My New Normal

I was having a conversation with a good friend and he was talking about how I talk down about myself at times. I look at him with the response, “What?  I am happy.  What do I say?”

What I talk about is my hair before cancer.  I have to be honest, the two things I loved most about myself was my hair and the other part of my body that became disfigured because of cancer.  I look at my scar that is about four inches long and I sometimes long for the days when I felt beautiful. 

What I tell others is that beauty is on the inside and not the outside.  I really truly believe this but somehow I have a hard time turning this advice around to myself.  All the years of abuse and being told I am not good enough are difficult things to erase from my self talk. 

As I talk to my friend about my past life before cancer I really think about how I feel about looking different after cancer.  My life before cancer was filled with dangerous relationships and self harming.  I used my beauty to attract dangerous people because I needed fast self affirmation that I was good enough for someone.  Being Bipolar meant that I loved fast and hard. For the most part that feeling of love was mostly lust and a wish to be loved.  How I was before cancer really got me nowhere.

I believe in divine intervention as everything stopped when I crumbled after chemo.  I get to start fresh after hitting rock bottom like I have never hit bottom before.  It took me two years to crawl out of that evil hole that tried to wrap its roots around me.  I would sit in group week after week with my dark hoodie wrapped around my head while tears were shed as I would talk about my wish to get better. 

Today I think of my cancer as a rebirth.  Today I am better than I have ever been before.  I am working with my new normal.  I will learn how to look at my scar as a sign of survival because as of now I am four years cancer free and I am able to function outside in society.  I am victorious as I fight for my son and his ability to learn positive affirmations about himself.  I have a beautiful daughter who is about to go out in that big open world.   For the first time, I am not lonely and I don’t lust for that self affirmation from somebody else.

It is now time to work on myself.  I need to look at myself and say that I am beautiful.  I have to fake it until I make it.  Because of my dangerous behavior, I lost the friends that I had before cancer.  I look forward to letting the new friendships grow that I now have.  I will not jump into a relationship for self affirmation.  I will wait for the day when I meet that friend and after time realize that it could be more.  I will learn how to love myself first. 

*Sam took this photo for breast cancer awareness.



Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

Restraints, Time-Outs and Suspension

48 hours ago I was making dinner while I ask Sam the million dollar question, "How was your day?"  The response was, "I didn't have a good day."  "What happened?"  "I don't want to talk about it."  I can only imagine what happened and I felt assured that I would read in the notebook later where I would find my answers. 

I have a bad habit of looking in his backpack in the morning 10 minutes before the bus arrives.  I can handle difficult news better in the morning because I have all day to process.  Sam having homework hasn't happened yet so I don't really have a specific reason to check out his bag at night. 

I am making macaroni and cheese for my vegetarian daughter as the phone rings.  It is the Vice-Principal from the school telling me that Sam was put in a restraint.  She apologized for not calling sooner but a young man had set fire to his house and one of the victims was once a student at Sam's school.  I was doing my best to hold back the tears because nobody likes the news when a restraint has happened.  Also, the news of the tragedy wasn't sitting well with me.

I know that the restraint was followed by a time out in the Time Out room.  So if you don't know, a Time Out room is a little closet that has nothing on the walls with a big door with a tiny window that is covered with a dark film.  I know this because once I snuck up to the second floor, went in the Time Out room and closed the door and stood there.  I had visions of my son screaming wanting to get out of this room.  As a parent I am not allowed into my child's classroom for whatever reason so that is why I took advantage of the time when nobody was looking.  The room is basically a cell.

The next day I am scurrying around trying to get something done because the time is drawing near when I have to drive the 30 minutes to pick up Sam from his school.  He had an appointment with his counselor.  I arrive at the school with his 1:1 telling me that he did well at ISI.  "What is ISI?" is my question.  "In school suspension."  "What!" is how the conversation unfolded.

The next few minutes I am angry as hell.  Why didn't anyone tell me?  The phone call yesterday never revealed that he was going to spend the day away from his peers.  He was alone with his 1:1 all day.  I told the office staff to have the Vice-Principal call me as soon as possible.  The phone call never came.  While in the car I looked for a report that documented the events that led to the suspension.  I found nothing.

