Depression, you bitch.

Mental illness is a bitch.  A cunt, even.  Just when you start feeling like things will be okay, she shows up to ruin the party.




Charlie Brown is a fantastic example of depression and anxiety.  If you haven't seen the recent Peanuts movie and want to understand what depression & anxiety is, I highly recommend it.  Here's a guy who can't win, if even only in his mind.  When he doesn't win IRL, that's all the evidence he needs.  Trying to kick that damn football is the story of my life.



I keep trying to be positive.  I keep trying to be successful.  And I keep not.  Then not only have I been unsuccessful (in being happy, in doing something, whatever the case may be), I've completely sucked in my judgement of thinking I ever had any hope of kicking that fucking ball.

I have the world's best husband.  He is unconditionally supportive.  He rarely gets angry with me for being an angry, mixed-state* bitch.



He may have patience for me and he may accept that I feel miserable even if he doesn't really understand.  I can only imagine how difficult it must be to watch a loved one be in pain and not know what do to help.  Today he told me that I had to stay positive.  I'd love to.  That would be fabulous.  And that, my friends, would be the end of the depression.  I can't remember the last time I genuinely felt positive (at least not without immediately having the sensation of the "whoooof" that happened as I kicked the football that was no longer there).

Today I sobbed while my 8-year old child held me.  That is so wrong in so many ways.  A child should not be responsible for soothing her parent.  And that thought made me sob harder.  I am constantly apologizing for being and angry and sad.  If the world at large can't understand this, how can a child?

You wanna know what kicked off this downward spiral today?  My son dropped a little dish of ranch and it managed to cover every surface (including the underside of the breakfast bar) as it made its way down and crashed.  I didn't even get angry (for a change).  But I cried.  He apologized and started to clean it up but I knew it would only make it worse.  1) He's 10.  2) He's a boy.  3) His fine motor skills leave much to be desired.

A mess of ranch dressing = thoughts of needing to be hospitalized and thinking about whether or not a suicided (I just made that up, I think it's fitting, sort of like "murdered") mom is better than an emotionally unstable mom.

Life really is unfair and there is nothing that says everyone, sooner or later, will no longer suffer.  Lifelong suffering is possible, very, very possible.

I stick around for H.  It's one thing to have to live with a suicided mom.  It's another thing to have to live with that AND to have no one to fight for you in school or in life.  Today, I just realized the strongest argument I have for sticking around.  I don't see any way around that argument.  Lucky me.






*Bipolar disorder is made up of manic episodes, depressive episodes, and/or mixed episodes.  Interestingly, one does not ever have to have a depressive episode to meet the criteria of bipolar disorder.  I heard Charlie Sheen once say that one of the many reasons he didn't think he had bipolar disorder was because he was never depressed.  He was wrong about so very many things.  Another common misconception is that someone with bipolar disorder swings from high to low very quickly.  Not so.  In fact, a person is characterized as having rapid-cycling bipolar disorder if they have more than 4 different mood episodes IN A YEAR.  I think the lay person doesn't understand how deep a mood episode is, with roots, like a deep wave that holds a person hostage.  It's not just a little ankle-biter wave.  A person is said to have ultra rapid-cycling bipolar disorder if they have more than 4 episodes in a month.  I think I'm probably one of those lucky people.  I also never get the euphoria that goes with full-blown mania.  That's probably good because that often lands people in the hospital but I often wish I did, just for some reprieve from the suffocating darkness.  I usually have what are called mixed-episodes.  I found this on a website and it is the most accurate description I've found.  Most places just say that it's an episode where both manic and depressive episodes can be found, alternating.

Mixed state (also called mixed mania):

A period during which symptoms of a manic and a depressive episode are present at the same time. People who experience mixed states describe feeling activated and “revved up,” but also full of anguish and despair. Rapid, pressured speech can co-exist with impulsive, out-of-control thoughts of suicide and self-destruction or aggression. Hopelessness, irritability, uncontrollable swings between racing thoughts and a feeling of “being in blackness” can all happen over the course of minutes.

I teach about mixed episodes and it wasn't until a week or two ago that I really realized I was in the midst of one.  The way I describe it when I teach, and I was probably unconsciously describing my experience because almost nothing ever describes it this way, is having the yucky feelings of depression with the pressured amplification that goes along with mania.  It's like depression on speed.  And lots of rage.  Did I mention that I broke the glass topper on my desk this week?  It's been awhile since I've broken anything so there's that.  Anyway, mixed episode = the opposite of fun.

Too Much girl. Or worse? Too Much Woman.

First, the age thing.  Let's get it out of the way.  I can't believe I'm technically middle-aged.  When the fuck did that happen?  How do I have a house (that we actually, truly, literally cannot afford) and kids (that depend on us for their very survival) and all sorts of other adult things (like plumbing problems and yard problems and appliance problems)?  I can't believe it.  It wasn't until I kept dropping pop-culture references as I taught undergraduate psychology classes from Seinfeld, Friends, When Harry Met Sally, The Breakfast Club and all the rest, which were almost uniformly greeted by *crickets* that I realized I, myself, am no longer a college student.  It never occurred to me that I was not of the same generation of my students.  Holy shit.

But on to the main course.  Too Much girl.  That's me.  I think I might be the poster child of Too-Muchness.  I am always worried about being too much for everyone in every way.  If someone doesn't respond to a message or email, it must be because I'm overwhelming.  I'm needy.  I'm Too Much.  I am constantly walking on eggshells, pulling my punches, because I don't want to suffocate anyone with my Too-Muchness.  I wonder if many people, particularly women, feel this way or is this yet another one of the fall-outs from my mood issues.  Even that very thought reveals my fear of being Too Much.  I wonder if people who don't feel this way can even understand it.  More importantly, do they have Too Much people in their lives?

This poem brought me to tears.  No, I take that back.  I don't mean "tears" unless you understand that "tears" is a euphemism for ugly crying.  I don't identify with the romantic partner aspect but I can easily sub in any other relationship in my life.  I have lost friends who I know I overwhelmed.  I was Too Much for them.  Not tons.  Not enough to make me decide that I am the problem but enough to make me seriously question it.  The thing about someone who is not comfortable in their Too-Muchness (though I suppose such a person might refer to themselves as Just Right or Passionate or Living Fully) is that they probably never question themselves.  They probably readily write off that friend as having missed out on having a Just Right or Passionate or Living Fully friend.  I, on the other hand, go back and forth, analyzing every conversation, every interaction.

"Fuck.  I know I shouldn't have made that snide comment."

