Living in america is like. I may or may not have serious/deadly illnesses but fuck if I know because the closest doctor that accepts my insurance, is taking patients, and doesn't want to violently rip me off all of my medications and yell at me is two hours away and regardless of if I can get a ride or not that is simply not possible to manage as a primary care provider

I've had a god damned day. When I woke up this morning, I would have sworn that I was human being. That I fucking mattered. But so many things have pointed to the contrary.

After three months of constantly trying to get a proper physical therapy referral, including three doctor visits and countless phone calls, I was finally able to begin treatment for my back/spine. It took ages to begin treatment for anything, because the doctor just wouldn't send the referral. Then sent it to the wrong place. Then sent it in complete. Then sent it to the wrong place. Then incomplete, then to the wrong place again, and then finally, the proper referral. I overheard my physical therapist talking to her boss during my treatment this morning. Apparently, the doctor never signed any of the three forms that were required to have his signature, in order for my insurance to process the claims. Bearing in mind I'm being seen on a financial hardship basis, so the remainder of my cost is waived. Apparently my insurance enjoys labeling things as a shared payment, and not a co-pay...as all of my out of pocket co-pays have been met. Well, I joined the conversation, and said I'd been eavesdropping, and that I actually had my supposed follow up to see how physical therapy was going, right afterwards, before work. I offered to deliver the paperwork, and literally not leave until he signed it, then deliver it back. So, they printed it off, and I was told that it could possibly be my last session, even though I've only had three treatments for my back, haven't yet had my neck re-evaluation, and am still severely struggling with my hands. Because my doctor wouldn't return faxes. Won't bother.

So, I get to the god damned appointment, and the mother fucker walks in and fucking introduces himself. I didn't hesitate even a moment to call him out on it. I wasn't rude. Just straight forward and factual. He seemed a little flustered, and then said he did remember me after all, but he just sees a lot of patients. We discussed that I'd made progress, but was still having issues, and that I'd only had three treatments so far for my back, because the referral hadn't been sent. Again. Factual. Not rude. He asked if there was anything else of concern. So, I said yes, actually. I needed an updated std screening, and that I prefer to be responsible and get them every six months. He said he doesn't like to do the tests just to do them. I restated the question, saying I needed the test, as the person I'd been seeing had gotten someone else pregnant, and I'd recently started having pain during sex. He said he doesn't like to do the tests just to do them, and that I probably needed more lubricant. I just stared and said Ok. After hesitating, I said “Not trying to be rude, but is there a reason to not do the test?” He said he doesn't like to do the tests just to do them, and that if I started having any issues, like vaginal discharge, he could see me in a month and do the tests then. I restated that I was having pain during intercourse and that I'd like to get the test done. He said “well, I could take a urine sample”, to test for gonorrhea/basic bacterial things. I said Ok. As soon as he left and the door closed, the student who'd been observing the appointment and he erupted into a slightly hushed bickering session. I couldn't make out what they were saying. The nurse who'd initially taken my vitals and information came back in to give me an updated tetanus shot and said she'd collect my urine sample. I asked if it was for the std test, to verify. She said yes, it was. I said it was extremely bizarre, that I'd asked the doctor to do an std screening, as sex was painful and the person I was seeing got someone else pregnant. I told her that I had to twist his arm to even get the urine test done. She seemed sweet and professional, and said it might usually be another appointment and a physical exam. I said he wanted me to wait a month to get it done, even though I'm having pain now. That I wanted to be responsible and be sure I don't have anything, so I don't accidentally spread stuff to people. She mentioned it might be something my obgyn might need to do, and suggested an updated pap test as well. I told her I'd already had my female exam for the year. She was polite, told me to relax my arm muscle so I'd be less sore from the tetanus shot in the morning, and later helped me open the plastic bag the urine sample bottle was contained in, as my hands were not cooperating on opening it. When I leave, she sweetly tells me I can go to the desk and schedule either my one or two month follow up. I scheduled my two month follow up, to track the course of my physical therapy. I'd decided to go to a walk in clinic to get the rest of my std screening done. I already had a veterinary appointment, and two appointments of my own scheduled for the following day, but I'd decided I'd have to squeeze in a walk in clinics, since he'd refused to do the tests.

So, I leave the place, and on my two fucking minute drive home, I get a call from a number I don't recognize. I answer. Immediately recognize the doctor's voice. He asks if it's ' miss (redacted)', I reply with 'yes sir'. He said, since we're doing these tests, I wondered if you'd like to actually bundle the syphilis and HIV tests in with it?” I reply with “yeah, that would be good.” He went on to tell me that his supervisor told him he apparently could do the std screening. He said to come in whenever was most convenient to me, and tell them I'm there for lab work, and that they'd take my blood. I asked if it was fine if I came in the morning. He said yes that would be good.