I did get a chance to talk with his teacher while I was waiting for his counseling appointment.  Something happened in OT and he was put in a restraint.  I am fuzzy on the events because he was possibly put in a second restraint after lunch.  His teacher went into the Time Out room where Sam started kicking her and trying to slam the door.  I was sitting in the lobby at the counselor’s office with tears streaming down my face.  She continued talking about how Sam has regressed in the last couple of weeks with symptoms of agitation and needing to be constantly praised.  I already knew that he was sleeping a lot in school.  Sam became angry because he slept during his turn at the computer for free time and after lunch he had to choose another activity.  Why didn’t anyone tell me of his regression?

So what do I do now?  I am still waiting for the phone call from the Vice-Principal and 24 hours has passed.  I understand that they are busy with everything that happened with that terrible tragedy.  It is hard to digest why a 15 year old boy would set fire to his house.  This tragedy is specifically the reason why I am frustrated with the school.  What does Sam have to do before extra supports are put in place?  Extra supports should have been in place before Sam had a blow up.  The school saw the regression.  I just don't get it.

Maybe I will get that phone call soon.



Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

Will the struggles ever end?

I have spent the last few days ecstatic because my seventeen year old daughter now has her own car.  The endless trips back and forth to the umpteen million things that she does have ceased to exist.  I was trying to take a few days to relish in my freedom and get some much needed rest.  I was just about asleep at 2:00 in the afternoon when the phone rings, "This is the Vice-Principal and Sam has been kicked off the bus."

"What!  Ok, what happened?"

"He got on the bus and had a meltdown and the bus driver told him to get off the bus.  He is sitting here with us."

I am not very proud to say that I started yelling.  That is how I deal with disappointments.  High pitched angry words came out of my mouth saying that I refused to pick him up and they were to call the transportation department and get a bus out there immediately.  A return phone call informed me that the transportation refused to send out another bus. 

This would not have been a big deal if Sam went to our school district.  Sam has an hour long bus ride to and from school every day because they have the expertise to handle his needs.  I also have the sixty minute round trip car rides to drop off medications, CSE meetings, team meetings and all the times I pick him up to take him to appointments.  My gas bill is in the hundreds for a month worth of driving.

The phone call woke me up to my reality.  I told the school that I had to help Mina get her car inspected at 3:30 and I would arrive after that.  I informed them that this was the best I could do. 

I called my local advocacy center and asked what my rights were.  I still don't really know.  What would have happened if I didn't have a car?  Would I lose a job if I was working?  Would Child Protective Services be called or even the police if I refused to pick him up?  I will always pick him up but I am sure that there have been the parents that have been so worn out that they refuse to bail out their child.  I had to laugh when the Vice-Principal asked me if there was someone I could call.  No, there is nobody.  It is just me.

I call out to Mina because it is time to go to get her car inspected.  She follows me to the Inspection Garage and I leave to pick up Sam.  On the way the CSE Chair calls me.  For anyone that doesn't know, the CSE Chair basically is the CEO of your child's education.  Again I start yelling.  I am screaming away my anger on how my district can't handle my child.  My frustrations spew out like a volcanic eruption.  The result of my tantrum was me gulping for air as the sobs took over.  The CSE Chair wanted to meet the next day to make sure that I was going to be ok.  I was invited to lunch.

I arrived at the school with my forlorn face with a group of people wondering what my reaction was going to be.  I sit down next to Sam and he tells his story about how he was teased in the morning and he was scared to get on the bus to go home.  I explain to him that he is getting older and it is now time for him to work on his reactions to his peers.  I can't remember what my exact words were but I did my best to explain that I could only do so much and it was his turn to regulate his emotions.  A light bulb went off as I realize that I was sitting next to my adolescent child compared to the younger child I had always thought him to be.  There is so much work to do with his private counselor that he visits every other week.  I feel overwhelmed.

Sam and I leave and head out to his Music Therapy appointment.  I get him something to eat while the conversation continues that there will be consequences if I have to drive out again to get him.  The Music Therapy lesson went well as Sam processed the events that occurred in the last seven hours. Together we all make a plan that the stars earned if he does well for the rest of the week on the bus will be toward knew goggles to replace his old ones that broke. He is in full agreement as we head home.