"Christ.  What's wrong with me?  Why did I say that? I sound like I'm having a middle-age crisis and no one wants to be around that person."

"OH MY GOD.  No one shares in that depth.  They're going to think you're nuts."


Along those lines... I am the kind of person who is honest to a fault.  I mean, I tell white lies.  I would never hurt someone's feelings for the sake of being honest.  But regarding myself, you'll get the unedited version any day of the week.  I once lost a group of very good internet friends, a mommy board, because I was Too Much, I think.  I was too honest about myself.  We had a conversation about whether or not we ever have thoughts of harming our young children.  I said that, of course, I did.  I said that anyone who said anything differently was defending against something unconscious.  I said that I thought such a person was unwilling to let themselves acknowledge having such a thought.  This is the thing:  I cannot imagine how a person could live with a needy, ungrateful being, who is demanding nearly every ounce of your being for survival and (often) rewards your servitude with shitty children behavior, and not have flashes of shaking them violently.  I mean, I remember saying to my kids as they fought and cried against diaper changes that I was the one dealing with their shit, in the very literal sense, and they were the ones who were upset?  I told my husband that it felt like I was bending down to tie someone's shoelace and was rewarded with a kick to the teeth.  I also remember thinking after the birth of my first child, as I suffered from severe postpartum depression, that I was a person with tons of resources.  I'm intelligent.  I'm not poverty-stricken.  I have the world's best husband (and father - truly).  I have the support of my parents (we actually were living in their home at the time).  Yet I still had flashes of shaking that fucking crying, non-sleeping, hurting my fucking boob, sucking the very life out of me little shit as if he were a motherfucking maraca.

But I digress... back to my internet friends.  I think what happens is that most people edit.  Most people only tell others 70% of their truth.  I do not do that.  I tell it like it is.  I hold back much more than others do.  I think that terrifies people because 1) maybe it makes it sound like I'm in control of my shit and 2) they think, "Fuck!  If I hold back the worst of myself and that's what she's saying, what must the worst of her be??"  Ummmmm.... that's it.  That is the worst of me.  But they assume I'm even worse.  Not only that but by sharing that kind of scary stuff (as in the thoughts of harming one's child), it forces them to actually think about it for themselves.  They can't help but have a flash of it.  It's like when someone tells you not to think of a pink elephant.  People get pissed that I made them feel like shitty mothers.  #sorrynotsorry

I mean, I'm not sorry.  I say it because it makes others feel not alone.  I can't sugarcoat things because that perpetuates guilt and feelings of Too-Muchness in my fellow mommies/women.  I frequently get messages from friends who are so relieved to hear me say the things they are thinking but never say.  That both breaks and warms my heart.

Back to being Too-Much more directly, it's a constant fight within myself.  I know, cognitively, that I am not too much.  But I'm, emotionally, afraid that I am.  Reading this poem felt like sort of like I've been suspicious about a man being behind the curtain all this time and finally someone ripped the curtain back.  I feel like I need to read it every day.

P.S.  I'm still too scared to share this blog with anyone I know IRL.  There are things in my life that I am still too afraid to share.  I  hope that one day I can but for now, I can't risk it for my kids' sakes.  I'm sure that eventually people who are conditional friends (or acquaintances) may read this and I'm afraid that the effects of judgement and stigma will trickle down to my children vicariously.  Not cool.  So until then, I suppose you really are only just getting a part of me.  Even if it is a huge part, my fear is that that last part will officially bump me over the edge into Too Much.  This, my blog-reading unconditional friends, is the epitome of my Too-Muchness feelings.  :-(

“Life is complicated. I am tired of hiding.”

“Why are you hiding?”

“Because I’m ‘too much’ girl”

“Oh. I know that story. All too well.”

“I just had a long distance lover dump me because I’m too much. And it hurts. Fuck it. No more.”

+++++

Listen to me. Right now.

You are right. Fuck it. No more. Never again.

You are not too much. You have never been too much. You will never be too much.

The very idea is preposterous. Because you were born to be you. All of you. Not a tiny acceptable sliver. Not a watered down version with colors dulled and edges softened.

No. You were meant to be every last pulsing-bleeding-loving-crying-feeling bit.

And if someone tells you that you are too much for them, the only truth you need to remember is this:

It is highly likely that they are not now, and never could have been, near enough for you.

Because you, my girl. You are the sun and the moon and the stars. You are the force that pulls the tides. You are the unrestrained howl under a wide-open moon. You are the essence of what it is to dance into ecstasy. You are the heat and the sex and the sweat and the burn and soft and the grace and the grit and the ocean of tears.

You are all of everything.

You are the mother of us all and the daughter of the universe.

You walk through shadows and light.

You burn down and rise up and hold captive the pulse of the world.

You make the gods tremble.

And that, my dear, is bound to make some people crazy uncomfortable. It will make them pull back and push away. Because the way you dance with your shadows and your steadfast commitment to your light will push them into spaces that are fascinating and compelling and utterly terrifying. Your very being asks them to step into places they may not be near ready to visit, let alone stay.

Because like the depths of the ocean that calls you home, you will never be easy.

But darling, you were not brought here for easy. You are here for so much more.

Because you are a boundary pusher.

You’re a truth seeker.

You’re temptation and seduction and heat.

You’re a mirror and a sorcerer and inside you swirls the power of the ancients.

So no, you are not easy.

But in the space of that truth – please also know this. Do not get this confused with the notion that you do not deserve the deepest ease. Don’t for a minute let them convince you that you will not know the grace of a lover who does not require that you constantly translate yourself or diminish yourself or quiet your storm or tone down your extravagant love.

Because that, my girl, is bullshit.

Because out there somewhere there is a love who will never dream of calling you too much. Who speaks, like you, in poetry and candlewax and stardust. Who runs outside on stormy nights to howl at the moon. Who collects bones and sings incantation and talks to the ancestors. And that lover, when you find him or her, will see you and know you – just as you are and just as you should be.

And they will say yes. Yes, you. I will go there with you. I have been waiting for this.

And so while you are waiting, I want you to do this. For me, and for every last too much girl out there.

You take all that too much and you channel it. You gather every last ember of your too much broken heart and you light that flame. And in doing so you will call forth the others and you sing the song that brings us home.

And then you – in your infinite, perfect too-muchness – unleash it all on the world. And you go and love too much and you cry too much and you swear too much. Fall in love to fast and get sad too often and laugh too loudly and demand with clarity the exact terms of your own desired existence.

Don’t you dare consider doing anything but that.

Because we need you. Everyone of us, man or woman, who has been called too much. You are our reminder, in the most desperate of moment, that we are exactly as we should be.

