Internal And External Priorities

Sometimes it only takes a word or sentence for me to be sent down the proverbial drainpipe of meandering existential philosophy. Just like my essay, "Gardening With God," in which a simple wall plaque inspired a entire blog about how people personify the concept of god.

I'll change the format of this blog a bit, and give you the theory upfront, instead of gradually through examples, or at the end of the story.

Here it is:

Many, if not most people, tend to prioritize what they have, and who they are with, over who they are, and what they do.

So how did I come to this little silly-sounding tidbit, and what does it really mean?

And the real question: does it even matter?

HOW DO YOU SPEND YOUR FREE TIME?

I was talking with a very cool, laid back neighbor of mine, who I only see from time to time. We lightly chit-chatted about random things and he happily told me he had the evening off of work, unexpectedly, and was thrilled to have some free time, which is quite understandable.

I asked him what he was going to do with his time and he admitted he was not quite sure, but he was trying to get a hold of some friends so they could go out somewhere and get wasted.

"Sure," I said, trying to hold back. "That's one way to spend the time."

"Well, what else am I going to do on a Friday evening?" he questioned.

This is why you don't ask me extremely open-ended questions like this, as I have the tendency to want to play with people.

Trying to make a point and also testing for interesting reactions, I let out a stream of options as a substitute for extreme social drinking:

"Let's see, well, you could start writing a book; you could make a blog about your favorite interests; you could draw, sketch or paint a picture;... um... you could write a song; you could begin learning a new instrument; you could study a subject you've always wanted to know more about; you could write down a list of long-term life goals and break them down into smaller, more accomplishable steps; you could learn a new language; start a humorous web comic...uh..."

I stalled for new ideas to throw into my spontaneous tangent.

"Well, maybe YOU could do that," he replied with a chuckle, acting as if I had just asked him pour cottage cheese into his pants, and run around the neighborhood licking mailboxes.

Yes, I was playing with him, but it was also partially serious. Were those suggestions really that strange?

"Anyone can do those things, assuming you want to," I defended, but he was already making his way back into his house, scrolling through his contact list on his phone.

"Hmmm," I thought out loud. "Maybe my priorities are really out of whack. Those sounded like admirable things to do with one's free time, even on a Friday."

It sure doesn't take much for me to feel like I'm struggling against the flow of the river. I guess everything I do or value is completely odd, stupid, or plain ridiculous.

Right?

GOT ANY PLANS FOR THE WEEKEND?

I've been asked that question periodically and it always makes me pause.

I know what they mean by asking me that question.

"Are you going out anywhere, spending time with someone, or doing something that is generally accepted as a traditional social outlet for enjoyment and/or escapism."

Realistically, the answer is both yes and no.

Yes because I have things to do, and I plan to do them.

No because most people don't seem to think of my plans as "plans".

Why? Most of the things I do, and find extremely important, are generally viewed as internal pursuits: Things I do that only involve me. No friends, no going out, no traditional "fun". Hence, weird.

When I tell people the "plans" I have for any given patch of free time, I often receive looks of confusion, blank stares, or sometimes looks or pity and sympathy.

"Poor, pathetic loser," they seem to say.

And what makes me so odd?

Well, take this example of the things that I would be working on right now in my free time, considering my internally focused priorities.

*I need to continue mixing the last few details in a few songs for my new album
*I need to put together the remaining graphic layouts for the album artwork
*I need to write several pieces of copy for the website and promo materials
*I need to start working on a new blog for KingOfDeprecation
*I need to start working on a new blog for The Envinity Blog
*I need to map out a step by step master release list for the Envinity Blog
*I need to finish the last pieces of content for the new website
*I need to create a new global marketing outline for the release of the new album

etc, etc. The list goes on and on.

Sound like a blast? Probably not, huh? Does that sound extremely silly to you?

This is what I do with my free time. Essentially, I work. And, yes, by myself. But I work on my own projects. Things that matter to me that are each, in their own way, a form of self expression. And by doing so, I feel like I am enhancing the person I am, and the things I've done with my life. Maybe not right away, but eventually.

PROJECTING PRIORITIES

I often have trouble identifying with others, and falsely assume that they see the world in the same way I do (projecting). We all do this to greater or lesser degrees in our own way, though lately my problem has become quite exaggerated.

