I got that tooth taken care of. There's a large hole in my gums filled with dissolving stitches, and I'm hopped up on quite a bit of Darvocet, which sucks because the stuff makes me feel really strange, like the world is on a tilt and everything sounds like a demented calliope.

It cost us about three hundred fifty dollars, all told, which is absolutely insane. The dentist wanted to do a root canal or some such, which would have cost us three thousand dollars, and I'm fairly certain she was a lot harsher on my mouth than she needed to be because she only got three hundred.

Call me paranoid; I've seen a lot of messed-up stuff when it comes to doctors and business and money.

Anyway, I won't have insurance until January, so there was no choice to be made.

I feel guilty about it. My sister still needs all four wisdom teeth pulled, and there's no way we can afford it right now. So it's like the only person I'm helping by working is me, because if I don't get these things taken care of I can't work.

Catch 22.

I know that's kind of stupid, because we'd probably be living in a refrigerator box if I wasn't working, but it doesn't change the feeling.

Anyway... I wanted to thank you guys again for all the positive vibes on my profile. You're a good bunch of people. I don't really understand it -- usually a Captain Bringdown like myself acts as something of a good vibe repellent, but I do thank you for the kind words and the nice thoughts, and I hope you're all doing well.

When it comes to the VA situation... I don't know. I don't know how much experience you guys have with the military, but mine definitely didn't instill me with the greatest confidence in the government's ability to take care of the people it screwed up.

When I was getting out, they lied on my medical records, so there's no record of the fractures in my legs or the problem with my heart (that I have, I suspect, because of an overdose of medication they gave me), or any of the other things I came in for that could possibly result in them owing me money instead of the other way around.

I don't like them. I don't trust them. I don't want to have anything to do with them, ever again.

And that's that.

Y'know, I suppose most people would use a journal for this kind of thing. That might be better, because I don't like to worry people, but it makes me feel better to know I'm not venting to the void, so here are the thoughts rattling around in my brain today:

I've made a self-diagnosis of PMDD, but my mother is still 99% sure I inherited my father's bipolar.

It doesn't add up, because when the chemicals in his brain aren't working right one of his pupils is dilated and the other isn't. Mine don't do that, at least not that I've seen.

I'm almost stark raving mad with depression for three weeks out of the month -- as soon as I start my period it eases up, and then as soon as it's over it starts back in again.

The only thing that doesn't fit the PMDD diagnosis perfectly was the way I struggled with my pregnancy. It's not supposed to affect you while you're pregnant, but my depression got worse, if anything, so I'm thinking it's possible that that whole thing really was situational, and the weight of everything else on top of my worries about the baby and my psychopathic ex-husband just caused something of a break.

When I get on the insurance in January I'm going to find a psychiatrist and run that by them, see if I can start some sort of treatment, because I'm really, really tired of this being crazy almost every day of my life thing. It gets old.

The other thing nagging at me is the way my self-isolation seems to be getting worse. I spend more and more time with my headphones on because it keeps my moods in line. I control the music, which controls what I'm feeling to some extent, and it just feels so... safe.

My father is on my sister's car insurance and I'm not, so he drives me to work. I crank up my iPod and that way I don't have to deal with the mood swings his bipolar causes. On lunch, I put on my iPod so I don't have to talk to anyone at work, because people ask personal questions I don't want to answer, or they talk about really disgusting and horrible things I don't want to hear.

I'm almost getting to be a little OCD about it; my lunch break is like a ritual.

Clock out, turn on iPod, walk outside across the lot to the BBQ place, stand across the parking lot and smoke, walk inside, grab a beer (makes the last half of the day easier), corner booth with the picture of the carousel horse above it (I've named him Dunbar), spend exactly thirty minutes texting my sister and drinking, pick up the bottle and throw it in the bathroom trash, back across the lot and listen to music and smoke for the next thirty minutes before going inside.

Almost the same thing, every day.

The guys at the BBQ place are used to it, and they go over to dust off my table when they see me coming. They wave me ahead of the line because I never order food (and they don't ask me why, which is great, because you don't want to have to tell strangers you can't afford to eat).

I don't know. I'm ranting. Blame the Darvocet, I guess. I should do some painting before I waste a good sick day.

... thanks for listening.