Doctor, Doctor

I was supposed to go to the doctor, today, but I didn't feel well enough.

Wait, what?
Hold on, I'll explain.

I was supposed to go in for a regular maintenance thing, but my innards declared war on me during the night, and not going was the better option.

To be honest, I really didn't want to go, anyway.  Why bother?  Nothing's changed, and I'm just not in the mood to be lectured by someone who means well, really he does, but has no idea.

It's not cheap to have a chronic illness, and doubly not cheap to have mental illness on top of that.  I can't afford...my mother can't afford...all those meds, so I keep to the minimum and that doesn't mean injectables or extra pills.  Those meds?  Will have to wait.  Maybe forever.  Whatever.

But the good doctor doesn't get it.  He doesn't seem to understand how depression works, how it's not as simple as just making up my mind.  And sometimes I just don't want to be sternly told what will likely happen if I don't get my shit under control.

Shit under control...heh...ahem...

So maybe my innards were doing me a favor, but instead of just blowing it off I called and rescheduled.  I'll go listen to him and nod and agree because it needs to be done, and maybe one of these days it'll take.  Even when I'm being irresponsible, I try to be responsible about it.

How're you doing, dear reader?