Took a trip to the doctor's office... well, okay... it's a clinic. I have medical assistance so my general practitioner is based in a clinic at a local hospital. It's a learning facility, so doctors can stay there anywhere between six months to two years. The doctor I saw on Monday was new to me, new to the hospital she reminded me twice, and I will be fine if I never see her again. She is not the doctor assigned to me, but if I had waited to see my assigned doctor I wouldn't have been able to get an appointment until mid-October. I had to wait two weeks for this appointment, as it was, and when I called I was kinda in crisis.
I went to see about getting a mental health therapist. I was having a very hard time and wanted to explore my options when it came to not feeling so sad/depressed/dark/hopeless/desperate. To be honest, I also was hoping for a sedative, but the doctor refused to prescribe me anything (even though I scored the second to lowest on their weird depression quiz). She told me to call and make an appointment to see a therapist, which is what I expected. But still, it's already been two weeks. How long will I have to wait to see a therapist? I called the place and left a message, because for some reason, even when you're feeling mentally unwell you can't talk directly to someone who can help – unless you call the suicide prevention hotline, which I have not done.
I see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I feel like I should be excited and happy, but I'm not. I'm still waiting for everything to go sideways again. I got my move-in date for the last Friday in September, which is less than ten days away, but I don't think I will feel anything except relief and only after I have spent the night in the apartment and not been molested by roaches. At this point, I don't know if my rent will be “prorated.” It would be nice to just take care of October's rent and be done with it. We also have to figure out how to get electricity in the apartment, since that's not included.
Jeremy has been trying his best to get me excited. It will be great to have our own space again, but I can't work up any enthusiasm. I'm stuck in a rut. All I can think of is how once I pay my rent I will have $100 to get through the month, and my cell phone bill will take that. I gave away all my household items when I left TABCO, so I have to find a way to get new (or used) pots and pans, a coffeemaker, a dish drain board, and all that other stuff that you say, “I thought I had...” and you kinda need it right then. Plus my food stamps will be gone by the time I move, and they don't hit again until the 6th. I know I am not the only person who needs stuff, and that millions of people live from paycheck to paycheck and go without. I know I can do it, it probably won't even be all that bad, but my inner spoiled princess is being smashed while she screams, “But I want to see the ocean! I want to do something fun!” Sorry, Princess, you've gone years without seeing the ocean, what's a couple more?
Then there's the whole actually moving all my shit again. Because my move-in date is a Friday, I can't even get my bed to the apartment until Sunday (at the earliest) because I will not go back to my parents' house when Big Len is home. I will not endure that hostility. I will not provoke that rage. And considering the fact that Betty got junked, we don't have a truck to transport the bed. I may have to find the money to rent a U-haul, which yes they claim to only be $19, but it's also 79 cents a mile, plus gas.
My mother has already started packing my room. She gets boxes from work and has packed my clothes and knickknacks. She's trying to be helpful. She's finally realized that I cannot come back. Not until she's the only one still living there, and by then I hope that I won't still be in this state. There must be somewhere cheaper (without the crazy drug crime) to live than Baltimore. Though, if my mom were living alone, I wouldn't be above going back to live with her and make sure she's okay. Modifications would definitely have to be made. That's been the long and terrible battle of my life, and I've lost almost every single round. But if Big Len's not there to break everything (like my shower chair, like my portable ramp) and throw all my adaptive equipment in the trash, then there might be hope.
The doctor also said she was going to refer my case to a social worker. I suppose that I should call her but I don't have the energy. After contacting so many agencies and finding them to be useless, I don't know what this social worker can offer me. Especially now that I have already found an apartment. But I will call, because maybe there's... something... a Uhaul fund. A Mr Coffee fund. Energy assistance. Supplemental monetary assistance. Something.
Though something tells me that I'm gonna end up doing this on my own (with some help from Jeremy) because that's how it's been thus far.