That mother fucker. One, or both of the women involved absolutely stood up for me afterwards. So, that's a win. I don't know if it was the student who erupted into an argument with him. Or the nurse who told me I could schedule my one or two month follow up, if I'd like, but one of them said something.

During all of this, I'd been offered a full time position, with benefits, for $35,000-$45,000 a year, in graphic design. But, the only catch was, the job is within 200 yards of my former stalker's house. The man who assaulted me, on more than one occasion. The hideous coward whose pupils I watched dilate as I pleaded with him that he was hurting me. Over and over again. The sorry sack of shit who took away my dexterity. My art. The very core of my identity. The person who ruptured my disc in my neck, causing the most excruciating years of my life. Whose laughable actions lead up to having a TIA, ungodly severe migraines, and the feeling of literal strings of fire being pulled through my arm and out the tips of my fingers. Who paralyzed my hand. Who made me believe I'd never be able to even draw a straight line again, or ever escape the most excruciating pain imaginable. The person who told people I was over reacting and making things seem worse than they were, after he'd twisted and snapped my neck two months after the spinal surgery to correct the injury he'd caused in the first place. The person who has made me previously contemplate the exact and vivid details of what it would be like to put a bullet through someone's skull. The reason I can't be touched in the same ways as I used to, and the reason I have to warn my dates how to avoid triggering my ptsd. The person whose actions lead to me having to leave my job and take time on disability. The reason I couldn't create art for four years of my adult life. The person who alienated me from my social group. Who convinced me I was broken and would never be lovable. Whose treatment sent me into downward spirals of self injury, substance abuse, and three hospitalizations. The reason I have tattoos on my forearm, cover scars created when testing the sharpness of a blade before I planned to lay my veins open.

The person offering me the job claims he didn't realize any of this transpired, though he doesn't seem adamant about no longer associating with him. Apparently, he told my friend that he's tried contacting me over the years and that he doesn't understand why I ignore him and won't talk to him, and says he still misses me. Almost six years after rupturing my disc and effectively ruining my life...paralyzing my hand, creating years of almost no use after spine surgery because of re-injury, and having to go through the process of relearning to individually move my fingers... after all of this...He misses me. Cute.

I would obviously get a restraining order if he ever contacts me again. The statute of limitations is up, and the lawyers I consulted with wouldn't take on a case with him. I waited too long. I was too emotionally vulnerable to get the police involved after he hung me, or after he forced my head to the left and upwards, creating a deafening pop and a shock wave down each side of my incision. I was too emotionally vulnerable, after weeks of barely being able to get out of bed, my head drooping to the side, and struggling to teach myself to do all of my self care left handed. After being forced to very effectively become ambidextrous. After having to be spoon fed, because I couldn't lift soup to my mouth. After spending so many weeks, day in and day out, laying in bed, struggling to roll in the correct manner in order to get up to use the restroom as my head drooped and my hand was useless. After all of the times I've spent, afraid of going to sleep, because I knew I'd have to start all over again with the pain that I cannot even now fully comprehend. The reason that, even today, I can only sleep in very specific positions, with a special pillow that costs $125. The reason that my muscles are still so atrophied that I am barely able to carry out basic tasks, spent several weeks in physical therapy before I could properly resume basic household chores, because I finally started a job. An attempt to restart my life. Carrying out basic work tasks forfeits my art. My daily tasks. Weeks of extensive physical therapy has gotten me to the point that I'm sweeping and mopping my home again, and not struggling as much to cook my meals. When I give in to my desire to create, I suffer substantially at work. Shattering pain spreads through my hands and fingers. Every single day I have to spend 1-2 hours when I first wake up to do a body awareness and mindfulness meditation. To tell myself that I am worth the basic commodities of life. To check in on my pain levels, and to stretch my muscles in my neck, back, and hands. My back suffers extensively, as I put strain on it to avoid further injuring the herniated disc from the assault that occurred after spinal surgery. My hands suffer from years of under use. My neck suffers from herniation, bone spurs, permanent arthritis caused from the first assault and the surgery, and simply from the trauma of being so severely injured and being so systematically emotionally traumatized. This “person” misses me.