I spent the night replaying everything in my head over and over.  I feel remorse as I recall my angry words.  E-mails are sent with my apologies and a note saying that I know that it was not the school’s fault.  Thoughts revolve over the main theme of me having to stop going over the top with my reactions.  Isn't that what I am trying to teach Sam?  I make a plan that when I see my therapist I will ask her to enroll me into the Dialectical Behavior Therapy program.  I have to learn how to do better.

The next day I meet the CSE Chair for lunch.  I apologize for using her for a punching bag.  I admit that I have issues around the time when Sam was kicked out of the district.  Further explanation described my hurts surrounding the time when three people were pinning Sam to the floor waiting for the police to make a mental hygiene arrest.  Sam was six years old and in first grade.  He spent sixteen days in the hospital and he still recalls that event as the time he was bad.  There is no explaining to him that he is not bad.  He just won't accept the words saying it was not his fault.  My heart aches as I wait for the day when his light bulb will go off with the realization that he is a good kid.

For now I will stop writing because it just hurts.  It is time to think about happier events.  Christmas is coming and there is much to be thankful for.  Thank you for reading my stories.

The next time that Sam has a sever anxiety attach and gets kicked off the bus, the district is responsible for getting another bus to pick him up.  This is the promise that was made to me by my son's CSE Chair.

Will the struggles ever end?  No, but without struggles there would not be estatic joy with the successes. 


Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

The Best Kind of Different

I started this blog because I love to write.  I have great fun writing and saying words such as serendipity and luminous.

I also have words that I dislike.  I think of the word through.  It looks all jagged and rough to me.  Unfortunately, this word is in the title of my other blog.  I am weird like that.

As much as I love to write, it is equaled by my love of the written word by others.  There are countless hours that I spend reading while waiting for appointments or sitting at a play place.  During the summer Sam fishes for hours and books keep me company.  Memoirs are my favorite and I devour them.  Human behavior fascinates me.  My favorite subject is Autism.

On my last trip to the library I was appalled by the lack of books about Autism. 

"We are changing and updating our inventory to stay current," was the response I got while asking where all the books went.

My thoughts ranged from "What?" to "No! You can't do that!"  How are we going to learn about Autism as a culture if you throw out the history?  I think of the very famous book, The Siege, written by a Mom educating the masses of what Autism is.  The Siege is the book that educated me on the term "refrigerator mother".  In 1949 Leo Kanner, who wrote about Autism, was calling attention to what he saw as a lack of parental warmth and attachment to their children diagnosed with Autism.  Apparently he thought the fault was on the mother.  I can only hope that history doesn't repeat itself.  Totally bummed I settled on two books.

The first book is Cowboy & Wills: A Love Story by Monica Holloway.  It is a true story about a boy and his dog.  The writer eloquently wrote where the words pressed me forward to read more.  I finished the book in one day.  I can't critique this book because I don't want to spoil the experience of reading it.  I can say that it is one of the best books on Autism that I have read. 

The next book is The Best Kind of Different written by Shonda Schelling.  The book was at first a disappointment.  The Schillings are a baseball family with a bank account in the millions.  My initial thought while reading was that I can't relate to wealth.  My OCD tendencies will not let me quit reading a book because of an obsessive fear that I might miss something so I continued reading.  

I stopped dead when she received her son's diagnosis with the Doctor advising her to not put the diagnosis in the school file.  I just couldn't believe that a professional would say that.  I have chosen to educate my son about his Autism and he doesn't feel any different.  He accepts his diagnosis as part of himself.  I remember the time when Mina, Sam and I were walking and I was talking about her being a neurotypical teen. She asked me what it was and told her that it means she doesn't have Autism.  My statement was immediatly followed by Sam's cheerful response, "I have Autism!" 

I read on to learn that the writer chose to educate her son on what Autism was and how to adapt to the diagnosis.  I know parents that choose to not tell their child about their Autism diagnosis and that is ok.  All of the reading that I have done by writers diagnosed with Autism say that they are happy that they know of their diagnosis.  This is the reason why I told Sam.  There is nothing wrong with having an Autism diagnosis is my philosophy.

