My Chemical Romance(s)

I vowed never to get on a dating site again.

Just like my marriage vows, this promise to myself and others was not kept. Oh well. I’m lonely, so sue me.

For every nice chap you meet online, there is an equal and opposite jerk face. Take, for example, a “gentleman” I encountered who I had gone on a date with. Our political views clashed quite considerably so I never saw him again. He engaged me in conversation on the dating site again, making it clear that he wanted to get together sometime.

So I issued a personality test of sorts. I explained that Trump and his lackeys were trying to take away my right to healthcare and therefore, to my medications. I also lamented that because of the gap in Idaho’s healthcare coverage, I could hardly afford my premiums anyway.

His response? “Well, don’t become a bag lady, lol.”

Wow. Wrong thing to say to this mentally ill chick. I blocked him after telling him in no uncertain terms that he was insensitive, and disabled the app.

He may have thought he was being funny. I’ve made equally insensitive comments regarding other personal matters in my day, thinking I was being cheeky. But the fact is, I’m not that far removed from a bag lady. The difference? I am one of the lucky mentally ill individuals: I have a family who cares about me. If left to my own devices I could very easily be destitute with no access to care. I could end up in an asylum without my medication: I could end up homeless were it not for the love and sacrifices of my family.

I didn’t choose to be this way, but a combination of genetics and experience has led me to this point. I am a sufferer of anxiety disorders and a mood disorder and it is not my fault. So to make fun of my condition in such a manner was completely unacceptable.

On a related note, I must also make reference to that “friend” of mine who insisted that if I thought I’d been mentally ill since I was five that the battle was already lost. And that I was simply an unwitting slave to pharmaceutical companies. You don’t know what it’s like to suffer this way: you don’t know the darkness I came out of to be the somewhat functional person that I am today. Medication opened up a whole new realm of possibility for me. Sure, I complain about it, as matching medications to my stress level and body chemistry has proved a tricky process. But I can’t go without them if I expect to survive.

I need psychiatric medication like a diabetic needs insulin. Why is that so hard for people to understand?




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