depression

Into The Void

Around this time last year, I was nearly suicidal. It wasn’t me, though, really. I hadn’t been me in months. It was mostly due to the drugs. I had been on vicodin every 4-6 hours for, oh I don’t know… about 4 weeks I think? It’s kind of a blur, really—the sequence of events [and events themselves]—but I’ll never forget the feeling….

I was on this steady stream of vicodin (& orange Fanta, to ease my stomach) due to an unexpectedly major arthroscopic surgery on my right wrist, (it ended up being a two hour surgery, which was not at all what I, or the doctor, had anticipated) and yes, I am right-handed.

I had sustained a worker’s comp injury almost a year earlier.

As a fellow worker’s comp veteran friend of mine said recently, “hell has nothing on the work comp void.”

We are like sisters in arms, her and I.

No one else seems to  understand. I don’t think they can. At least, not if they haven’t been through the system as we have.

This is not something I really want to write about. I don’t want to relive it. AT ALL. Just the mention of it makes me quite anxious. But these stories need to be told. They need to be heard. I have come into contact all too often with this preconceived notion that being out on worker’s comp is like some kind of vacation. It is anything, but.

It is isolation. It is constant physical pain. It is constant mental pain. It disrupts your life, and therefore your world. It changes your reality, and therefore your perception. It is isolation. It is a void in which you lose your sense of self, your personhood, any feeling of purpose, any sense of being alive.

It is as though you cease to exist.

And depending on your work situation, you may lose people in your life you once thought of as “friends,” too.

Isolation.

Deprivation.

Dehumanization.

It was just about two months prior to the beginning of this whole mess (i.e. about two years ago from today) that I went off birth control. It was the first time I had purposefully gone off the pill in 13 years. “They” say you should stop taking it about six months prior to conceiving. I was finally done with school, working a full time job that I liked, making decent money, and my boyfriend and I were renting an adorable house in San Diego. We were finally about to start the life [it felt] we had been waiting for. After all, I had been a full time student who also worked full time since the beginning of our relationship. The golden times were about to begin, and we were looking forward to it. Just working and hanging out. Living life. Settling down. Maybe starting a family. And just going from there… (I was thinking about grad/ law school, but just wanted to kick back and enjoy life with my man for a while…see where it would take us)

Then my injury occurred.

Suddenly I was “out on worker’s comp.”

And my life changed.

Not only could I now not do my job which instantly eradicated the bulk of my human/social interaction for 40 hours a week, 5 days a week, but  I also couldn’t do yoga, lift weights, even holding up a book could be taxing, and driving was painful. So my options quickly became: sitting at home, alone. Oh, and let’s not forget that going out on worker’s comp also meant missing a paycheck at the outset of my claim, with this gap in income to be followed by a paycheck from the insurance company for much less than what I was used to making. So, also, no money!

*Under worker’s comp you receive either 60%, or 66%—I forget exactly, but it’s one of those two figures— of your normal pay and it is not taxed, but my new bi-weekly payments were undeniably less than this. I did the math. Why did I not raise hell and fight this, you ask? Because I had a bigger fight to fight: obtaining the medical treatment I needed.

***Let me here also note that had it not been for my then boyfriend (now husband) I don’t know what I would have done as far as housing. WIth the gap in income followed by much smaller paychecks I would not have financially survived on my own. I don’t know what I would, or could, have done. Live in my car, with my cat? Possibly. Stay in my sister’s boyfriend’s little guest house up in the LA area? Maybe, but for a year and a half and through surgery?! Doubtful. I mean, really, had it not been for him financially saving me, I really and truly don’t know where or how I would have ended up.

So, as of July 8, 2011, I was bound to the couch. Over that first month I had to see a doctor for weekly assessments/”work status” updates (the “update” being “well, she can’t use her right hand/wrist!”). However, out of these approximately 4 weekly visits I had one doctor who actually told me I should go back to work regardless. I said, “but I can’t use my right hand and wrist, and I’m right-handed. It really hurts and I don’t want to worsen it. I’ve been trying to do my job for two months now with this pain, and it’s resulted in doing less and less of my job, which is how I ended up on worker’s comp in the first place—I can’t do anything required of me!”

This doctor looked me straight in the eye and said—and I’ll NEVER FORGET this—”Miss, I have just as much of a duty to your employer and the insurance company as I do to you. You need to go back to work.”