Every last too-much bit.

"All of Everything" by Jeanette LeBlanc

Twice-exceptionality and the woefully unprepared special education system

For starters, if you have a typical child, an average child, say a little prayer to whatever it is that you thank for gifts in your life.  You have no idea, truly, how good you have it.  Secondly, if you finish this ranting catharsis, I <3 you.  I feel so much like I'm too much for everyone in so many ways.

H, my oldest just started 5th grade.  He is what we call "twice-exceptional" or "2E."  He is exceptional in that he is extremely brilliant and he is exceptional in that he has some type of disability.  In his case it is bipolar disorder and ADHD (though he has very little of the "H" - the hyperactive - component and I wonder if his inattention is secondary to feeling like a failure and no one will pay attention to do something at which they know they will fail).  Oh yeah, I seem to have forgotten to mention that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.  Unfortunately my son seems to have inherited most of my traits, good and bad.

2E children have a very specific, identifiable pattern of thinking, behaving and feeling.  H could be the poster child  There are several problems we face when trying to identify 2E children. 

1. Students who are identified as gifted but also have subtle learning disabilities. For example, a student may use a large vocabulary but have very poor spelling. This category of student tends to perform on grade level.
2. Students whose abilities and disabilities mask each other and are thus unidentified. Their superior intelligence, for example, may hide trouble working with numbers. These students often perform at or slightly below their grade level.
3. Students identified as both gifted and having learning disabilities. These students stand out in a classroom because they are obviously bright but frustrated with school activities and thus tend to act out. (Job, n.d.)

H is more like #3, though he doesn't act out.  His M.O. is to withdrawal.  

We began having problems with H when he was 4.  He could through award-winning tantrums.  Many people would say, "Oh, my kids throw tantrums."  No.  Not like these.  I have two other kids.  Most children do not throw tantrums like H does.  I often say that he didn't smile for 9 months straight of his 4th year.  He was miserable and made everyone else miserable.  We all walked on eggshells.  I recently reviewed our records and he apparently was hitting, kicking, and spitting at all of us (including his then perhaps 6 month-old brother).*  He was spitting at preschool teachers, swiping materials off the desk onto the floor, throwing furniture.  He was sneaking LEGO guns into school.  He didn't even know what guns were!  He called them shooters!  We watched nothing but PBS!!  He had been fine the year before.

I was having such a hard time with these three kids that I was quite certain H was suffering from "shitty mom syndrome" (SMS).  VERY certain.  I went everywhere.  I enrolled him in several research studies in order to get assessment data since I know how to interpret such information.  It said that he was extremely bright, even despite that he wasn't cooperating fully with the researchers.  I went to all of the government programs, I went to the school district, they all told me he was perfectly fine.  Of course he was - he did fine one-on-one.  They often referred me to parenting classes.  I'm a psychologist; I could teach parenting classes.  It's the implementation that is difficult.  We ended up with a therapist coming to the home every week and watching us interact, coaching me, eventually with me wearing an earpiece, getting cues from her in the other room.  After about 4 months, she told us she had to close our case because, though she knew we were cooperative and following instructions very well, we weren't making progress and she had to open up the spot for a new family.  Awesome.  After one such eval, I was fed up.  I pulled H back into the room and I asked him to tell the lady how he felt about school.  In his sweet little voice he said that he hated school and that he wanted to a bring a bomb to blow up the school so that he wouldn't have to go anymore.  She told me that she couldn't help me because he was "just fine" wit her.  Sigh.  His reason for hating school was that he wanted to be with me which was pure comedy because I was a fucking mess, a screaming, crying lunatic.  I actually ended up in a psychiatric hospital (twice) during this time period).  I nearly missed his first day of kindergarten.  At one point, I submitted an application to Supernanny.  We were such a mess on paper that they came to us (we're not in LA but driving distance) and spent a day filming, sort of like a pilot.  Wouldn't you know it?  Angel children.  Perfect angel children.  As they left, I asked if they could just come every day.  Needless to say, we didn't make the cut.  Finally, when he was 4 1/2 someone suggested we go to a psychiatrist.  I don't know why that never occurred to me.  It's probably because I was still so very sure that his diagnosis was SMS and I knew there was a nothing a psychiatrist could do to fix that.  

So we went.  We went to a very reputable doctor who I actually had worked with.  He watched H play, he listened to The Perfect Husband and I relay our story.  I ended with, "So if you could just tell me that my child is like this because I'm a shitty mom and maybe tell me what sort of things I should do: colder, warmer, more affectionate, less affectionate, angrier, gentler, whatever, we could just checked this little box off as one of, if not the, last box in our quest to figure this out.  He told me that he wished he could tell me but that what he saw was bipolar disorder.  My child was 4 1/2.  I was stunned.  I work with the severely mentally ill.  This is not good.  Images of addiction and suicide flashed through my mind.  He recommended medication.  We said we weren't ready.  He said that that was absolutely fine.  He saw H for an hour of play therapy every week or two for four months.  I don't know if you know anything about psychiatrists but it is practically unheard of for a psychiatrist to do any actual therapy.  They're pretty much: Come in, how're the side effects, feeling suicidal, great...see you in 2-3 months.  And I know way more psychiatrists, both personally and professionally, than the average bear.   So this guy is great.  After about 4 months, H through a huge tantrum.  He'd hurt his little sister at the mall.  I can't remember exactly how but she was in an empty display cubby at H&M, he wanted it, he hurt her.  I had my mom with me as I couldn't handle doing ANYTHING alone.  She carried my hysterical daughter, I had my infant son on my back in a carrier, and I had my kicking and screaming 4 year-old over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  I had to strong-arm him into the car seat while it poured down rain.  He kicked and screamed and yelled the entire way home.  Once home,  everyone got out.  I came around to him and by then he was sobbing that he was sorry and that he didn't know why he says those things.  Mind you, HE'S FOUR.  I asked him if I told him that the doctor has medicine that will make it so that he doesn't feel this way, would he want to take it?  He didn't even hesitate, practically begged and shouted, "YES!," as if he'd been waiting for this offer his entire life.  So we started meds.

Now, a lot of people have said, "how can you medicate your child?  He's so little.  He has such a young brain."  That's exactly the point.  The more times a person has a mood episode (depressive or manic), the more likely it is to recur.  The neural pathways develop more strongly for those behaviors and moods and the others fall away a bit.  It's called "kindling."  It is better to prevent episodes than to wait.  Plus, many mood-stabilizers are anti-seizure drugs so they have a lot of research as to the safety of these meds even if they haven't been used as mood-stabilizers in children until more recently.

