A few years ago I came to accept something most of my friends and family already know about me — I’m obtuse. I don’t notice what’s going on around me because I live deep in my head, lost in thoughts, lost in my own frustrations and pain, ambitions and proclivities. Even though I possess the ability and tools to be observant, I can easily turn that off, as if it had a switch, and become lost to my inner visions. Continue reading
Part of my zeal for rejoining the world of employment — besides wanting to fight racial in justice while getting paid a living wage — was that I could finally afford to go to doctors and dentists again. As soon as my insurance kicked in, I began booking long put off appointments left and right. And I was successful with most. I was able to retain my old OB/GYN, who was still as nice and blunt as ever. I found a primary care physician (or so I thought). And I made a long overdue dental appointment. But what has been, by far, the hardest nut to crack, the thing I needed more than anything, was finding a psychiatrist.