I tend to think that everyone places high value on self-expression, creativity, art, the pursuit of knowledge, and the quest to understand the self. Boy am I an idiot. Those things are stupid. The few times I get into a conversation with someone, I tend to interpret things through those odd priorities of mine, obscuring the obvious meaning of what they intended to convey.

Facebook has been a wonderful way to re-connect with childhood friends and classmates. During a brief "what have you been up to for over a decade" type conversation with an old friend from my youth, I asked her what she had been doing that day.

"I've been really busy with family stuff, so I have not had much of a chance to get to it, but I've been trying to get some painting done today."

Now, you may have interpreted this in its intended meaning already, but not me. I was quite surprised and excited by this comment.

"Wow, that's pretty cool," I commented, taking new interest in the conversation.
"What are you painting?"

"Well right now I just want to get the kitchen done."

Oh...

THAT kind of painting.

Here I was all excited that this person was also an artist and put high priority on artistic expression and creativity, when all she meant was she was simply painting her house.

And for me, that was a let down. Not that kitchens shouldn't be painted, or that it won't make the place look nicer, I'm sure it will. But I felt let down because I thought that I could talk to someone with some similar priorities, and even viewpoints on life.

Nope. I'm the weird one, yet again. You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

SHORT TERM FIX

You've just had a long, stressful day at work, and you really need to let off some steam and relax. How are you going to spend your evening? If you are like most young people, you probably will feel trapped sitting around your apartment, and feel the need to let loose, to get away from things.

The social consensus leads many of us to decide that what we need is to go out to a bar or club and get completely hammered. It's instant. It's visceral. And it works.

Albeit temporarily.

We trade in progress on any of our long term goals for ourselves, in exchange for a night of carousing and alcohol-fueled reality-avoidance.

But in the grand scheme of things, this is simply an example of how we subconsciously circumvent tackling our big, challenging life issues, and our grand aspirations for ourselves, via social distractions that simply pass time, without helping us use that time productively for our own benefit.

Though I could not see that a few years ago, it seems clear as day to me now. The focus on such short term trivialities as a main priority will only help to ensure that our lives will pass us by without us even knowing it.

Sure, we'll have some funny stories to share, but nothing truly accomplished to show for it.

In essence, we will live our lives in the passenger seat, forever fearful of taking direct control and responsibility of where, how, or when the car may get to a destination.

That being said, there is nothing wrong with getting together with friends for a round of drinks and laughs after a long day. I understand the appeal, honestly I do. For a few years, I was part of a social circle that did nothing but party all week. I was part of...

THE CLUB SCENE

For most of my adult life I had never been much of a drinker, perhaps just having a few beers here and there or a glass of wine from time to time. It wasn't until I suddenly started DJing in a small, dilapidated club that I became introduced to the extreme social partying scene.

All of my new friends were now bartenders, DJs and club staff, all of whom quite enjoy drinking (an understatement). And in the excitement of this new environment, I adopted the philosophy of, "when in Rome...". (Which I was not in).

Over time, I became a regular at the bars and clubs associated with my bartender and club staff employees. On my off nights I was out, like many, many others, till 2am (usually later) drinking and dancing, and I loved it. It felt exciting, and edgy, like I was part of some sort of underground rebellious movement of misunderstood people who wanted to really live life everyday.

Once I started working as door staff at another club, I was taking shots before, during and after my shift, then we'd all head to another bar after hours where we would, get this, drink some more. 6am sometimes. And that was life. Sometimes five days a week. Work at the club, drink, sleep in late, work at the club, drink, sleep in late, night off, drink at another club, drink after hours, sleep in late... you get the picture.

After many months of this routine, even though I did feel partially included in the group of staff folks and their partying antics, I began to become restless and irritated with the lifestyle. This was not just some friends who got together here and there over a few drinks, this was almost every night with drunken after hours shenanigans. It was the lifestyle.

I grew resentful of many of the people I had considered friends, or at least acquaintances, feeling as if we were wasting our lives away; and I had only been part of it for a year or so.

