying to set up my love life for me again! Like how she bitched at me for not dating the guy who (she doesn’t know) took my virginity, tried to set me up with other guys WHILE I WAS DATING SAM, and keeps trying to tell me who I can and can’t talk to or text. EXCUSE ME?

Okay okay okay okay let’s keep this going now. So yeah, what else about this guy? I catch rides from him every now and then or actually a lot because I don’t fucking want to stay over and do jack shit at work when I could be TRYING TO DO SHIT HERE. So I go home riding with him since VERY FEW PEOPLE are from this town at work. And now he likes to come over while I’m working and talk to me!

But, okay, I thought, maybe friends? Maybe? Seems smart and nice enough, and doesn’t seem to be trying to get at me, yeah? I mean, it didn’t seem that way with him being annoyingly sensitive about me being a little shit sometimes like saying “stop being a little bitch and hold this for me for a minute”. So I thought maybe my personality was too aggressive and abrasive for his tastes and this was understood and so I could finally have a friend??? Well no turns out it was that shitty pretend pouting fucking shit. You know that shit was annoying enough when I didn’t realize HE WAS FLIRTING but now it’s REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING TO KNOW HE’S DOING IT INTENTIONALLY. Way to beat the horse like a melon with a mallet!

Yeah yeah yeah and for the past few days he’s felt the need to CONSTANTLY REMIND ME that “everyone’s asking if we’re dating”. Well I’ve got three thoughts about this!:

• If true, why hasn’t anyone thought to ask ME? What implications does it give to refuse to ask ME about it, only HIM?
• Obviously, mentioning it over and over again, means it’s on his mind! And on that point, he also makes it a point about how much mom tells him “about” me about how I view relationships, and inquiring further if anything to do with dating comes up.
• I really doubt people are actually constantly asking this! Again, they aren’t talking to me about it, and, how many people are paying such close attention, exactly? NOBODY EVEN KNOWS MY NAME!

He also gets suddenly sullen any time I make a snarky remark about this supposed gossiping, such as the first time he said this to me, I responded, “Well, you know society; a guy and a girl can’t even look at each other without everyone assuming they’re fucking”. Oh, hon, I do so dearly know now that I’m shooting you right in the heart when I say these things, but you can’t stop me being a feminist! Hurrr, and then on that topic, he said women “shouldn’t” have toned abs, because “that’s just wrong”. Also being a thin woman is “just wrong” as well - “Who wants to date a stick? That’s disgusting”. He also has no problem bitching about “fat chicks who think they look good” even though he is quite overweight himself!

Ahhhh and THEN! Then, he won’t stop asking about the trash guy who gave me his number. He even asked if I ever considered sleeping with him! UH, WOW, WHAT THE FUCK.

YO JOE WHADDAYA KNOW you ain’t dating material kindly go the flying fuck away from me!

Christopher and His Kind is making me want to write an autobiography.

I think I should write it in parts as I remember them and sew it all together. That would be a new method of writing, and, it would make me able to get down everything. I realize there is still a lot to my past that I hadn’t thought much of. Like, for example, when I was trying to reach back as far as possible to get to the beginnings of my isolation, I suddenly saw my mother’s babysitting work in a new light. It wasn’t so much that I was “traumatized by the sudden change” as she likes to say when she plays pretend psychologist. No, it was the fact that, I had absolutely no privacy, I had no safe space, I had nothing that was absolutely mine and sacred. I was made to share my food, my toys, my clothes, my blankets, my pillows, my room - everything. With my brother, with the other kids. And this disrespect has actually lasted - nobody takes my ownership into consideration. My keys, my sodas, my computers, my notebooks, my food, my money, all these things are taken without my permission nor with warning, and any time I put my foot down, I get bitched at about how ungrateful, horrible, selfish, and bitchy I am.

…Anyway, I just never really thought about it until I was trying to write to Obama about bullying, heh. And now, I’m wondering if that’s perhaps why abortion and drug use and sexuality and circumcision, and so on, are such serious issues to me. It’s all about that coveted “mine”. The last stand of ownership is one’s own body. If I don’t control it, then I have nothing left to live for. Perhaps also why I’ve attempted suicide - it’s my life, my future, my body, if it seems this last stand of “mine” is going to be taken, then I’ll take it before anyone else can.

Whoops this was just going to be a short post and now I went on a tangent.

And I remember when he was born, and my father was filming him and my mother in her room, and I was literally begging for my parents’ attention and to be included, but was ignored…

And then I remember the times when he had ripped my books apart with malicious delight, and when I yelled at him and demanded something be done, he was not punished.

And then I remember him often jumping on me and throwing things at me when I was sick as a child, and was not punished.

And then I remember when he would often throw, kick, scream at, chase with weapons and vehicles, and forcefully drop our many cats and kittens over the years and others in the neighbourhood, and was never once punished.

And then I remember how, over the years, he has rarely gotten an A, not often a B, most usually Cs or Ds, and has been praised for each grade, whereas for years I was made frightful of getting anything other than straight As, brought on because of the severe amount of screaming I would receive as a child at any hint of such a thing.

