I can’t afford to go to the doctor because we make too much money for governmental assistance, but not enough money to cover the insurance bill of almost $2,000 a month through my husband’s job. Apparently, being able to afford medical care was one of the benefits I lost when we started making more money.
When I was poor, I could go to the doctor, see a therapist, and visit urgent care when something came up outside of business hours. Now I have to apply for a sliding scale, pay costs upfront, and negotiate medication based on cost. If something actually happens to me that requires more than an inhaler or antibiotics, I’m basically screwed.
A few weeks ago, I noticed a change in my own behavior. I have rituals that help me do the things I’m required to do to survive as a living, breathing, functioning adult. For most people, deviating from an established plan means you run a bit late or have a frustrating morning. For me, it means I can’t leave my house, or my car, or wherever I feel safe at that moment. It means imprisoning myself because some broken part of my brain knows the world is not safe for people like me.
When I woke up this morning, I already knew the day was wrecked. Before my eyes opened, I felt a weight of dread crushing me. This is what I have rituals for. Two feet on the ground. Head up, tits out. Breathe. I made it all the way to the front door before the fear hit me. As my fingers reached for the doorknob, hives broke out and panic stole my breath.
Never fear, I have rituals for that too. I start with the letter A and work my way through Z. This morning, it was musicians. A is for Adele, B is for Bono, C is for Cher. On a good day, by the time I hit G, I’m fine. This morning was not a good day. Let’s just say I’m grateful today for ZZ Top and Zac Brown Band.
I did make it to work on time. Getting here, unlocking the door, and turning on the lights are all weirdly therapeutic on mornings like this. I’ll spend the next eight hours pretending to be perfectly fine because the comfort of others trumps my own. Two feet on the ground, head up, tits out.
Next year will be better. We’ll do open enrollment with HealthCare.gov, and hopefully I can resume regular psychiatric care and therapy. I have so many positive things working for me and things I am looking forward to, but today is hard.
I’m sharing this with you because you’re going to have hard days too. You aren’t alone. We’re all in this mess together. Agoraphobia doesn’t define my daily life anymore. It’s just a problem today. Obsessive-compulsive disorder is my constant companion that sometimes listens to reason. Tomorrow will be better than today. Hopefully.
It all starts with two feet on the ground, head up, and tits out.