I was sick of feeling that the only way we could all hang out was through copious amounts of alcohol and social debauchery. Once in a while, sure, no problem. Making it your whole life though?

Quite depressing.

But perhaps only for me.

A MANIFESTO... OF SORTS

Since it has been on my mind for some time now, I've had time to break it all down in to two types of focuses and priorities.

The external (what you have, who you are with) and the internal (who you are, what you do).

To me, there is nothing more important in existence than learning to understand who you are (a deceptively simple, yet extremely complex question), and pure, creative self-expression (what you do).

These priorities have governed my life for as long as I can remember (although the journey of understanding myself has been a bit more of a recent development).

Sure, working on creative projects of any kind does not carry the immediate sex appeal of say, going out on the town with your close friends for a night of hijinks and crazy stories to tell; but the long term goals, and maybe this is only me, completely blow the quick fix out of the water.

So I didn't get out all weekend. So what? I spent time working on things that directly relate to who I am, what I want to do and where I want to go with my life. It's not always hip, cool, or marketable, and few people even understand why doing anything like that would be enjoyable or worthwhile.

And still I don't get it. I really don't. Yes, I've been there before, it was fun for a while, but it quickly lost its luster, and I remain confused as to why it does not do the same for more people.

It seems that hardly anyone places emphasis on the big internal questions (who they are, what they do), and only pursues the external (what they have, who they are with). So maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe it's me who's wasting my life away cooped up inside doing my internally-focused creative ventures and not really going out and experiencing life like everyone else around me.

Which brings me back to the essential question. Does this even matter?



Related blogs:
The Depression Panacea
Gardening With God
Artist Integrity And The Dichotomy Of Success
The Inefficacy Of Prayer
The Feel Good Fix. And Observation On Wants And Needs

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Tags: life goals plans drinking partying social creativity long term short term psychology philosophy know thy self

Hernia 2: A Love Story. part 2

Please read part 1 of Hernia 2. A Love Story before reading on.

Hey! What did I just say? You won't know what the hell is going on unless you read the first part of this story!

Damn. No one reads instructions anymore.

THE RUN AROUND

Now that I had a possibility of getting financial backing to cure my ripped stomach muscles, I again contacted my original surgeon, to see if he could put in some recommendations with other surgeons who would accept my CICP program.

Being the generous guy he was (did I mention he also liked metal? That's pretty cool on its own), he faxed my information to another surgeon he knew, at a hospital that would accept my vagrant faux-insurence.

As per usual in this adventure, I waited a good while, and heard nothing back. Maybe they just forgot to call me, right? A few more days passed, and I finally called the referred surgeon's office directly to see about the silence.

"It looks like you were declined," the secretary told me.

"What was the reason?" I asked.

"Well, it says here that it's not life threatening, so he passed on your case."

Wonderful. Thanks for the concern, guys.

God damn it! Now what?

Well, I suppose I could just try to get an appointment with a specialist at another CICP hospital on my own, yes?

Pehaps. But adding to the dense corn-maze that is the current medical system, I am apparently not allowed to jump right to a specialist. Oh no. I have to see a clinic doctor, THEN I can see a specialist.

Man, hospitals and their hoops!

Okay, fine. Let's do that then. I'll play your games. (Because I have a choice).

I waltzed right into the clinic fully prepared like mustard. After waiting around again just to see a doctor so that they could tell me what I already knew, I eventually got my referral for a specialist.

Okay. Checkmark. Slowly but surely, I was making my way to the goal of surgery.

I played phone tag with the appointment center for a bit, and in the end, got myself a calendar date to see a specialist. Nice. Finally. (I'll wear my nicest Tux).

NOW THAT'S CUSTOMER SERVICE

All was hunky dory for the next few weeks as I anxiously waited, albeit in broken form, for my upcoming appointment.

(My guess is that something negative will happen next, let's see...)

Two days before the scheduled date, I received a message on my cell phone, likely from the appointment center probably calling to remind me of my meeting (yes, I'm sure you believe that that's what it was).

I checked the message, and indeed it was them... but... wait... WHAT?!?... CANCELLED???!!!

What the flying scrotal shit fucks!?

Two days before the appointment I had been waiting almost a month for, I was told via voice mail that they had cancelled it because the surgeons needed some information about the previous surgery.