And then I remember the many times he has thrown, ruined, and destroyed his consoles, keyboards, remotes, controllers, and phones several times over, and I would be demanded to give him mine and called a bitch and a brat for not handing them over.

And then I remember how he has insulted my best friend, Sam, several times over, and said racist things about him (ex how I can’t get any “real friends” and so “make friends with dyke wetbacks”), and, even when someone else brought it up to my mother as an issue, he has never been punished.

And then I remember how he has had sex many times and has bragged about it without reprieve, but I was severely chastised and slut-shamed for naughty photos and for considering getting intimate with the boy in question - both of us being 21 - and so am shamed into silence about my single sexual encounter, and my family doesn’t know I’m no longer a virgin….

And so I reply, “I don’t know”, because no matter what I say, my hate is “never justifiable”, so I might as well say there’s no reason.

I’m considering handwriting a large, long letter to Obama about my experiences in bullying and what my education and research into the fields of human behaviour have given me insight about.

I think starting with how, in one of his many sessions of bullying me, my 17 year old cousin squeezed 7 year old me so hard that I literally could not breathe, and was staggering around trying to cry out for help, but, obviously, couldn’t, and nobody noticing that I’m in serious fucking trouble… and then, when I told, despite the serious threats he gave me and showed me for any time I went to adults for help, I was disregarded. Because, kids exaggerate, and squeezing, well, clearly he just gave her a bear hug… even though she used the term squeeze, and not hug, implying there was no embrace whatsoever, and this is a 17 year old fucking boy versus a 7 year old VERY FUCKING TINY girl.

I like to bleed.

A lot of my scars are simply from me not leaving sores and cuts and so on alone, because I want to make myself bleed. I squeeze out blood and watch it run. I like to fill squares of toilet paper with blood. It’s for this reason it’s easy for me to shrug off being a tad too careless with toenail clippers when clipping away dead skin.

That being said, I had a delightfully odd thing happen with two sores on my thighs.

I can’t remember how they started, but, anyway, I had two scabs. They weren’t very large spots, perhaps I dug at an ingrown hair or pimple, that is their approximate sizes. So, I got to look at these every time I sat down without pants (obviously, most often on the toilet). I always idly pick at scabs, flaking them away as they heal… but there was something odd about these sores.

The scabs were black. I assumed they must have more dried blood than healing skin in them, meaning that I could flake quite a bit off before I got to the “real” scab. But I also noticed that the scabs were surrounded with red puff, like an infection was going on. So I thought, best to just take it all off and get the infections out.

When I had got rid of it all, there… was just red, red, red skin. It was shiny, it looked like blood, but I drew my fingers over several times and there was no stain. But there was swelling… well, maybe I must squeeze infection out?

And so I did… and it was quite difficult to break. But as I squeezed, the blood colour spread and strained. I then realized that… I had a pool of blood here, not an infection. It was a “cyst” entirely of blood. It popped, and to my delight it splattered blood everywhere, and the blood gushed down my legs. So much blood for such a little spot! Why had it gathered there so?

It did this several times over - not healing at all but just swelling with blood, and then I’d pop it and let it out. I thought about going to the doctor, since it seemed it would never stop doing this. I’m not sure what was going on to make it do this, and it could be bad… but, I wanted to bleed some more, before I got an opinion about it.

And just when I was ready to get something done about it, suddenly, it stopped. I flaked the scabs off, and there was just healing skin beneath. A bit of squeeze only gave me serum/plasma. No more bleeds Dame is sad.

AVOID THESE PEOPLE LIKE THE PLAGUE BECAUSE MY STORY IS NOT FUCKING UNIQUE APPARENTLY

BCBS has been nothing but absolute shit to me since I was “officially diagnosed” with depression (psychologist < physician, according to them!). So hey, you know how when you attempt suicide typically you go to a fucking therapist? APPARENTLY THAT’S BACKWARDS! You’re supposed to go a physician first and get recommended for therapy! ACCORDING TO BCBS, ANYWAY! Yes, according to them, the physician has more authority, and thus, I must get their permission to attend therapy or else I can’t be reimbursed or covered! The same physician who fucking “diagnosed” me byhaving me fill out a sheet of paper with ten questions.That’s quite a diagnosis, doc! But let’s not blame her, no, she’s not a problem for me, honestly, no, it’s the fact that

I DID go to physicians. MANY physicians. TONS OF THEM. Well, normally not by my choice, but go to them I did! And not a fucking

single

one

of them

NOT A SINGLE PHYSICIAN

BELIEVE IT OR NOT

were well-versed enough in MENTAL HEALTH

to make a connection between my lacking appetite, my lethargy, my exhaustion, my irritability, my isolation, my shyness… not a damn one realized it could be depression! What a fucking shock!

So tell me, Blue, HOW THE FUCK WAS I SUPPOSED TO GET THEIR LITTLE WHITE SLIP WHEN THEY ARE NOT FUCKING AUTHORITIES ON MENTAL HEALTH???

