In a brilliant moment of self-sabotage and idiocy, I took my morning pills last night.  Instead of 200mg of Seroquel, 90 of Mirtazapine and some Nifedprine, I swallowed 300mg of Effexor and topped that off with 40mg of Ritalin.  I was no longer exhausted.  Oh no.  I was riding a sharp edge that had me twitching my cheeks like I was crashing from crank.

Around three in the morning, I scrawled an almost unintelligable note to Cricket asking her to wake me in the morning.  God only knows how she deciphered my scrawl, but to her credit, she did just that.  For many years, I have not done drugs, besides the FDA and my psychiatrist approved ones.  For more than four years, I've not consumed alcohol.  So, it was a strange thing to be up at such an hour, with the rest of my little world soundly snoring.

I was definitely keyed up about the stay of execution for Troy Davis.  I'm also on a long term job after years of Disability because of my mental illness.  It's crunch time at work, with the added knowledge that the more I do there, the more able I am to give Cricket money.  That's a great thing for me.  She's supported my crazy arse for years when I was unable to work.  My ability to earn is only tarnished by my inability to budget and my concern about how and where I'm to go back to school.

In theory, if one is one SSDI, they will pay for your education, toward another career that one could handle after being to sick to work at one's previous job.  My case at the Office of Vocational Rehabilitation has been handled by one Joanne Brubaker.  She's smug, cagey and favours pant-suits made out of jersey knits.  Her voice is so disturbing, that I have it down pat, despite the fact that I know that I can't "do" an American accent.

I spent a lot of time with this woman, when I was first on my road to recovery.  I'd done some research, and came up with the idea of being an MRI tech.  First, because it was in the medical field, which meant that my insurance would be covered.  Second, because they make really good money.  Third, because it's not high stress and physical labour, like X-ray techs, or house-painters.  Fourth, and none of these are in any real order, because I could help a patient, knowing that once they're settled, it'll be 45 minutes before they come out.

After going through months of negotiation with Brubaker, I took a four hour psychological test.  Everything from spot the missing things in the second window, make the choice of the logical step in shape progression, (something I've never understood), house, tree, person drawings, linear and numerical memory, stupid and insipid inkblots, verbal, societal values and mathematical skills.  Looking back, I see how sick and depressed I was at the time.  But having a reference point of no memory, due to ECT, I thought that I was doing swimmingly.

I found out some of my results from Brubaker, the rest later, from my therapist, for whom I obtained the short notes.  I won't bore you with the details, but after a complete waste of her and my time, Brubaker said that they wouldn't pay for school.  That because I have a bachelors, which was paid for by dear ole mum and dad, I would nor receive any help.  She made me sit and listen to her crap for months at a time, jump through hoops and take a test, all the time knowing this would be useless.

I was heading out of the lift, when some one asked me where the Office of Vocational Rehabilitation was.  Before I could give directions, another person asked if they were headed up there to get help.  When the response was yes, this wise person, whom I wish that I could have met months before said,"Oh don't bother going there, they're just bean counters."

Too bloody right!