The start of football season is just around the corner which means I’m getting peer pressured to join Fantasy Football Leagues (dibs on team name "Cap'n Geech and the Shrimp Shack Shooters"), planning road trips (Oct 24th A-town, child please!) and checking out the lines for the upcoming year. Last year I was only three games away from pulling in six grand and high jacking a plane to awesomeville so this year I feel like I have some expectations to live up to. As always I’ll take a look at the over under for the Bengals (8, if I was a betting man I’d take the over; and I am so I will), odds at winning the Super Bowl (off the board right now, thanks a ton Brett) and I’ve added one this year that is the over under of phone calls I’ll make before being able to get a doctor’s appointment.
Finding a doctor that will see you without insurance is about as easy as Pittsburg Steelers fans acting like they’re not conceded pricks. When I left the hospital in Cincinnati (Southside!) I was first a participant in a study being conducted through the hospital and UC so I was “lucky enough” to see a doctor once a week for 10 weeks. I used the air quotes for lucky enough sarcastically in case anyone was running a little slow today. I suppose I should be grateful for the help I received while in the study but it just became annoying. Every week I had the opportunity to be a learning tool for a new assistant still getting the hang of taking blood (that was as fun as it sounds). Then I was able to describe my emotions and feelings and mania to someone who really can’t relate. It seems to me that being in a manic episode and then trying to describe this to someone who hasn’t would compare to trying to describe a sunset to a blind person, it’s just something you need to experience. In any manner at least I was seeing a doc and having my prescription wrote (written? wrought? whatever).
Once I left the study I was aligned with an organization that was a sort of middleman to align me with the guys with the good stuff (really starting to sound like a drug deal, probably because it is). My first assessment determined that I was an addict and attempted to put me in outpatient rehab (no thank you) where my behavior to addiction would be emphasized and mental health put to the side. This of course would have been great if I was addicted to anything other than being sweet and I wasn't diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and suffering from chronic psychotic episodes (but I’m sure Bud Light is my problem). So next I’m referred to a service that concentrates on addressing my mental condition and issues but alas I don’t have a medicare/caide/whoknows card (because I never conducted my phone interview, of which I was never called so naturally that’s my fault) so they can’t accept me. After sliding my doc a few extra bones (I kid I kid) he wrote me a prescription and I took off for the city of wind (mistake).
After three phone calls, two denials, one unreturned message and a near episode I decide to move back to Ohio (there were a few other stories in there that I’ll share when I’m more comfortable with our relationship). So now I’m back in Clark County (largest metal grain bin in the Midwest) and back to my search for help. To be fair since I’ve returned I’ve made five phone calls since last week and I’m still without an appointment so I’m going to put the over under at 9. This I believe is a fair enough money to attract betters on both sides of the line and provide a little change in my pocket (there’s plenty of room, it’s not like I have my medicine in there or anything).
Since many of my manic experiences involve music I’ve decided to add random music videos to the blog for my enjoyment and your inconvenience. Enjoy!