What, and you couldn't have told me that when I scheduled the appointment?! You had to wait until the last minute to tell me, and not even give me the option of having my surgeon fax you some info?!

DAMN YOUSE!!!

And you're damn right I was pissed.

So I followed instructions like a good little boy, and had my previous surgeon's secretary fax my information to the appointment center (that, in its self, only took 3 to 4 phone calls). Once the fax was finally sent (two weeks later... sigh), I hounded the appointment center every week with messages regarding my cancellation, if they had received the fax, and when I could reschedule.

After even more weeks of only getting voice mails, I got a hold of an actual human being (I guess they just started hiring those), and learned that just as they cancelled the appointment with my specialist ( the one that already took me forever to get), they had changed their policies.

Oh goody! Now what?

By now you should know the drill.

You see, now I had to go see another primary care physician (I already did that, remember?) before I could try to get back in line to see a surgeon.

They just make this a pleasure, don't they?

Well, life got busy again, and I dealt with my quarter-sized opening in my stomach, as I had no other choice ( I like options). In the back of my mind, I kept thinking "I need to schedule yet another doctor appointment," but just never seemed to remember due to all of the other things I had going on.

In fact, if the hernia was not causing me any intense pain, to the point where I could even forget about it for a while, that was a good thing!

Maybe I can just get used to it, and live my life.

Sure, you do that.

But in the meantime, I was about to get a big reminder of my condition.

HOSPITAL HIJINKS

At work, weeks later (see how I easily gloss over huge amounts of time with those two words?), I was suddenly overcome by a feeling enormous pressure and pain in my stomach. The pressure was so overwhelming it was almost equivalent to the nerve-crushing pain I felt during my life-threatening incarcerated hernia I endured in fall '08.

This was most likely a not-so-good thing.

Again I recalled the words of warning, "If you feel anything like what you felt before, come right into the ER."

Try as I might to grin and bear it, to stay at work and just "power through it" like a macho über-mensch, I no longer could function well enough to do any vague semblance of a job, and finally had to make the big call.

"I need to go to the emergency room," I said, feeling guilty for leaving work when they needed my help.

I think I may have some guilt complexes, now that I think of it.

Another time. On to the emergency room.

As per the usual routine, I undressed and put on the ever fashionable hosipital gown and clutched my stomach in pain.

"At least they will be able to see what's going on, and pehaps, even take me in now and get it over with," I reassured myself between pulses of pain.

As I waited (I do a lot of that), the nurses and doctors did the tradtional stuff: blood tests, urine tests, condescending feigned interest in my situation, etc.

Once the tests came back, I was ready for them to give me the bad new about my stomach exploding, or the new hernia becoming incarcerated like the last one, but instead I was told that I was free to go home, and they would simply issue me a prescription for pain medicine.

Yes, that's it.

Seriously? Nothing wrong with me? Impossible! What about all of this sudden pain?!

Still in extreme discomfort, I hobbled out defeated, no answers, no imporvements, no appointments.

What the hell was wrong? This does not feel like "fine" to me.

LIGHT AT THE END OF THE CHUNNEL

The next day my stomach was back to normal, with no reasons or clues as to why.

I continued about on my daily routine, working on completing some personal projects, as well as less-interesting day-job obligations.

Then, out-of-the-blue about a month later, I got a voice message on my cell phone from a very business-looking number.

Listening to the message, I was absolutely shocked to learn that the appointment center actually remembered me, and had considerately scheduled me an appointment with a primary care physician within a week. (Isn't this the same appointment center that gave me the run around for months and would not return my calls?)

What the...

Where did this come from?

You mean I might actually be able to get this taken care of after all?

At this point, I'll believe it when it actually manifests.

HOW DOES MONDAY SOUND?

After jumping through the medical croquet hoops and seeing the primary care physician they had scheduled me for (I'll spare you the details of the observations I had on the people in the waiting room), I was told to re-call the appointment center the next week, and the doctor himself would put in a recommendation for me.

Nice!

Well...

In theory.

The next week came about (as they do), I called the number and got an appointment with a specialist the very next day.

Yes, the next day.