The confusing part to me was her words, " A diagnosis of straight Autism had seemed off.  The profile of kids with Asperger’s fit Grant perfectly."  She talked about the inability to understand social cues and sensory issues.  She continued talking about wandering and being fearless.  The list goes on with my thoughts drifting to, "That's my kid and he isn't diagnosed with Asperger’s."  My understanding of Aspergers is an early acquisition of language and a high IQ with all the other things that go along with an Autism Spectrum Disorder.  I have read that some want to get rid of Aspergers, PDD, NOS, Autism and have everything under Autism Spectrum Disorder.  It is all very confusing and professionals that I have met say that the Asperger population will lose out on much needed assistance because they will have too high of an IQ.  Some say that they are changing the criteria to save money.  I don't really know.  I just wonder if a millionaire raises money for Asperger's does the money go to the rest of the population of people diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum Disorder?  I probably think too much.

Shonda writes about her strategies of raising her son.  She used the 0 to 5 reaction scale with five being a call to 911.  If her son was screaming she would ask him to rate his response.  I thought that was interesting.  She also talked about the "social consequence map"  where there are four columns (1) my action, (2) how I felt, (3) how others felt, and (4) consequences.  I really think that her ideas in the book could be useful for Sam.

The last part of her book she describes her depression.  She was totally honest on how she dealt with her frustration of raising her son while not knowing that an illness was attacking her ability to cope.  I am now a fan of Shonda Schilling.  Not only is she a fighter for Autism, she is a fighter for Mental Health.  She is my kind of lady.  Besides, I am in full agreement that my son, diagnosed with a Autism Spectrum Disorder like her son, is the best kind of different.

Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

Total Relief

I woke up today with the realization that my oncologist appointment had finally arrived.  I was scheduled for a mammogram and ultrasound to check out my scar that had drastically changed in the last four months.  In the last few days my Bipolar had swung me in a downslide and I was patiently waiting for life to give me a break.

I got dressed, treated myself to McDonalds and went to my appointment.  I arrived at Strong Hospital at 10:00.  I walked the familiar path to the Wilmont Cancer Center.  I checked in and waited.                  

"Ms. Bellare?"

"Yes?"

"Come with me."

I followed the girl to the dressing room as she continued saying her practiced speech while she put on the hospital bracelet, "This is your gown. Did you put deodorant on today?"  Darn.  I took the wipes and got ready.

I could go on an on about getting squeezed and all that but it really isn't that bad.  No big deal.  The technicians took four pictures total and told me to wait while the radiologist looked at the pictures.  I knew that if he wanted more pictures I was in trouble. 

"Ms. Bellare, you are all set.  I will show you to the ultrasound room."  So far so good.  I sat on the ultrasound table and read my book.  This really nice woman came in and explained the procedure.  Again, no big deal.  I couldn't look at the ultrasound screen because it all looked like lumps to me.  She left the room to talk to the radiologist and came back, "You are all set.  The radiologist said that if you are concerned about the blotches on the scar you can go see a dermatologist."  My reply as I smile, "That’s ok.  Nobody is going to see it anyway."

Next on my list was my Autism support group.  I was a few minutes late so I sat down during introductions.  I got to tell everybody that my daughter was accepted to Philadelphia University.  I continued with the success of my son on the bus.  I was all smiles as I talked about Sam's photography.  I was very chatty and I continued with my story of how Sam came home yesterday to talk about how much he likes his assistive tech device at school.  I never mentioned that I have been desperately trying to get my medications filled for the past few days.  It wasn't necessary.

After the group was finished I was off to see the Psychiatrist.  I knew I was in for an earful because I cancelled my last appointment because I chose to work.  I had waited all day yesterday to hear from the Psychiatrist.  Hour after hour passed until 3:00 when I answered the phone to hear the Psychiatrist tell me he refused to fill my prescription.  I immediately called my General Practitioner and the nurse explained to me that she was doubtful that she would fill it.

I was yelling at this point with the nurse trying to stay calm, "I don't appreciate you yelling at me."