AND WHO THE FUCK ASKS A FUCKING PHYSICIAN ABOUT MENTAL ISSUES BEFORE A PSYCHOLOGIST, A COUNSELOR, ANYTHING? Oh, nobody, that’s who, but, that’s where you catch them, isn’t it? Because nobody does the fuckstupid so you just create this loophole so you don’t have to fucking help! BRILLIANT! You’re a shining example of corporate greed aren’t you so fucking proud.

Oh but it doesn’t stop there!

I finally, after shuffling through medications, found something that worked. And gosh, it was 30$ co-pay, but well, it can be managed. Can’t put a price on me being able to get out of bed, can we? Oh but then what’s this a couple months down the road? Well, they’re “cutting unnecessary expenses” and it turns out helping out with mood disorders is one of them! In a fucking letter or fucking phonecall I don’t remember which, they literally fucking said depression is not serious enough to cover, so, my co-pay shot up to 60$, with threats of more raising on the horizon. Well, I fucking can’t afford 60$! So, I am forced to

STOP

A MEDICATION

THAT WAS WORKING

- oh and WAS NOT HAVING ANY SERIOUS SIDE AFFECTS nor did it cause IMMEDIATE AND FUCKING HORRIFIC WITHDRAWAL SYMPTOMS -

and get on something cheaper. And there’s nothing like this one, apparently. The closest was cheap fucking shit. It was, because I remember seeing it on shelves in Walgreens, that’s how excessively mass produced this fucking medication was (ZOLOFT by the way!).

And what happened?

I TRIED TO KILL MYSELF WITH IT! Ha ha! Wow! Who didn’t see THAT one coming; when you cut someone off medication that was working for them, dire results happen!?

Okay okay but here’s the fucking best part.

Okay…they argued with us about paying anything for my hospitalization.

This goes into two parts:

where they tell us that since I wasn’t in critical condition it doesn’t warrant significant coverage… keeping in mind the only reason I wasn’t was because I was admitted so soon…

and then where they tell us that since I went into the psych ward “voluntarily” they don’t want to cover my stay at all... keeping in mind that I went in after hospitalization for a suicide event and also the “voluntarily” part was the doc asking if I felt safe going home and me telling him “no” and so him putting me in the psych ward until I did feel okay with going home.

And these are just the notable incidents. They have been fighting so very, very, very fucking hard to shove me out, and not just me, obviously, but all mental health patients. These actions can in no way be unique and I am steadily learning through speaking with other people - even people with schizophrenia and autism - that, not only BCBS but MANY insurance companies are fucking pricks and will do all they can to deny you coverage or charge you out the ass for coverage you’re not even getting.

It’s not just the gender discriminations that need reformation. The mental health issues have been a fucking horrible problem for years, WHY isn’t any politician discussing me?

[edit] Oh I forgot to mention - YEAH I’m not on Zoloft anymore, obviously!

I am now on a medication that comes with THREE TIMES the co-pay because I have to co-pay (which was also recently raised, too!) for a psychiatric visit AND for a therapeutic visit FROM A SOCIAL WORKER, NOT A LICENSED PSYCHOLOGIST LIKE I PREVIOUSLY HAD, along with the medication co-pay, which, by the way, I must have hospital permission to refill!

This medication is prone to giving people seizures! :) LUCKY ME! And so far, why yes, I have found that I am having increasing involuntary muscle spasms, which were cool at first because it gave me orgasms at night and it was like a cute quirk, but then stopped being cool these past few nights when I’ve contorted uncontrollably several times while trying to fall asleep, most often, just my luck, right AS I was falling asleep.

Here’s the best part - I will fucking die without it. Haha, I’m not exaggerating because that’s what it feels like! The withdrawal - withdrawal being a thing I have never once experienced in my life - is so fucking horrible I can’t fucking walk or talk anymore after just two days of missing only one of my medications. So, thanks BCBS, thanks for making my health worse by labeling me as expendable, as not important.

So I carelessly mentioned I was on medication to Cory, the coworker in my age group that I mentioned before.

I was already starting to fall out with him considering he said he’d “never hit a woman ever”, but this took the cake.

He asked me what medication, and I said antidepressants. I hadn’t really thought much about stupidity if I just mentioned medication… I mean, I’ve less and less started mentioning my dysthyma to people. I just don’t want to get so personal and certainly don’t want to give people reason to screw me over somehow. Anyway, he went, “Whaaat?” and kept telling me I didn’t need them, very seriously, and that I “didn’t look depressed”.

That’s like telling a kid who’s starving, but just ate, that he doesn’t need any food because he “doesn’t look hungry”. Telling a person who wiped their nose that their nose isn’t running because it “doesn’t look like it”.

It’s blatant stupidity like this that makes me hate this area, this country. It’s like, do you LISTEN to yourself? Do you hear what you just said? The effect of antidepressants is to make me not depressed and you are saying I don’t look depressed and don’t see the fucking connection?

And in any case, you don’t fucking know me. You can’t fucking tell me what I am and am not. I was too tired to fume then but I certainly smoked a little. Because fuck everyone ever who pulls this shit.