Things were a bit better with the medication.  He went to kindergarten.  I was just so fucking relieved to have him out of my hair for a few hours a day that I joke that I pulled up to the curb on the first day, opened the door, gave his ass a shove with my foot and said, "SEE YA IN JUNE!!"  If my notes & emails with the teacher are any indication, it appears that's essentially what I did.  I checked out.  I didn't tell the teacher anything, intentionally, as I wanted her to have fresh eyes.  When we walked into his very first parent teacher conference, the teacher looked up, looked down, sighed hugely, hung her head down and shook it, saying his name three times, as in "Well, what have we here - do I have things to tell you?!"  Let me just tell you one thing, in case you don't know it.  This is not how you want any parent-teacher conference to start, let alone your first.  She went on to describe how he took a swing at her when she told him to put a stick down at recess, how he is often in "the quiet chair," and how he is generally, not the model student.  We told her what was happening and it made sense to her.

The one more bit of info about kindergarten was that it took him 2 weeks to sign his Valentines.  He didn't even have to address them.  Just write his name.  TWO WEEKS.  He could only do 1-3 a night before he melted down.  We had nothing to compare it to and thought this was normal.  It is not.

At the end of kindergarten, I finally noticed that he was only performing in the average range.  A child who is exceptionally bright should be performing in the exceptionally high range.  This is how learning disabilities are diagnosed.  Imagine an average IQ kid (most are) and they are failing school.  That is clearly a learning disability.  Something is impeding their ability to perform in way that is consistent with their potential ability (IQ).  The same goes for bright kids.  They should perform consistent with their potential.  H was not.  I mentioned this to the psychiatrist.  He thought there may be some ADHD (80% of bipolar kids also have ADHD - all of this stuff is not without controversy and as I've mentioned, I actually still think it's probably all SMS).  He gave me & my husband a questionnaire to fill out and we had one for the teacher, all to assess behavior.  Yes.  Significantly inattentive and impulsive, not very hyperactive at all.  Let's add a new med.

Well, we didn't want to do that yet.  We waited until right before 1st grade started.  It was a new school (the boundaries changed, H wasn't attached to anyone at the old school, many of the neighborhood kids of H's age were already at the new school, and I had 2 younger ones coming up - I wanted them to be with their peers).  I told the teacher EVERYTHING.  She blew me off (she was about 3 years away from retiring).  Over the next couple of months, every time she saw me, she told me that H was a good kid.  I was so annoyed.  I never said he wasn't a good kid.  I said he needs some extra help.  How is this confusing?  I asked the school about special services (read:  Special Ed).  We had what was apparently an unofficial meeting early on, they told me they'd watch him, and we'd talk in 6 weeks.  Eight weeks later, I contacted the resource specialist (the special ed coordinator) and she told me that she spoke to the teacher and everything was fine so if I had problems in the future, I should get back with her.  WHAT?  Things were not fine.  But I'd felt like I'd went to the official people, they shot me down, that was that.

Fast-forward to 2nd grade, AKA the year all hell broke loose.  Things are fine for the first few weeks.  Then H starts to resist homework.  Hours of crying and screaming.  When I used to talk about H's tantrums when he was much younger, some moms would say, "Oh, yeah.  My kid throws tantrums, too."  Not like H's.  Now that I have two other kids, I can say this definitively.  Your child does not throw tantrums like the ones I'm talking about.  If s/he was, you'd be as desperately seeking answers as I am.  The same conversations happened over homework.  "Oh, my kid throws fits about doing homework."  No.  Not like mine.  You'd be seeking help if s/he were.  Within a couple of weeks, H says, "I'm going to run in front of a car so that I will die so that I won't have to do homework and so that I won't have to live with mean parents who make me do homework!"  Come now, fellow mommies, tell me that's the kind of thing your child says when s/he has to do homework.  I didn't think so.  

I literally went, at that moment, to the computer and sent an email OFFICIALLY asking for a special ed eval.  They have 60 days to the eval.  In the meantime, H isn't really doing any homework. 

We go to the meeting.  They present their data.  He is brilliant, in the 99th percentile of IQ.  That means if he is in a typical sample of 100 students, there is only 1 kid who is smarter than he is.  The problem was the rest of the data.  The rest of the data showed that he was working in the average range.  This is a clear clinical indication of a learning disability.  CLEAR.  But the school was insisting it didn't matter since he was keeping up with grade level.

I know the letter of the law now and I'm much more confident now.  I knew that this was a misinterpretation of the law back then but I didn't know how to force them to follow it.  The Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) says that all US students are entitled to a Free Appropriate Public Education (FAPE).  To use a very concrete example, if you have a blind child in a classroom without any accommodations, they are very unlikely to be able to benefit from the education being laid before them (that is an important phrase).  This is, therefore, not an appropriate education for that child.  This holds true for all students with disabilities.  The law also says that the student cannot just be disabled.  Their "educational performance" must be "adversely affected because of it.  The letter of the law specifically states that passing grades or advancement from grade to grade should not be taken as a guaranteed indication that the student is receiving a FAPE.  This is the case in H's situation.  But I didn't know how to argue this back then.  The case law has clarified that "educational performance" is intentional language.  They mean EVERYTHING related to the educational experience, not just "academic performance."

I kept harping on homework.  They kept insisting that "homework isn't school, it's home."  That statement is asinine.  I kept asking, "It's not a problem that my 7 year-old is suicidal over homework?"  The school psychologist, repeatedly, as caught on audio recording, said, "That's not our problem" and "That's none of our concern."  At a certain point, I asked if he made that identical threat to her on school grounds, if that would be her concern.  She replied, "We never qualify a student based on one incident."  My husband had to practically physically restrain me from lunging across the table.  Being sure to make eye contact with everyone in the room (the resource specialist, the teacher, the principal), I asked, "So we're calling my seven year-old's suicidal bluff?  That's what we're doing?  I just want to make sure we're all on the same page with this."