My boss was NOT pleased. Needless to say, I could not, and did not, go back to work. And after being out for approximately 3 weeks, the insurance company finally approved physical therapy, which I quickly came to find out was actually a rapid response time within the work comp world. I was one of the lucky ones! One of my coworkers had waited about 6 months to get physical therapy approved. Meanwhile I was texting and “Facebooking” coworker friends that I thought would come over and hang out/visit with me, or maybe even come pick me up for hang time. Nope. Three weeks alone, in an apartment, in quiet, boring, solitude. (We had moved into a *much* cheaper apartment down the street right before I went out on worker’s comp, which turned out to be a godsend due to the decrease in our dual income. And no, I didn’t do ANY of the heavy lifting at all.)

So this was just the beginning. Over the next 5 months I would continue to battle with the insurance company and “Utilization Review Board,” over approval of diagnostic testing and treatment (my physical therapist and I were convinced that there was a torn piece of cartilage in my wrist) but to no avail. They don’t want to approve these things because it costs money. After the first month of solitude, just waiting for physical therapy to be approved, followed by two more months of solitude, arguing with a wall about my healthcare and ultimately winding up feeling helpless, defeated, and quite frankly, worthless, I called a lawyer.

I was out for a total of 7 1/2 months before finally getting the surgery I needed.

I’d had a sinking feeling from the start that I would need surgery. I had never had one before and the idea had always scared me, but with the pain I had been dealing with, I was gung-ho-all-for-it from the start. As it turned out, I had torn a ligament and a piece of cartilage, in addition to the initially diagnosed (and by now all resolved) tendonitis.

7 1/2 months.

221 days.

Of barely leaving the house.

Of barely having any visitors over.

Can you imagine how you would feel?

No work. No play. Just listless, restless, lifeless life in a dejected body that no health care provider or insurance company seemed to give one half of a shit about (save for my physical therapist, and later on, my AME). Waking up every day with nowhere to go, nothing to do. No purpose. Watching everybody else’s lives continue, progress, move on, go forward, while you are held, against your will, in limbo, in pain. You have no choice, no say. Your life comes to a complete stop, only to be dictated by the insurance company and/or your lawyer, and you have no choice, no say, isolated, in pain, for 221 days. Things are happening around you, outside in the world, everybody else is moving, but you are held down. No choice. No say. In pain.

Isolation. Depression. Dehumanization.

That’s worker’s comp.

And I was still only about 1/3 of the way through…

After all, I was 28 at the beginning of my work comp claim, and I would be 30 by the time it ended.

I haven’t even told you about how no pain meds or anti-inflammatory pills took away the constant pain—only alcohol did. Or how my boyfriend and I had to cancel a long-awaited trip to NYC due to my incapacity to travel, its interference with my treatment, and the lack of funds available now that I was on my measly work comp stipend. Or how I didn’t get through my first semester of law school, yes—the real catalyst for my law school withdrawal—due to my continuing post-operative pain, continuing physical therapy, and my inability to carry my casebooks and take notes.

I haven’t even told you about the constant fear and paranoia of being videotaped or photographed by one of the insurance company’s private investigators—perhaps while I was doing laundry in my apartment complex courtyard, or driving—and then I would be denied any and all treatment because they would think I was “faking it.” (This happened to my sister years ago; Yes, there are private investigators, and once you are on work comp, your privacy upon leaving the house is potentially non-existent) Or how I had just thrown away my last bottle of Xanax the January before my claim began. It had been prescribed to me the year before for PTSD.

And I haven’t even told you about the toll this took on my relationship. Pain changes a person. Being in pain 24/7 for weeks and months, unending, frustrating, debilitating pain, will change a person, and undoubtedly how others will see that person as well. We had some of our toughest challenges and probably the worst argument we’ve ever had, as a direct result of my injury and this situation. But I was lucky to have had the partner that I have throughout this ordeal. Others are not so lucky. I cannot even fathom how they endure.

And so, after having been in “the void” since July 8, 2011, I finally had my surgery on February 15, 2012….

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Survival of the Most Confident

Virginia Woolf knew it. Maria from The Sound of Music knew it.

Confidence is everything.

Confidence is how one succeeds. Confidence is what fuels persistence and determination. Confidence is that little voice in your head that tells you that you are good enough, that you are worthy, that you will be safe, that you will survive.

