It’s ironic, to me, that I likely wouldn’t consider myself disabled if I had the sort of access to medical care that more affluent folks in this country do and that people in other developed countries usually do. The United States is behind the times in a lot of ways; this is just one of the pressing issues of the moment here.
But the main reason I elected to apply for disability in the first place was that my mental illnesses make my career prospects somewhat limited thanks to my lack of consistency when it comes to what I’m able to do at any given point in time. And I believed, as I still do, that with the right sort of care, I could live a better life. At least, I could likely live a more manageable one.
If this weren’t the case, I obviously wouldn’t have gone through this whole process of nearly three years waiting. If this weren’t the case, and if I thought I could work and keep a job, then I likely would have been able to get one and earn some sort of living for myself. And I, much like most people, I’m guessing, would prefer that to the possibility of receiving a pittance from the government on a monthly basis, only after waiting for literally years on a decision after multiple appeals.
I mean, probably the sort of job I can get with my current credentials is something like a bullshit retail gig at Walmart or something like this. And no one really wants to work at Walmart. But earning a living would give me the means to move into a crapbox studio apartment at some point, and I can put up with a lot for that sort of incentive.
It’s sad, maybe. But the nature of my life at the moment is just that I consider most things to be a kind of step up from where I am right now.
The point is, I’d love to be healthy and self-sufficient, and I’d love to be living almost anywhere but where I’m currently living, so why on earth would I be dealing with this situation and not doing anything about it for nearly three years, unless I was incapable of making these changes on my own? The answer is, I sure the fuck wouldn’t be dealing with it. If I could, I’d be out there hustling, busting my ass at two or three jobs, making a real go of it. In addition to the needs I have for food, shelter, and so on, I’d also like to eventually get top surgery and buy clothes that aren’t secondhand every once in a while.
No one wants to live like this. I’m not sure why that’s so hard to understand.
I really have no idea what the judge will decide. But I’m hoping to find out in about a month. In the meantime, I’m doing my best to take care of myself and improve my situation as best I can. My best is not nearly as good as I’d like, but still. I’ve made up my mind that I’m going to start using the Couch to 5K app, partially for my physical health and partially for my mental health. My therapist has suggested it might be good for me to get out of the house more often. I agree. It’s just a matter of making myself do it when I’m able rather than giving in to inertia.
This will require me to eat more than I have been. This is a good idea; I don’t know what my current weight is, because it’s better for my sanity that I don’t know, but I think it’s still dropping. My clothes are fitting looser than ever. It’s probably partly due to the testosterone and my having more muscle mass and the fat redistributing from around my hips. But my appetite has taken a hit from my medications, and I often can’t self-motivate enough to eat like I should because of my symptoms.
But I’ve got to do something, haven’t I? Despite the inherent obstacles and risks, if I get denied again, I’ll have to somehow find gainful employment. I’ve also got other things on my mind, and running has, for me, historically been helpful with processing things.
Accepting that there is no cure for what ails me is probably one of the hardest things I’ll ever do. I’m still not 100% there. Not even close.