Eventually they decided that he just didn't have to do homework since he could clearly get by without it.  I said that if all of the other students were required to do homework, he should be assisted to do homework.  I said it was comparable to telling a wheelchair bound student of healthy weight that you were not going to build a ramp into the gym since he clearly didn't need PE.  We were bulldozed.  It didn't matter.  This was supposed to be a team.  It was not.  They blatantly disregarded any outside information or information provided by me or my husband.  They never contacted the psychiatrist.  They never interviewed H about his mood.  They only cared that his teacher said everything was perfectly fine.  A little side note about that teacher:  One day, I exchanged a couple of emails with the teacher.  I asked her to assign an at-home reading book because now we were battling about that.  She said she'd have him bring home his library book.  I thought, "Fat chance.  I've never seen a library book come home."  She wrote back 10 minutes later and said she couldn't get him to bring it home and told me to let her know if I wanted her to assign a book (yes, you read that right.  She's an idiot).  Not two hours later, I was walking through the office common area, I saw the teacher leaning in the school psychologist's doorway which was in the hallway that leads from the office to the campus itself.  Very public.  The teacher's back was to me, blocking the school psychologist's vision (i.e. neither could see me approaching).  As I passed, yelling after my youngest as he dashed ahead (i.e. I was not skulking past), I heard the teacher say, "I mean, what does she want me to do?  Come home with him and read with him myself for her?"  Keep in mind that there is no love lost between me & the school psychologist so the teacher knows that this woman is a great place to badmouth me.  I was stunned by the idiocy and unprofessionalism.  I wish I'd stopped and said, "Why, yes!!! I'd LOVE that.  I didn't realize that was an option!!"

Anyway, over the next couple of years, we had a couple more evaluations to assess more specific areas (speech, writing, reading).  His third grade teacher was a gift from the universe.  When we met in the beginning of the year, we met and I gave her the history.  She said, "Why does he not have an IEP?" (An IEP is an individualized educational plan that is developed for every student who receives special education).  I said, "Good question.  Apparently they want him to suffer more and fail more."  She said, "That's craziness.  They won't prevent problems?  They only want to try to clean them up?  Insanity."  Me, "Exactly."  That year, she kept him after school and did homework with him, as in side-by-side, actually doing the work with him, every day for 15-30 minutes.  She also transcribed as much of his work as she could.  I would say that at least 50% of the work that came home was written in her hand.  Of the remaining 50%, I'd say that perhaps 10% was done.  He hates to write.  Anything.  Math, sentences, whatever.  If you write the answers you have half a chance at getting him to participate.  So this teacher did that.  She had perhaps 26 other students that she was teaching.  An angel.  

Fourth grade.  The teacher is not approachable.  She has heard from the 3rd grade teacher and thinks she understands H because her kid has been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder.  It became very clear, very quick, that she was having problems with H, probably because he wasn't like her mentally ill child, so therefore he was not mentally ill, just a behavior problem.  I asked to volunteer in class.  She said that there were no opportunities on the days I was available.  In hindsight, I would've asked to come in and sit in the back of the room and pretend to assemble packets or something.

A month or so in, she comes out at pick-up in a panic.  She tells me that I absolutely have to get him a private math tutor "or he'll never make it this year."  When I told my husband, he asked if I got it on tape, lol.  He said, "That sounds remarkably close to them not being able to provide him with an adequate education."  From then on, his only homework was to work on his times tables for 20 minutes.  P.S. He did an app called Medieval Math (which is amazing, btw) for 20 minutes for months.  He is still no closer to knowing his times tables than when he starts.  HE'S FUCKING DISABLED.  (Side note:  We've had 3 tutors.  The first two said they didn't want to work with H if he didn't want to be worked with.  The third had serious boundary problems, wanted to work for free, go and aide in his classroom for free for two mornings a week, unpaid, come and do homework with him every night at our house.  It just felt really off).

She rarely sends home anything, almost never sends even a group email, never sent an individual email, and almost never responds to emails.  I only got a couple of tests that were barely completed and very wrong.  In March, I think, I finally emailed and said that I haven't gotten anything, is H not bringing it home, is she not sending stuff home?  She responded that he wasn't bringing anything home because he wasn't doing anything.  WHAT?????

In the meantime, H is crying to me all the time about how he is the most stupid kid in the world, how everyone knows it, how he is so embarrassed that he is always the last one to finish anything.  He says he hates being different and stupid.  It's heartbreaking.  

They make him start doing real homework again (which he learned from a goody-two-shoes policing peer when she tattled that he wasn't turning homework in and the teacher said that he should be).  He was in tears each night about how he was going to be in trouble for not finishing it.  I told him that I wasn't going to make him do it all.  We would work for 20 minutes and then I'd send a note.  In those 20 minutes, by the way, he could do about 3 math problems (e.g. 153 x 17 = ).  One night the teacher sent home a note (written directly on an outline that the students would be using for weeks - read: permanently in his face and withing sight of his neighbors) that said: "The students had an hour to work on this and H didn't finish (in actuality, he didn't even start it)."  I sent a note that said he worked for  90 minutes and still didn't finish and that he was terrified that he would be in trouble.  I got a note back that said, "H is a very bright child.  I know he can do it.  He just needs to try harder.  We had a talk about making better use of class time."  Riddle me this:  You have a brilliant child sitting in a classroom who is doing absolutely nothing and you KNOW he's disabled (that has never been up for debate).  Who is wasting who's class time?  

I then sent an email in which I wrote, verbatim: He has told me that he doesn't understand "anything" that's going on at school. He said that when he looks at a math worksheet, "all I see are random numbers - I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with them so I just gave up."  It is obvious that he has given up.  However I think it is very clear that his giving up is due to his disabilities, and he has many of them - bipolar disorder, ADHD, and though the IEP team wouldn't qualify him for services based on the fact that he was passing, he met criteria in 2nd grade for specific learning disabilities (according to the IDEA criteria).  Asking H to try harder is akin to asking a deaf child to listen harder.  We are not communicating in a language that he is capable of understanding.  The worst thing one could tell a kid like H is that he needs to try harder.  He is trying the very hardest he can and not only is he failing at the task, he's being told that it's because he's not trying his hardest and he has no idea about how he could possibly try harder.  We need to try harder.  He has shown that he is incapable of adapting to our expectations as he has yet to do so in the years we've been trying.  We need to adapt to his.

I requested a re-eval.  The teacher asked me to call her one evening.  She proceeds to say, repeatedly, that this is off-the-record, she's on her personal phone, personal time, at home.  She said she thinks H needs 1:1 instruction.  She thinks he can return to the classroom for discussion because he likes that but that, even then, he needs an aide to keep him on task.  It was a 45 minute discussion and she repeated that information numerous times.  She also said that she wasn't allowed to say this in the meeting.  This is absolutely untrue and this is something else that needs to be told about the educational system.  Teachers are very strongly discouraged (read: intimidated) from "siding with the family."  There are laws on the books that protect teachers from retaliation by school administration in situations where the teacher (or any school staff member) has provided information that supports the family's case.  Why, pray tell, would there need to be such a law on the books if it doesn't happen, with frequency?  It's shady and wrong and disgusting.