"I'm not yelling!  I am pleading with you please someone has got to help me!"

I hung up and called back the psychiatrist office to yell at the receptionist.  He put me on hold.  A woman came on the line, "Hello, this is the Doctor's receptionist.  He can see you at 3:00 tomorrow."  Not my proudest moment.

So today I stood in front of the receptionist.  "I am sorry I yelled at you."  He shrugged.  "No. Seriously I am really sorry.  Please accept my apology."  He shrugged.  "Please I'm begging you.  I will not forgive myself unless you forgive me."  His reply, "I really appreciate that."  Good enough for me.

I sat down to wait for the inevitable.  "Ms. Bellare?"  I walked down the hall with the Psychiatrist.

"So Ms. Bellare, What is more important?  Money or your drugs to keep you well?"  I just looked at him.  Are you kidding me?  What kind of question is that?  The answer is both.  How do you choose? 

I sat in his office and told him about my life while thinking that this guy saw me every month for two years while I was in a semi-catatonic state trying to get well from a debilitating bout of depression after my cancer treatment.  He has seen me climb out of the depths of hell to become a functioning person in society.  All I wanted was for him to give me some credit for trying to work.  I didn't get the credit.  I make an appointment for six months with the reminder that next time he will not be so kind.  I quietly answered, "Got it.  I promise."

My day rounded out with Mina and I looking at a car for her to get around..  Mina and I stood out in the freezing cold while I was trying to end the conversation.  I didn't care.  For now, I am cancer free.

The best part?  I GOT MY MEDS!

Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

What Now?

I made the decision a couple of weeks ago to go to work instead of seeing my Psychiatrist.  Now I have no meds so what do I do now?  Common sense would tell you to go see the Psychiatrist.  Well, I did that and was told, "I'm sorry, the next available appointment is in January."  While sitting there feeling totally helpless I asked, "I need meds, can I get them?"  The response I got was, "We will give this to the Doctor."  That was two days ago.

I went to the pharmacy to ask if Sam's meds were ready and there I was told, "I'm sorry, we are still waiting for the Doctor to contact us, maybe you should call them tomorrow."  What the heck!  I told the doctor four days ago that Sam needed his meds and they told me to contact the pharmacists to have the pharmacy contact them.  I did that!  I want to scream, "Are you serious!" Now Sam is out of his meds.  I asked the pharmacy if my meds were ready to be told no.  I walked away feeling totally crushed.  Is there anybody who cares about my family's well being? 

I have been in a downward spiral for a couple of days now.  This latest news was just too much.  I walked away from the Wegman's pharmacy in tears.  All the woman could do was say, "I'm sorry."  It is not her fault.  It is mine. 

I needed ice cream for Sam.  He wanted his night time snack.  A woman's cart was in the way and I tearfully said, "Umm, I need to get some ice cream."  Feeling totally awkward in my tears I went to get his other favorite snack of pistachios.  I ran into a marching band mom who is a breast cancer survivor.  She looked at me and I totally collapsed into her arms.  I just sobbed and wailed, "I can't do this!"  She asked me what was wrong and I explained that I just felt like I didn't have any strength left.  We talked about breast cancer and I told her about my worries and how I had an oncology appointment coming up.  We talked about depression and how people don't want to be involved with someone that just isn't feeling well.  I won't have any friends coming over to my house saying, "What can we do?" 

Why am I talking about this?  I am all about education and why not educate in the midst of feeling like I can't take another step.  I think about the guy that pushed the woman into the tracks in NYC while trying desperately to find help.  I think of people shouting, "I need help!" only to get none.  Does this really happen?  Yes it does, I read about it all the time.  After a tragedy the first response is, "What could we have done to prevent this?"

I am not going to go on a shooting spree or any other seemingly ridiculous way to shout to the world that I am hurting.  I will just wake up in the morning full of fear to work as hard as I can to get through the day.  That is how my depression works.  How does one describe what this fear feels like?  All I can say that it is debilitating.  I tearfully talk myself into getting dressed and getting outside.  That is what I did this morning.  I made it and now it is night.  Yes, I fell apart in the store and yes, I am afraid to go to bed in fear of what I will feel like tomorrow.  Again, this is how my depression plays out. 

