As you can probably guess by now, Whiskey woke me up.
Not gently. Not politely. This was the full kitten alarm clock experience: jumping around, biting me, and initiating games on the side of the bed like a caffeinated ninja. I tried to play along by catching her, but instead I caught her little teeny arm. That can hurt a little kitty, and the last thing I want is to be that guy, so I immediately aborted the mission, got out of bed, made sure she was fed, and took her downstairs to run around for a while.
That took care of Whiskey. For now.
Then the grown-up stuff started.
I had phone calls to make. Doctors. The Public Defender’s office. Other people who may or may not exist behind voicemail systems. We couldn’t quite figure out which doctor I’m supposed to see for the post-op cancer treatment, and we didn’t really have a clear idea who my public defender was either. Eventually we got a name. No answer. Just a message machine and the sound of bureaucracy breathing softly in the background.
So I went down to the clinic to try to straighten things out in person. I met with my therapist and social worker who wrote a nice long letter verifying that I am bipolar, schizo-affective and compliant with my treatment. It’s strange having your life summarized in official language, but sometimes paper is the only thing people listen to.
The caseworker also suggested I talk to my doctor about smoking cessation medication. My Chantix prescription has run out, which I didn’t even realize until recently, and now it needs to be replaced with something else. Another task. Another box to check. Another reminder that being mentally ill can feel like a full-time job with no vacation days.
Right now, we’re still waiting for my medication.
In the meantime, I’m outside the clinic, watching people smoke. And wow, the cravings are strong. They sneak up on you when you’re tired, stressed, and surrounded by systems that move at the speed of molasses in winter.
Mom told me not to quit smoking just for her.
And she’s right.
I’m quitting smoking for me.
For my friends.
For her.
For everybody.
Everybody benefits when I quit smoking. No secondhand smoke. Less worry about my health. More years. More breath. More chances. This isn’t just a personal decision. It ripples outward, whether people notice it or not.
So here I am. Outside a clinic. Waiting on meds. Watching smokers. Feeling cravings. Still standing.
I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
SUPPORT MENTAL HEALTH AWARENSS NOW!!!