They did all the assessing and we went to our meeting.  H's scores had sunk shockingly dramatically in almost all areas, including IQ, which is not supposed to happen.  In the meeting, one of his teachers (a long-term sub who I think was less aware of the "don't support the family" unofficial policy) said that she thinks he only does about 10% of his independent work.  SO YOU'RE SAYING YOU'VE BEEN BABYSITTING MY CHILD ALL YEAR?? She said that he is unable to go for more than a minute or two without needing to be prompted to get to work.  

At the end of the meeting, they qualified him for special ed.  We were shocked.  His his scores on all of the academic measures were still within the average range, statistically.  He had the same amount of discrepancy.**  The only thing different was that the teachers were telling a different tale than the 2nd grade teacher did.  This is infuriating because they refer to this whole thing as a meeting of an Individualized Education Plan team meeting.  You know, the kind of team where some people's input matters and other people's is discarded out of hand.  Anyway, they offered him 4 hours of pull-out instruction and 1/2 hour a week of counseling (which amounts to 10% of his school time).  This is borderline insulting.  How in the world do they think they can make up for 90% of his work (that he's not doing, according to the teacher) in just 10% of his time?  And for a child who is living with a severe mental illness, one that largely drives his difficulties in school, 1/2 hour a week of counseling is pathetic.  I've worked in prison and we give our prisoners better than this.  We said we had to think about it.

This summer we met with a lawyer to figure out what to do.  She is apparently the best, the only one anyone will recommend for our district.  She looked at our case and said that it was unwinnable.  Not because he doesn't need more but because he's keeping his head above water.  Furthermore, she said she can't think of an appropriate placement for him.  There are non-public schools (NPS) that have both private pay students and public school students who were sent there because the public school could not provide them with a FAPE in-house.  I looked up the statistics.  Based on my son's young age, his two diagnoses, and his IQ, only 0.0064% of the under 18 population have his same stats.  That's not even accounting for the extreme variability with any population with a particular  diagnosis.  The problem is that no one knows what to do with my kid because no one has seen anyone remotely like my kid and they are very unlikely to ever see someone like him again.  She said she doesn't even want to take our money (what?  I'll take "things I never thought I'd hear a lawyer say for $200, Alex") because it would be a waste.

She suggested we do a trial at an NPS.  We did.  At the end of the 2 day trial, they said they wouldn't accept him because he needed too much 1:1 attention.  Let me lay that out for you.  My child is not needy enough to receive real services in the public school but too needy to be appropriate for an NPS.  I explained how my son felt about his trial.  He said he finished a worksheet "for the first time in my life."  He said that he had fun.  At school??? He liked the kids.  The headmaster agreed to let him stick around for the rest of the summer, a total of 7 days.  At the end, the headmaster said they'd accept him.  I think it is a clear case of H feeling comfortable enough in the environment to be willing to go it alone a bit.  I asked H how he felt about the school.  He said that the teachers didn't get mad at him so much.  He said that he didn't feel stupid there.  He said that he felt like the other kids are more like he is.  He said that he liked how there were only 5 kids because "I know help will come around to me more frequently."  That last statement makes me think that he's just waiting for an adult to sit with him to make sure he doesn't do anything incorrectly, almost like he doesn't want to work without a net.  

We had to decide if we wanted to try to sell a body part to send him there ourselves or return to public school, let him drown some more, and hope that it will be severe enough that the district will send him to the NPS.  The lawyer said that if we sent him there ourselves, we'd have a very hard time every proving that the public school was incapable of providing him with a FAPE.  So we're sending him back to public school.  It's horrible to put any kid on this yo-yo, trying to get him to be open enough to consider the FAPE yet make sure he knows it might not happen.  It's heart-wrenching to do this to a kid who explodes when he faces the unknown.  

At this point, my kid is operating on blind faith that I (and, less so, my husband, simply because my husband doesn't struggle with the same issues as my kid and I do) am trying my hardest to do the best for him, that we believe in him and love him unconditionally, that we will never let him down.  It is an almost unbearable burden.  I can see him leaning on me in this way.  Blind faith.  It's crushing.

We just started school and the former special ed teacher (who would've done the pull-out instruction) is now a 5th grade teacher, my son's 5th grade teacher.  H loves her.  One of a few things may happen.  He may get worse because he will feel entitled to her full attention, which he obviously won't get.  Or he she may give him more attention than a typical teacher would and it would serve as a bit of a bandaid (there is no way it will bring him to any acceptable level by any other standard than the district's).  If she holds him together that means his will end up falling apart in middle school and as time ticks by, based on the literature, it gets harder and harder to pull these kids together.  

I can't handle this.  I don't understand how anyone could.  I suppose many don't have to, only parents who are kids who live with other rare combinations of characteristics.  All in all, we're probably one of less than 0.1% of families with students in school who ever know anything like this.  Lucky everyone else.  :-(

* A bit of background info... H was 3 1/2 when S was born.  C was 21 months at the time.  I had three children under 4, two of who were cloth-diapered.  It is fantastically fun! That is, if you enjoy losing your mother-fucking mind.  H began to fall apart after S was born.  It was odd because he never even seemed to notice C had joined the party until S did.

** A learning disability is diagnosed, clinically, when someone's performance is not on par with their potential.  For example, most people have a potential (as measured by an IQ test) of 100 (a  perfectly average IQ score).  If they are scoring more than 22.5 points below that on a test of academic skills (or are earning significantly lower than average grades), there's a problem.  Everyone should perform to the best of their ability and when someone isn't there is some type of impediment (aka disability) in the way.  I suppose it can be any type of disability, like bipolar disorder, but the end result is a learning disability.  The person isn't learning commensurate with their potential.  The problem for 2e people is that their potential is higher than average (my son's IQ measured 139).  If they are performing below their potential, they are still performing in the average range.  But that doesn't mean there isn't a disability present.  It just means that the schools, more so in some states than others, try to shirk their responsibility to educate ALL students who are not getting an adequate education  - and adequate education means one that is appropriate for each student as an individual.



