I met with my doctor TL today, the one I’ve had for over 10 years by now. I met with her to talk about the verdict I’ve gotten from Försäkringskassan. My doctor and me are of one mind in this, still.. her expertise and the reality I live with wasn’t enough to have Försäkringskassan take a decision in my advantage. My anxiety was riding high at the meeting, even though I knew TL’s opinion.
She was chocked that my level of Quetiapine was so very high (I can adjust them myself within limits, based on what my mood are), but since I wasn’t out of the range, she wasn’t mad or anything like that. I told her like it was, about my nerves and my inability to sleep and how I had been affected by both the letter from Försäkringskassan and the recent move. My doctor is a Russian lady and whenever she curses on her mother tongue the room feels electrified and I almost expect sparks to come flying. I both love and fear it. Mostly love it, she doesn’t curse at me, just over the general situation we happen to find ourselves in.
Either way, I’m sending an appeal and she’s in contact with them on her end. She does what she can and I have an enormous respect for her, I always feel like I’m a person when talking to her, an individual with thoughts, feelings and fears. She’s someone who knows me better then most people and she’s a highly skilled professional with several degrees specializing in mental health issues. I get that she’s frustrated with the administrators that often act like they know better then the medical personell.
But on the other hand, TL spoke about these administrators with respect today, when explaining a thing to me. She spoke about how hard the administrators job had become with the changes that our society have seen during the past years. And I share her view, I understand that they are just doing their job. It’s not something personal against me. That is why I need to calmly write out my appeal and level with them here. Calling in shouting and screaming will take me nowhere. Using their form, language and regulations on the other hand, will do me much better.
Regardless. When I sat down to start write the appeal the anxiety came rolling over me like opening a floodgate. I wrote two useful lines in 20-25 minutes, after that I just sat staring at the form. I think I sighed, because soon T intercepted me and hugged me tightly. When he did, I started crying from the anxiety.
I saved my work and shut it down for the evening. I’ll tackle it again tomorrow and again and again if needed. It takes a lot out of me to do this, I wish I could hand it over to someone else. But I can’t. I have to write this if I want them to see the pain, the depression, the insanity. But I hate thinking about it like this. I hate saying that I’m insane when I really mean it to the word’s fullest extent.