Tomorrow I will call the Psychiatrist and if he won't help me I will call my General Practioner.  If my General Practitioner won't help me I will go to the Emergency Room.  If they won't help me I will be out of luck.  I feel like a child who has made a bad choice.  I shouldn't have chose money over drugs to keep me well. 

I will be alright because I always make it.  I will smile when people say hello.  I will somehow get my medication so the depression will not dip to the point where I will be admitted into the local R-Wing.  I will wait for the upswing even though it feels like it won't arrive.  I will be ok.

Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

 

Should I be tested for drugs?

I have seen a few posts on facebook stating that people on welfare are drug abusers.  Is this true?  I found an interesting article that states that in the first round of testing in Florida it was found that two percent of the welfare population tested positive for drugs.

I am not a political person and I could go on and on about how our country wastes money on this and that.  I am just not in the mood for people to get mad at me.  Because of my disability it is hard enough to make and keep friends as it is.  My diagnosis coupled with Sam's doesn't really lead to an active social life. I often talk about isolation because I do my best to keep it real. 

Sam and I are recipients of SSI and SSD.  I am also a recipient of food stamps.  My family gets a grand total of $70 a month for a family of three. The total number of dollars that we receive a month just does not cover the amount of money I spend on additional therapies and special autism clubs for Sam.  People in our community have been so generous in scholarships so Sam can attend these special functions.  It is a full time job to find the money so Sam can benefit along side the families that can afford it. 

There are times when Sam gets extremely angry because there isn't enough food to eat.  I can only get food shelf assistance every three months.  There is a missionary near us that is helpful but then I get the phone calls where I need to take time away to stay on the phone with a volunteer to pray.  Prayer is good but sometimes not helpful when I am driving to the next appointment for Sam.  I graciously stay on the phone and say thank you and hang up.   

I don't like being on assistance at all.  It is a very hard life to have.  The paper work alone is mind numbing.  On my desk is a 10 page report to fill out to get assistance for Sam to have an Ipad.  This report has now been sitting on my table for over a week.  I am trying so desperately hard to become organized so I can think straight.  I look at it and cry.  I am not eligible to get a case manager because they say I am too high functioning.  I don't feel very high functioning at the moment.

I have a part-time job where sometimes I work 3-6 hours a week.  I had an opportunity to go to a five day training to learn about Therapeutic Crisis Intervention.  I made it through four days.  It was a fantastic training for the first 3 days.  By the fourth day exhaustion set in and my social anxiety went through the roof.  This training wasn't mandatory so on the fifth day I didn't go in to work.  I literally couldn't do it.  I am still down and out with the fact that I couldn't make it.  By the fifth day I was paralyzed. 

The next question is, "Do I make money while I work?"  I have to factor in that with work the food stamps will go down.  I am on section 8 and my rent increased with every dollar I report.  With SSI half of my paycheck will go to them after I have earned $85 for that month.  Where is the benefit of working?

Still being on the subject of work, I have a work incentive counselor.  That is one more appointment I must keep to find out where the assistance is to help me and my family.  This is just more paperwork.  I have to take the time to go down to Social Security Office to report my earnings.  I have to fill out more paperwork for food stamps.  Excluding my Work Incentive Counselor, these people that work at these establishments are not the nicest people that I have encountered.

One last question, "I am a single mom and if I had a full time job, where would I find the time for my appointments and Sam's?"  These appointments are made on their schedule, not mine.  I had a therapist that I loved and he left leaving me with a counselor that doesn't match my personality.  I have tried multiple times to change this person and the clinic just won't let me.  I missed my last appointment with the Psychiatrist because I chose to work.  I now have no meds and no appointment to get any.

I hope this sheds some light on how I don't have a Cadillac and eating steak for dinner every night.  My house isn't filled with drug deals and plotting on how I can fool the government.  My house is filled with me doing my best to provide for my family.  I don't have a problem with the drug test, I have a problem with people thinking I don't deserve the assistance.

Sorry for the depressing post.  It is just where I am at.

Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.