References

Job, J. (n.d.) Understanding twice-exceptional students.  Retrieved from http://www.learnnc.org/lp/pages/6960

Nielsen, M.E. (1994) Characteristics of Twice-Exceptional Children.  Retrieved from http://www.csi.state.co.us/UserFiles/Servers/Server_2345071/File/Characteristics%20of%20Twice-Exceptional%20Children.pdf.  

going public

 Let me tell you that coming to terms with the idea of a special school has not been easy.  We toured three when he was in 3rd grade, just so we could see what we might be facing.  They were as bad as I'd feared.  No homecoming dances, no marching band, not lots of girls (or boys) to choose from to date.  I was so sad.  No one wants this for their child.  There is a mourning process that happens.  I know many of you know what I'm talking about - when your child's life isn't going in the direction you'd imagined, that they're not the perfect healthy child you always pictured having.  But H has sunk so low that we are now (all of us) truly looking forward to his attending one of these schools.  I can't wait.  While I once did mental gymnastics to try to think a way out of H needing this, I now look forward to.  It still breaks my heart that my child needs this but the idea of him going to an atypical school isn't nearly as painful.  We will drive 100 miles a day transporting him there (if we win, the district will have to bus him).   Because of differences in school breaks, we will have SIX weeks of the year that used to be a break for all 3 but are now only a break for one school or the other (imagine having a summer break that is only half as long - that's what this amounts to, except for that it is spread out across the year between summer and spring breaks).  I think I may be focusing on this piddly detail a bit just to avoid thinking about the big details.  But it really bums me out.  It seems like exhibit A for how our life is going to change.  Yet this is still so much of a better alternative than what we have happening now.

I created this page about a month ago, I think, but I have been reluctant to share it because it is so personal. I feel like this is H's story to tell. The travesty of that is that I shouldn't feel this way. If he had one of many other types of disabilities, it wouldn't be so hush-hush.  People say that mental illness is not a "casserole illness." It certainly is not a casserole illness. If you have surgery, have a baby, have some struggling with Alzheimer's, almost any other disability, people bring casseroles. They set up meal-providing calendars. Those with mental illness do not get casseroles.  We get isolation.  . First of all, we usually don't even let on that there is an illness. Secondly, if we do, people's responses are far from casserole-bringing. It's usually awkward silence, slowly drawing away from the friendship, providing unhelpful or downright damaging advice.

Shel Silverstein is either an asshole or hilarious

The Giving Tree.  You all know this fucking book.




You probably have fond memories of it from childhood.  I know I did.  But I've been mulling it over for the years since I became a mother and, you know what?  Fuuuuuuuuck that.

This all came to a head when I read Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (which I highly recommend - I even more highly recommend another one of her novels, Sharp Objects - did I mention that I'm a book geek?).  The line?  "He Giving-Treed me out of existence."  I prefer the term Giving-Treeing oneself as it takes a willing tree to do this.  Many a tree resist.  I, unfortunately, am not such a tree.  It is but one of my hamartias (again, book geek).

For years, I've been using the example of the Giving Tree when I have talked with my girlfriends about motherhood and the soul-devouring nature of children.  People don't talk about it.  People don't talk about a lot of the things that I talk about.  IDGAF.*  But I feel like The Giving Tree is overtly about the relationship between mother and child.  This would be fine if it ended well but it doesn't.  Mr. Silverstein even seems to know that Giving Trees are not happy.  In the middle of the book, when...







I feel like, "AH HA! PROGRESS!!" It seems like Mr. Silverstein is going to acknowledge the fact that one cannot have one's very core, literally one's core, removed and still be happy.  This is accurate.  One cannot have her very core removed, even a mother by her children, and still remain happy.  But...

Then the boy returns and he is old and whiny.  He bitches and moans and complains about how he can't eat apples or swing from branches or climb trunks or any such nonsense.  So you know what that sweet, sacrificing "tree" (as she is no longer a tree, she is nothing but a mere stump) does.  "Straightening herself up as she could," she offers the boy a place to sit.  Here, Boy... You've consumed my entire being, literally and figuratively.  You've eaten my apples, you've sold my apples, you've stripped me of my branches, and cut down my trunk.  I have nothing left except for what bad tree excavators leave behind - garbage - but please feel free to use that, too.

And you know what the shittiest part of this fucking story is?  These two pages:


And you're thinking and hoping (or at least I am thinking and hoping), "Please dear Lord, Baby Jesus, Master of the Universe, be it He-Man, She-Ra, Mother Nature, whoever, all that is good and holy (or not, whatever, IDGAF*), whatever it is that has control over the matters of us measly humans, PLEASE LET THE NEXT PAGE, THE LAST PAGE, SAY, "BUT NOT REALLY." 

But it doesn't.  Not really.  Not really even fucking CLOSE to "not really."

THIS is what the next page/last page says:




On behalf of all mothers everywhere, or at least the ones with children who are apple-eating, branch-swinging, and/or trunk climbing... fuck you, Shel Silverstein.  And fuck the rest of you that perpetuate the myth that mothers should Giving-Tree themselves to death.  This is where Mother's Guilt originates.  I'm over it.





*I don't give a fuck.  I need this as a tattoo.  It would be my first tattoo.  It's in the running for that honor with a Hunger Games tattoo.  I want "She has no idea.  The effect she can have," scrolled around the mockingjay symbol on the top of my foot.  I've been told it is excruciating to get a tattoo there.  This only mildly scares me.  I had three children without pain medication, with minimal medical intervention (did I tell you I was a bit crunchy, in just a few ways?).  Anyway, the other reason why I've waited is that I've heard the skin on the foot is thin and prone to blurring.  Not good for text.  Plus text is supposed to be a fairly large size if one doesn't want it to look blurry relatively quickly.

Love & Hate, from the mouth of my particular babe

I was reading the front page of the newspaper, an article about yesterday's long-overdue decision to afford all people the rights that up until now only some people enjoyed.  Then I flipped to page three and saw the article about Reverend Clementa Pinckney's funeral.  It showed a photo of our President leading the mourners/ celebrators of life in what was perhaps the most moving rendition, objectively, of Amazing Grace.  I was so struck by the juxtaposition, the love and hate.  So struck.  I was completely overwhelmed by the hate that led to the need for yesterday's SCOTUS decision, the love that led to the decision happening, the hate of racism, and the strength of faith.  I was close to sobbing.  My 8 year-old daughter ("C") came over and asked why I was crying.  I cried harder and tried to choke out and gesture that I was fine but I needed a moment to gather myself.  The idea of having to explain to my child how we, as people, can hate so much that it leads to the need to celebrate the giving of long-overdue equality to one group of people and to the need to mourn the deaths of members of another group of people.  How do I explain such a thing?  It is so senseless that it's hard to find words that would make sense to an innocent.  This was how the conversation went:

Me:  You know how a lot of times men love women and women love men but sometimes men love men and women love women?

C: Yes? (she's still concerned that I'm crying)

Me:  Well, up until yesterday it was not legal for men to marry men and women to marry women.  Only men and women could get married to each other.

C:  *furrows brow*  Wait... What's so wrong with a man marrying a man or a woman marrying a woman?