Were things suddenly working in my favor? (Don't answer that).

While waiting to see the specialist, I talked with a very nice intern who asked me some questions about my situation.

After giving her my long dramatic story, she looked a bit surprised and said, "why didn't you get in here sooner?"

I shook my head and smiled. "That's what I've been trying to do the whole time".

She smiled, acknowledging my struggle.

"Wow, you really have been given the run around, haven't you?"

Once the real surgeon did a quick examination of my broken stomach wall, he said, "well, I do my surgeries on mondays, so I think I could do the 28th. Does that work?"

The 28th? Really? That was only a few weeks from then. Damn that's... actually pretty fast.

I have to say, to my own surprise and disbelief, it looked like this was really going to be taken care of for good.

Honestly, I really felt that I would be living with this broken stomach wall my whole life. Dramatic as that may sound, I've said it before, the hopeless empty feeling that had been with me since discovering this well-funded abdominal sequel felt profoundly true.

And if I've learned anything in the course of studying myself and others, it's that our emotions are more powerful than any grounded logic or reason.

THE AB BONE'S CONNECTED TO THE... EVERYTHING

It's interesting how much we take our bodies for granted. As I slowly recover from this crazy adventure of the gut, I have no choice but to see how much my stomach muscles affect every little movement I do. Why? Because it hurts like a bitch.

The simplest task, like sitting up, standing, walking or laying down becomes a wince-inducing reminder of the body I rarely acknowledge.

And worse still, at least at this point of my healing, I can't even laugh without going into extreme pain. Something I do a decent amount of anyway, (yes, I like to laugh at things), I have to mentally condition myself against doing. So much for watching any movies I might find humorous.

Don't even get me started on coughing. Worst. Pain. Ever.

THE IMPACT

As I discussed in the last essay, The Depression Panacea, I closely link myself and my personal happiniess with what I do, more specifically, what I create.

Not being able to work, or get creative projects done makes me extremely restless and slightly (or exaggeratedly) depressed.

This very thing happened last time when I spent almost a week in the hospital for the emergency hernia. I recall getting very depressed, locked in my old people prison, having no access to my studio or the other creative tools I use daily. I felt worthless, all while healing my body after a near-death experience. Realistically, I should have been thankful that I was alive due to the advances in medical technology, and I was... for an hour or so. Then I began feeling worthless and guilty for not getting anything accomplished.

Which relates to where I am right now.

I'm restless, a bit depressed and even feeling slightly guilty due to my lack of accomplishements during my recovery.

Though my recorvery has taken longer than I had planned (how do you plan for physical healing anyway?), I have trouble allowing myself the emotional space to allot for the continual pushing back of my getting-things-accomplished. It make no difference to me whether I'm just wasting time playing a video game, or recovering from stomach surgery. If I'm not getting anything done, I feel guilty and beat myself up for it.

THE VIEW FROM HERE

Until I went through the ordeal of the last year, I never gave two shits about health care. And why would I? If it doesn't directly affect me, how can I feel a personal connection to it?

Well, personal connection solved!

Dealing with the emotional, physical and mental trials of the last year have placed new emphasis on my personal health and well being. Not to mention the access I can and cannot get to be treated, or just be seen by a health care provider.

Oddly, my adventures coincide nicely with the national debate on just such topic, though I have no interest in turning this into a political screaming match.

All I really want to know is am I actually done with this shit, once and for all?

Or will I find myself on a looping conveyor belt of stomach surgeries?

As with the first one, I'm hoping that this is finally behind me and I can move on, with my stomach now filled with high tech lasers and cybernetics.

But if you follow the movie industry, production companies love trilogies.




Related blogs: 
Hernia 2: A Love Story part 1
Too Early For Suicide?
2008: The Worst Year Of My Life
Touching Death In The Crotch


Enjoy reading this blog? Please socially bookmark this page, or post it on your Facebook, and most of all comment with your personal stories, observations, or violent objections.

Visit the all new DeprecationWear online store! Sarcastic, self-deprecating and elitist merchandise. Click HERE to see my wares!



buy unique gifts at Zazzle

Tags: health healthcare hospital medical system reform surgery recovery sarcasm

Hernia 2: A Love Story. part 1

I woke up in a groggy haze in a hospital recovery room. As the nurse tinkered with whatever was in my IV, she asked me to breathe deeply.

