Literally, from the drive down there on rain flooded roads to the interviewer eliciting tears from the very first question, everything went off like a programmable sprinkler timer. I was worried that I was going to be on trial and have to make a speech defending my status. I can come off like I'm confident, competent and together on account of I'm so self-aware and can string together two coherent sentences. I was worried that I would appear to be faking having a "disability." They can spot that sort of thing, you know.
But right from the get-go, I am asked the one big question, "What happened that you can't work?" And as I begin to tell my story, Sharon's and my story, I fall apart all over again. I recounted the years and events that led me to the state that I'm in and the damage was apparent. The interviewer concluded with his diagnosis. Drum roll...."Depression."
He was full of advice. I need therapy and have a lot to work through. He wasn't an anti-depressant pusher, which was refreshing. I told him those things frightened me, but that I would, however, consider participating in a trial where psilocybin is used to facilitate a life changing experience. He actually encouraged me to seek this out, despite the legalities. He's not the first psychologist that I've run into that was sympathetic to that avenue of therapy. But he also suggested that I do a "cleansing" of my home, as in spiritual cleansing, to rid the place of the energy from Sharon's illness.
I'm not poo-pooing the hippy dude's ideas. I'm just grateful that he wasn't an old guard conservative shrink that is just out to make lots of cuts for Trump. The Reagan era was very unkind to the mentally ill.
Anyway, I will see what happens in a few months. I am preparing mentally to be cut off, thinking I don't deserve benefits anyway. Now that I'm not taking care of Sharon, the universe will stop holding the umbrella over me. I'll get washed away by the rain, but it won't be unexpected. That's where negative thinking comes in handy. You're always expecting the worst, so you are never caught off guard and are rarely disappointed.
It may take a while for me to wind up homeless, but one never knows, what with karma and all. I just look at it like my dental issues--I hope to not live long enough for it to matter. I just don't want to endure any more real hardship.
Oh, and I'll shut up when I'm dead. The cake's not done. Take that, you stick-poking freaks.
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I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.