It’s assurance, whether of the self or otherwise. It’s trust, whether of the self or otherwise. It is to a certain extent, in my humble opinion, one of the most indispensable tools for social survival.

Virgina Woolf once stated the following:

Life for both sexes- and I looked at them, shouldering their way along the pavement- is arduous, difficult, a perpetual struggle. It calls for gigantic courage and strength. More than anything, perhaps, creatures of illusion as we are, it calls for confidence in oneself. Without self-confidence we are babes in the cradle. And how can we generate this imponderable quality, which is yet so invaluable, most quickly? By thinking that other people are inferior to oneself. By feeling that one has some innate superiority– it may be wealth, or rank, a straight nose, or the portrait of a grandfather by Romney-for there is no end to the pathetic devices of the human imagination- over other people. (A Room of One’s Own, bold added for emphasis)

According to Woolf, confidence was essential to succeeding in life, but this leads me to ask: What is confidence? What does confidence mean?

Does it mean expressing an inner essence through one’s demeanor? Or performing a certain set of actions? Is it intangible? Or is it physically recognizable? Is it secured through inner strength, yoga, plastic surgery, meditation, speech classes, a haircut? Is it still attainable for those who have gone through traumatic instances of rape and domestic violence? Or rather, what is its importance to young girls and women who must “shoulder their way along the pavement” in a world rife with sexism?

I suppose my inquiry is this:

In today’s pervasively sexist and uber-misogynistic environment, what is confidence to a young girl or woman? What does it mean in this context? Especially when, as both Woolf and I suggest, it is imperative to survival…

After all, young girls and women are barraged on a daily basis with sexism- in popular music, television, magazines, advertising, and elsewhere. Domestic violence, rape, and other forms of abuse are overwhelmingly directed at women at girls; and females young and old must deal with the consequences of sexism and sexual trauma (both direct and indirect, i.e. that which is socially accepted and therefore normalized) more often than not. This is demonstrated in statistics regarding rape as well as the high incidences of depression and eating disorders found among women.

According to 2008 CDC statistics, “20-25% of women in college reported experiencing an attempted or a completed rape in college.”

A 2010 New York Times article reported that, “40% of girls in first through fifth grades surveyed in 2003 reported they were trying to lose weight.”

And twice as many women than men experience depression (approximately one in four women).

Due to unrealistic and homogeneous representations of feminine beauty in films, fashion, and advertising, women and girls turn to anorexia, bulimia, and other methods to achieve the “ideal.” And who knows why rape occurs, especially with the frequency that it does. Perhaps a lack of respectful representations of females and female sexuality in the dominant media? Perhaps due to a subtle, yet powerfully pervasive misogynist ideology within our male/masculine culture? I cannot claim to know the real cause of this problem, but I do know that my first impulse for a solution would be to educate people-  about respecting one another as human beings, respecting one another as sexual actors, respecting multiple gender identities (*to assuage sexual violence against gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgender people), and making sure that everyone knows no one ever “asks for it.”

With such an environment, I cannot help but think that it is probably hard for a lot of women and girls to find confidence. Actually, I know for a fact that it is.

That is not to say that every man is born with an intrinsic sense of confidence, but suffice it to say that in a world where women are constantly portrayed as inferior, as the helpmate, as the sexual object, as something to be won, taken, or possessed, it is much easier for men to be the confident ones, or at least to gain confidence, than it is for women. (Perhaps it should be here noted that men are just as much a part of this power structure as well- in that they, too, are subject to upholding notions of masculinity and a male ideal- only their role in this power structure is of a dominant nature, as opposed to the female’s “submissive object” role)

I suppose my point is really just to shine a light on how very vital confidence actually is to one’s existence. It is so easy for it to be shaken, or taken away, or for it to not even materialize in the first place- especially for young girls and women. And I only emphasize the female persuasion here because that is who I am, that has been my experience, and my perspective is “refracted through the prism” of gender (to borrow an apt phrase/concept from Maxine Baca Zinn, Pierette Hondagneu-Sotelo, and Michael Messner). I cannot claim to speak for all women and girls, but I know that I speak for many of them. For me, the recognition of various forms of subjugation (via studying feminist theory) has meant freedom, the ability to see through these cultural patterns and influences and actively resist them. It has meant the ability to become self-definitional, if that is even possible. It has meant finding confidence.