OW! Fuck that hurts!

I gritted my teeth at the intense pain coming from my stomach.

This was the part I had been dreading for so long, the recovery. It was as if I'd done this before. Wait, I have done this before. It's deja vu.

Why the hell am I going through this again?

Good question.

As my eyes continually closed and opened in my anesthetic fog, the answer came to me when the surgeon came to discuss the procedure.

Apparently, my stomach resembled swiss cheese, with one large hole, and a smattering of other small ones all over.

I had eleven hernias.

Man, that's metal. My hernias go to eleven!

Join me, won't you, through a year-long journey fraught will emotion, desperation, run arounds, setbacks and near-death experiences.

This is Hernia 2: A Love Story.

TOUCHING DEATH IN THE CROTCH

Say, this hernia thing sounds familiar doesn't it?

If you've read back into my growing essay catalog, you may have come across an essay called Touching Death In The Crotch, which has a similar premise. If you want more detail on that situation, I recommend you peruse that, however I'll also sum it up quickly for you right here.

In August of 2008, I found myself in the emergency room with the worst stomach pains I'd ever experienced.

It turns out my pain-inducing tummy-buddy was an incarcerated abdominal hernia. (Shit, and I was all prepared to be a mother). Think of your intestines getting kinked like a hose, then caught in your stomach wall. Interested?

The doctors told me that if I would have waited any longer, my intestines would have ruptured, and I would most likely have gone to your uncle's farm up north with Mr. Kitty and grandma.

You know, "fucking dead".

After almost a week of recovery in the hospital re-training my body to walk, and defecate, I enjoyed a pill-popping couch-based pain and depression party at my dad's house. (How nice of him to throw a party in my honor).

After a month or so, I was back to my normal, self-loathing, sardonic, near-sucicial self.

It was an incredibly dramatic and life-changing event that I could now put behind me for good.

Right?

Well, mirroring the modern movie business, the first hernia did so well that it demanded a sequel.

THE DISCOVERY

With my near-death experience behind me (snicker), I got back to the normal grind (sans bump).

I found a new job at a restaurant, which was rather timely, as I was about to go broke.

A manly badass scar running down my lower abdominal wall was a constant reminder of my Great Stomach Rebellion. (Or an extremely un-manly cesarean scar).

It served as a relic of a terrible historical disaster, keeping my self-image and emotions in check. Thanks Hernia™!!

Jump to Superbowl Sunday in February '09. (Do that).

I was working at my restaurant for a special football party. (No, no. American football). Over the last several days I had developed a gnarly cold, and a deep chest cough. Ignoring the cheering from the party by engrossing myself in a book about the history of American secularism (I like to participate, you know), my cough became extremely severe, feeling like a butter knife scraping against my lungs.

The next morning as I stepped out of the shower (yep, totally naked), I just happened to glance at my stomach as I dried myself with an old towel.

What the hell was that?

Was that a slight bulge under my scar?

Was it just, maybe, perhaps, the way the light was hitting me?

Oh shit, that's really a bulge.

Oh my god. Not again. Not again.

Seriously?

I just fucking did this a few months ago!

In an emotional panic I called my dad up and told him the bad news.

You know what I needed at this time in my life, especially after a recent ended relationship, a near-death surgery escapade, almost going broke, and then my cat dying?

Another huge setback.

IT'S HOPELESS

The next few weeks were probably my lowest low, damn near ever (which says a lot considering 2008). I had just been through an absolutely traumatic situation not more than a few months ago, which I believed to be completely taken care of, and now it was back.

Emotionally, it felt as if this was going to be my life path, what I was going to expect for the rest of my days, which is a bit of an exaggeration of the situation, but still felt overpoweringly true. (Stupid irrational emotions!).

I felt helpless, and I wanted to give up.

In everything I did, I could feel it. It expanded when I ate, leaving me fearful of an internal rupture or explosion. Digestion was ever more present as I could feel my insides working in a way that was strange and uncomfortable. Sleep brought no respite from the hernia either, as from time to time I would succumb to massive, painful pressures in my abdomen, waking me up out of a pleasant dream, and sending me into hysterics, questioning whether I should be speeding down to the emergency room again, or just wait it out.

