We're All Gonna Die

 Or at least it feels like it. 

I, like most folks not living in denial in the US, have spent the last almost two years just trying to stay alive, trying to avoid Covid-19 and trying to survive the crippling anxiety and depression that comes with living through an endless pandemic, most of which was not at all handled by our joke of a federal government and still continues to be mismanaged, all the while surrounded by people who don't even believe it's happening, but do believe that caring for our fellow humans infringes on their personal right to be terrible fucking humans in a damn death cult. 

I'm not sure which felt deadlier to me, the rampant virus or the depression, honestly. Or maybe it's the rampant gun violence (but that's a post for another day).

And being at high risk for Covid and having a few chronic conditions and also depression/suicide has been a fun dance to dance because I don't want to DIE and I don't want the effects of the virus, but keeping my ass mentally off the floor for so long has been hard fucking work and is frankly exhausting.

I know many can relate. Knowing I'm not alone in that does help. Because this pandemic is so fucking isolating. 

So I worked fucking hard to keep myself alive in all the ways. I danced that dance. And it's been exhausting and we all just want to take a goddamn breather, right?

Then earlier this year, I really really felt like it was time to seek reunion with my biological family. If you've read this blog this year, you know how that's been going, which is mostly great, but also scary and overwhelming and I was thrown into quite the existential crisis when I learned how my first mom died. Surviving that crisis has been one of the hardest things I've ever done, no exaggeration. 

But I think I'm finally through the woods and peeking out the other side into acceptance. But I'm tired. 

Then came the holidays with the triggers and the stress and the annual difficulties and, for some fucking reason I can't grasp, I thought that December fucking 22nd would be a good time to get back in for my annual gynecological exam and mammogram. I thought, let's just get this done before 2021 is over. Easy peasy. 

Oh what a sweet, naïve little elf I am sometimes, because no, no it was not easy, not at all. Because first, it's coping with the triggers from explaining the adoption situation and hoping they get it and the fat bias and them not believing I eat well and exercise. But then it's the battery of tests they ordered and spending the entire morning as a fucking pincushion and coming home too overwhelmed and exhausted to do anything that I needed to do to prep for the holiday. 

Then comes the results on Dec 23rd. "Your mammogram is inconclusive. We found masses in both breasts and need additional imaging, which we don't do here and which your insurance might not cover so you should call and check on that first. Also your cholesterol is scary high, so you should see someone for that and you should be screen for diabetes too. Oh and Merry Christmas!"

They may as well have said, looks like you're gonna die. Have a good holiday! 

So I got to spend the Christmas weekend worrying I was gonna die, which may sound dramatic, but remember that I have CPTSD and that's a pretty typical reaction given my mental illness. 

First thing Monday (yesterday) the 27th, after getting some work done, I got on the phone with insurance to determine coverage and costs, talked to 3 terrible humans who were annoyed I called to use this service I pay for, broke down and cried, then finally got someone to give me an answer. Why is it always so hard? And I have decent insurance. 

Tell me you live in the US without telling me you live in the US.

So then I call the radiology lab and thus ensued a back and forth where they claim they don't have the order from my doc and my doc is like, we keep faxing it, and I'm like, I AM NOT AN OWL!    

And then I had one of the worst panic attacks I've ever had in my whole damn life, like disassociating and passing out and couldn't breathe or speak or move. And all I could think was, I don't want to die, but it sounds so easy.

Spoiler: I lived.

After that, you can imagine how terrible I felt. Panic attacks can be brutal on the body. I hurt all over and was just so spent emotionally and physically, I spent the rest of my day in bed watching Netflix. In the evening, my husband and I thought it would be a great idea to watch, Don't Look Up.

We're ALL about the great ideas, y'all! 

I won't spoil it, but it's actually a great movie about a cataclysmic event on earth and is very clearly a satire on how the US and its citizens have completely and totally bungled this pandemic. It was really good, but also maybe too soon and also I was totally still worrying I'd never get vital testing and would die in like 4 different ways at only 41?!?! Soooo maybe NOT my best choice for viewing pleasure in that moment. 

And honest to fucking gawwwwd, (this is not a spoiler because it's in the trailers), when they say that a comet is going to hit the earth and everyone will die, I thought, that sounds easier than this shit. See? that dance between depression and wanting to stay alive is a dance I never stop dancing.

I turned to my husband and said, "I'm totally gonna have nightmares now." Which I did. 

Good times. 

Friends, it really does feel hopeless. It feels like we're all gonna die. And I don't want to hear positivity or platitudes or compassionate replies; I want to hear that you're all overwhelmed and hopeless too. I want to hear that you're still soooo tired and scared and tired of the fear and the vigilance and the hard work it takes to survive and, when the CDC relaxes yet more Covid recommends just to appease our capitalist overlords, a comet kinda sounds easier. 

Please tell me I'm not alone in this. 

Anyway, I got my lab appointments and an appointment with a new doc. I'll let you know if I have cancer or heart disease or diabetes or all three or none. Obviously I'm hoping for none.