The Repo Man comes for my mental health …
That Past just won’t stop catching up with me.
My bills from ambulance rides, ER stays, inpatient treatments, detox, and IOP between last August and last month total around $3 or $4K now, and the Final Notices, collection agency letters, and vaguely worded voicemails are piling up. Plus, the traffic and parking tickets from before detox are growing in size exponentially (my only recourse, I have been told, is to pay “what I can when I can” while the late fees multiply like cancer cells). I have decided to tell all of these people that I cannot–and will not–pay. Then, I puff out my chest, stick out my chin, stare cold and soulless out of half-lidded eyes, and say, “What the fuck are you gonna do about it?”
Come and get it, baby.
Plus, my former supervisor does not think she is a good reference, because she “doesn’t know what I would say about attendance and dependability” during the 9 months (granted, that’s the entire period of my employment there) when I was plagued by migraines, depression, and other medical problems. Or maybe it was just weak will and laziness. Fuck it.
Can I get some support, maybe from AA sources? Well, no. I have been more or less told to “shut up and take it” in regard to the facile, overblown, and sometimes harmful rhetoric in Conference-Approved Literature. My energy should go into writing my 4th Step, says my sponsor, instead of into impromptu criticisms of the Big Motherfucking Book and the Twelve and Motherfucking Twelve in the course of a meeting that, traditionally, is open to such criticisms. Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to work on my 4th Step during the time I would otherwise waste at meetings that focus on the unqualified praise of said “divinely inspired” literature. I must be a good boy and say, “Oh, yes, Mr. Wilson, fuck me again.”
Will they come take my sobriety if I don’t pay for detox? I will tell them to bill it all to Dr. J. He owes me for being a big dickweed.
Or maybe I should go all Charlton Heston on these motherfuckers. “You can have my mental health when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.” It’s a wonder more people don’t blow up hospitals.
Here’s hoping you all grant me the same latitude when I express homicidal ideation as you do when I express suicidal ideation.