I obviously cannot take a job, where I will live in fear of this person. Spend every day scrambling to and from my car, in fear that if I loiter too long, I might be seen. Might be discovered. I cannot have another job that is jeopardized by this person, where I actively need to involve the police and file a restraining order. I might be able to afford the dental care that I need, for the tooth I recently broke, likely from clenching my teeth from stress. And I might be able to pay for the upcoming eye exams to deal with the retinal holes and 30 flashes of light I see a day in my right eye. I might be able to move out of section 8 housing, where I automatically jump to the floor any time I hear a loud sound, in anticipation of another shooting. I might be able to afford my own groceries, without having to avoid certain stores because of the disgust upon being presented with an EBT card. I might be able to afford my arthritis medicine, and not have to order it from a foreign pharmacy. I might be able to afford to see a doctor that doesn't make me feel like a god damned mangy mutt, waiting in a run at the pound to see if I make it off the euthanasia list within the next month before my fleas get treated. Perhaps I'd be able to see a doctor that made me feel like a god damned human being, even. If I got extremely lucky. Not one who offers to double my anti-depressant, and refuses to do an std screening.

I scanned a copy of the reports from physical therapy. My hands were rated as a 72% disability, and my back was 50%, apparently. I am keeping a copy for my own records, as everyone is god damned incompetent, and I have to scratch and claw my way into a minimal existence.

When I finally got to work, three hours and four minutes after originally scheduled, my coworker was angry. He yelled at me because I asked him to keep a look out for some black ear buds that I'd dropped on the floor some time during the week. He then proceeded to blare screaming guitar music and make pottery. A strange, angry, and entitled combination. The temperature in the office was 78. The main studio was 91. The chemical room was 93 or 94, and the kiln room where I was doing most of my work was well into the 100's. I kept having to take breaks to cool down and to put ice on my hands and wrists and shattering pains shot through both hands and wrists. I even temporarily draped myself into the freezer, when I was getting ice out. The small part of the building that has air conditioning, I turned down to 68 degrees. I sat in one of the tattered cushioned chairs. I've gotten past my panic related to sitting in at office chair, as that's where I was sitting when my second neck injury occurred. That was something I discussed extensively in therapy. I felt the sweat trickle thickly down my back, squeezing between my skin and my tightly cinched back brace. The air started to chill my skin. I momentarily felt a little too cool, until the sweat dissipated, leaving me feeling somewhat comfortable. I wanted to work on some of the class demos I created last Monday. Trim them before they became too dry. Sacrifice my dexterity, and fight with my numb finger tips to create something that might, if I'm lucky, actually get me into a graduate program that would allow me to get the fuck out of the miserable stagnation. Something to challenge my mind and further my own art. But, I knew if I did, I would get bitched out by my boss, scolded and reprimanded like a naughty child, and told to create hideous phallic slab vases, even though they hurt my hands and wrists to create. She has made three. I've made 14. When she asked me to make more the other night, I said I would assemble them if she made the slabs. She said “ME?! You want me to help you?” I blandly replied yes, I did want her to help me, as the process injures my wrists, hands, and neck. My elderly coworker jumped in and offered to help. He's very kind, and I think he wanted to divert potential rising conflict.

So, instead of working on my own stuff, and being reprimanded for doing so, I just sat and stared into space. Tired, weak, exhausted, dejected, and fairly discouraged. A kind yoga teacher massaged my arms and hands for me, because she saw I was icing my wrists. Kindness always surprises me, and I find myself thanking people multiple times. It leaves me with a strange feeling. Nurturing isn't something I'm accustomed to accepting.

I flipped through my phone so much while staring into the void today that my battery almost died. The person I spent time with last night seems to have disappeared, and the person who seems most interested in dating me, I automatically fear will hurt me physically somehow, so I avoid carving out the time to spend. I apparently associate sweetness or tenderness with physical danger. Lines start to blur and I don't know whether I'm sensing a “red flag” or I'm so intrinsically programmed to think that if someone's interested in me, they're surely going to stalk, assault, and force themselves on me.

It's late, I'm tired, I'm in pain from typing. My hand is numb and tingly, and swollen and achy. I have to get up super early so I can take my cat in for a surgery I'm going to spend the next two months paying off. So, I have to say, again, it's been a god damned day. I'm just overwhelming relieved that my boss has put in her notice. Maybe, just maybe, I can get her old position, and get benefits and get out of the ghetto, and get things up to basic safety standards so my eyes don't burn from surfer dioxide. A thing that simply got a “huh” from my doctor, when mentioned. “Doctor”, I should say. He doesn't take me at all seriously, because I'm a female with ptsd. Mental health struggles mean you don't matter, within the medical field. It's been a mother fucking, god damned day. Good night.