The doctors these days all have the same things to say, the same diagnosis of my
'condition'.
"Well, you are depressed, and you have PTSD." Almost like they are reading
the same ugly, monotonous script. The also all have the same prescription methods.
"We'll get you started on an antidepressant, they are very well engineered you
know. Also, you will need to talk with a therapist to help to cure you. Your condition
is very serious, we understand, but you can feel better, you can be fixed."
From the beginning of this fucked up disaster, I have not once felt like I was the
one who needed 'fixing'. I didn't run myself over with a truck, I didn't do anything
to cause the accident, I was simply in the wrong place when a moron in a 5,000 pound
deathtank blasted through an long red traffic light. The rest of it, the screwed
up cop who for some unknown reason only wrote this moron a ticket for running a red
light, the city attorneys office for refusing to even read the case and waving it
on when they should have given the driver hell. The judge for pointing out that I
would have been hurt a great deal less if I had been in an suv, then letting asshole
responsible plea bargain down to defective vehicle. State farm insurance, his insurance
company, for being as difficult as possible, and only having a policy enough to cover
one fifth of my damages. Finally my own health insurance company for having the ability
to legally sue me for the entire settlement so they don't lose a penny on the deal,
and yes, they are doing this. Not to mention that the worthless jerkoff moron that
ran me over owns nothing more than his truck, so I can't even sue him personally
for anything.
Because of all of this, I will likely never be able to run again, or walk without
a limp, or live without pain. Not 'headache' sort of pain, that would be a miracle.
The pain of feeling the breaks in my bones, still, almost a year afterward. The dozen
screws in those bones, the fucked up nerves and joints. The list goes on, and on,
and on. Then we get to those four letters; PTSD. Nightmares all night, every night.
Depression, bipolar emotions, constant negative emotions and thoughts, bordering
somewhere between suicide and homicide. All of the physical and mental disability
in this situation was not caused my own actions, or my own will. The hell I know
live in was caused by outside forces, and now the psychotherapists all agree that
I am the one that needs to be fixed. I'm the one living in this hell, so I should
pay the fucking rent on it.
It all sounds so easy, take the little pills several times a day and talk to the
little man with the notepad and the hundred dollar pen. Oh, by the way, everything
I tell this little man is available to the health insurance company, every last note
and letter. Every diagnosis, every nightmare, every negative thought. It's all going
to be delivered to the insurance company that wants to sue away the only minuscule
compensation that I'm going to get for this personal disaster. Even more important,
all of this information is also available, in it's entirety, to the insurance company
that I am suing to get this shortchanged little payoff for having their client run
me down. Yes, this all sounds like fabulous therapy doesn't it?
Those little pills, they won't make anyone drive better, they won't make the police
do their job more efficiently and they sure as hell won't make the city attorneys
office or the judicial system actually factor in justice when they work. The pills
will not give the insurance companies a conscience, after all, they're trying to
make money at everyone else's expense, they wouldn't want the pills anyway. No, these
little pills, that I am supposed to take, are specifically engineered to make me
feel better. Because that, according to all the headshrinkers, is what I need. To
feel happy.
This is the most absurd smoke and mirrors hustle I've ever had anyone try to pull
on me. The entire world failed to bring me justice, and now they are vehemently attacking
me. With the exception of my friends, some of my family, my lawyer, the surgeons
who put me back together and my wonderful girlfriend, the world either shows indifference
or pure animosity towards me. Yet with all of this, little man with the notepad and
hundred dollar pen thinks I should be 'happy'.
I deny that I have a clinical illness that is making me unhappy. What I do have however,
is a menacing, money grubbing, demented world of parasitic insurance lawyers making
me unhappy. What I do have, is a apathetic and unreasonable government controlled
'justice' system that has ignored me, making me unhappy. I have a world filled with
morons and Neanderthals in monstrous deathtanks, with no remorse making me unhappy.
I am not the one who needs to be 'fixed'. A million hours in a little room with that
little bastard man will not make me happy. And the only 'little pills' that will
cure this fucked up situation are made out of lead. Either I can take them myself,
or maybe, I'll be the little man for once, and prescribe the little pills to everyone
who I think needs to be fixed.
Now before you run off and call someone to tell them that I am a danger to myself
and others, think about all of this for a moment. Think about who is really a danger
to the world, think about who has ALREADY inflicted pain, suffering, torture and
animosity, without the slightest bit of provocation or remorse. Think about the inhuman
machine of society that has produced this monster that you now read the thoughts
of. Think about how many other monsters have been created upon this horrific assembly
line. Pray to fucking god that the thousands upon millions of monsters created can
all keep themselves under control, because there aren't enough little fuckin pills
to make everyone happy. |