Me:  *practically sobbing*  Nothing.  But some people thing that God doesn't like it (this is where it gets a bit harder to explain, for me, as we are not at all religious - thank the universe that my kids went to a Christian preschool* and know about God).

C:  *furrows brow deeper* Why would God have a problem with two people loving each other even if they are two men or two women?

Me:  I don't know.  I don't think He does.  That's why it is so sad that there had to be a big deal and a law to treat everyone equally.  It's sad that that even needs to happen.  And then on the other page is a story about some people who were black and they were at their church and a man who hates black people went in and killed them all.  This is a picture of the funeral and of our President singing a song. (I dug up the video online).  It is so sad that there is so much hate and that there is so much hate because of love, all sorts of love.

C:  Why do people hate other people like that?

Me:  There has been a very long history of people hating people, just because they're different than than themselves.

C:  Well, I don't like Star Wars (she happened to be fiddling with a lightsaber) but I don't care if other people do.

Me:  *finally, some laughter through tears* Exactly.

C:  And black people are only different from white people because of the color of their skin and because people treat them worse.



Oh.My.God Universe.  This may be the most poignant/sad/true/wise statement ever uttered by any child.  And she is my empathetic, insightful, ridiculously emotionally intelligent child.  My heart swells with pride and actual hope that our next generation may make bigger strides towards eliminating the ugliness that we see today.  I choose to believe that.  I choose to ignore the fact that elsewhere are children being raised by people who are as entrenched in their hateful beliefs as I am in my belief in equality.  I cannot bear the idea that there may be other, very different, conversations going on in other homes across the country.  I must carry on as I am, teaching my children and my students, in ways that promote love and kindness.  While I very much appreciate those who do more, this is all I can do in my little corner of the world so I will continue to do that.

* Regarding the Christian preschool.  One day my then 3 year-old son came out of school and as I buckled him into the car seat, he said, "Did you know that Mrs. Smith has a friend named Jesus?"  I asked, "Oh, yeah?  What else did she tell you about her friend?"  He said, "She has long hair.  That's all."  Kids are great.

Jailhouse Lawyer, Esq.

Jail•house law•yer (noun): a prisoner who has taught herself  law while serving time, is knowledgeable about technical legal matters, and gives legal advice, especially to fellow prisoners.

I am a do-er. When no one else will do something, I will. A confrontation? I guess I'll do it. A legal battle that a lot of people would take on if they could? I guess that's mine, too. I have so many whines, things I kept thinking I should write about here and now they're all jumbled up. Imma take on one at a time. Forgive my typos. I'm on my phone, in bed, because i can't sleep.

My medical insurance. 

I have taken a medication called Provigil since 1999 for idiopathic hypersomnia (aka primary hypersomnia). It is a non-amphetamine stimulant, not exciting to abuse like Adderall but sometimes abused by college students or professionals seeking to maximize their attention and wakefulness. Not me. I take it so that I won't fall asleep while driving. It is also secondarily used as an adjunct for the depression side of my bipolar disorder. Provigil is only labeled for narcolepsy, sleep apnea, shift work sleep disorder (and maybe MS related fatigue). However it is very commonly used off label for idiopathic hypersomnia (IH). CVS Caremark (CVS) requires prior authorization (PA) for any Provigil prescription. 

Two years ago, it took 2 months of fighting. The meds would cost me approximately $3,000 a month to pay out of pocket. In the ridiculous battle that had my arguably expert physicians (one of whom literally wrote the book on this stuff) having to defend their clinical actions to rural psychiatrists who admittedly never have seen a single sleep disorder, I was left without meds for a month, saving CVS tons (not the full $3K I'm sure, but it was a nice chunk of change, I'm sure). I finally won when it got to the external level with the reviewer saying that it was OF COURSE medically necessary and consistent with the standard of treatment. 

Last year when they told me I needed to get PA again, I called in a hysterical suicidal rage and told them that they were fucking with people's lives, that this is a psychiatric med and they know I have a history of psych hospitalizations. I told them that it was clear CVS chooses money over patient welfare and that they had blood on their hands. I asked them if I needed to come down there and show them my blood on my hands for them to see what they were doing to people.  This was at 4:15 pm. The next morning I got an automated call telling me that my request had been approved. What took 2 months 2 years ago took 1 day last year. 

This year it starts up and I find a law that says if my doctor is prescribing led for an off-label use and it is something that has been covered in the past, I simply need to provide 2 research articles that demonstrate the safety and efficacy (effectiveness) of the med for my condition. I researched laws like crazy and I researched drug studies line crazy.  I know all about the laws regarding coverage of medications and I know aaaaallllll about the Provigil research. Then I called to get a copy of my records so I could see how and why I was approved last year. I was told that they would "never" give me my records. 

HOLD UP. 

This is in complete violation of my civil rights as protected by HIPAA. Just as fiercely as HIPAA a protects me from having my healthcare information shared without my consent, it protects my right to have access to my healthcare records. So I started a battle with them over that, filing a complaint with the Office for Civil Rights. I researched the privacy laws, access to records laws, federal laws, state laws, penalties for violations, etc. Over the course of a month, I had numerous reps first tell me that my records were on the way and then ultimately that they were never coming because it was CVS's policy to not release records. Not only that but they knew I was waiting for those records to file my appeal this year and it's not crazy talk to say that it appears they may have been trying to stalk that so theat I am eventually left without meds for a bit again this year. Cases like mine almost without exception prevail once they get to the external review level but they count on people giving up before they reach that point. 

But back to the PA part of this. So I gatheted 9 articles. I wrote a 13 page cover letter that cited the laws that order them to give me my motherfucking medication simply because my doctor has ordered it (as long as I can find 2 articles to support the safety/efficacy). I attached approximately 50 pages of the actual journal articles. 

1) I also have OCD

2) I'm Italian-American

3) I'm a Scorpio

4) I'm smart

5) I'm resourceful 

6) I know how to research (thank you, dissertation)

A few days later I got the automated call that my request had been approved. I called to ask how long it was good for since it has always only been for 1 year at a time. The girl said, "It says here 'lifetime.'"

SUCCESS!!! SCREW YOU, BIG INSURANCE COMPANY!!

After a month of harassing them and making complaints to the Office for Civil Rights, I finally got as much of my records as I think they will ever admit as existing. I'm pretty certain there has to be more to my record but I can't prove it so this will have to do. 

This is really only part one of my jailhouse law education but it's 1:50 am, I suck at typing on my phone, and I'm hoping that im actually sleepy now.  I swear I'll fill in more soon.