The doctor's words repeated in my head on autopilot, "If you feel anything like what you felt before, come right down to the ER, don't wait. Watch for swelling, discoloration..." basically I was becoming a paranoid hypochondriac.

Every little sound, or feeling from my gut scared the shit out me. Almost dying from the last one, I was easily frightened for the second round.

I felt broken in almost every way. I was afraid to lift anything, drink alcohol or coffee, or even socialize (which I don't do much of as it is, so I guess that is kind of a moot point).

To drive the impact home, I would not be able to move to another position at my day job, due to lifting requirements, nor could I find a new job for the same reasons.

Basically I was trapped within myself, limited and confined to constant worry and fear. I was afraid to really live.

"Why keep on living if I'm just going to be continually beset by shit time and time again without a chance to really build my life back up again?" I thought.

This would bring me to my almost-end-point, when I began to (seriously this time) contemplate suicide.

THE REAL PROBLEM

On my last hernia, the emergency one, I received a ridiculously lucky deal when the hospital waved the entirety of my near $60,000 bill due to my sub-poverty financial status, leaving me with only a few thousand dollars owed. This was an extremely fortunate situation, for once. (Obviously).

I spoke to the surgeon who performed my last operation, and asked him if he would be able to help me again, and though he said he would be glad to do it, he gave me some disappointing news.

This new hernia was not an emergency, or immediately life threatening, therefore I would not be able to work with the financial department at the hospital to negotiate such a steep slash to the price. It was an elective surgery, therefore, no aid.

He told me if I were to get some insurance he would do it in a heartbeat, but alas, I live the pathetic life of a college student, sans school.

So here I was still reeling from the impact of the previous year, I was hit again, and had no way to financially take care of it.

Was I going to be stuck with this forever?

I can't afford health insurance, at any price, and wouldn't I be denied anyway due to this being a pre-existing condition? Stupid fucking insurance companies!

What about my dad? Couldn't he help?

If my situation would have happened a few years ago, perhaps he could have. Sadly for both of us, he was hit quite hard in the economic recession that year, and lost all of the money that could have gone to making me unbroken. (What's his money for, if not for me?)

Fuck! How the hell am I going to fix myself?

This absolutely hopeless. Might as well kill myself. (And I did. The end).

OKAY, SO I'M INDIGENT

For a good while, I avoided researching anything about my hernia, or looking for solutions to fix my problem. The overwhelming helplessness and depression caused by the appearance of this second physical problem prevented me from bringing myself to do anything about it. I couldn't even face it.

Productive? No.

Human? I suppose so.

My mother, feeling like she was unable to do anything for me during my emergency situation, was determined to help me this time. After some phone calls to her sister, she informed me of a few programs that may exist in Colorado for broke losers like me. (She didn't actually say broke loser, though that would have made this section more humorous).

After a long, confusing search through user-unfriendly government websites and databases, cursing to the heavens about how anyone looking for medical help could ever even find it, I finally stumbled upon what I was looking for:

*Cue angelic choir*

The Colorado Indigent Care Program, or CICP.

Basically it acts as health insurance for homeless people or those who make shit money (hey, that's me!). Honestly people, this is the kind of health insurance we should all have. No annual fee, and you will never pay more than 10% of your total income in a year.

How awesome is that?! (Make a pie chart).

I thought to myself, "Why would anyone want to make a decent income and pay for shitty health insurance, when they can be broke, and get on this awesome program?"

(Oh yeah, people like to buy stuff. Never mind).

After several annoying tries to go down in person and sign up for the program (I had to come back again at 7am and wait in line just to have an appointment) I was finally processed and officially able to do something about this emotionally, and physically crippling hernia.

I felt lucky to finally be on this super cheap program, something which made it financially possible to take care of this second Abdomination (heh heh, wooo! Good one me!).

Now I should go see a specialist, and get my surgery right?

YEAH!

Nope.

To be continued in part 2...



Related blogs:
Too Early For Suicide?
2008: The Worst Year Of My Life
Touching Death In The Crotch

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