I’m on day four without my meds (Vyvanse). Not doing well AT ALL. When I called last week for my refill, I was told my doctor was on vacation and there were no other doctors to help me. My new doctor was supposed to have taken care of everything this morning; however, when I arrived, I was told there was a scheduling conflict and I couldn’t be seen today. I would have to call my old doctor. So I did. I was told things were really backed up and they weren’t sure when they could get to my refill. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Wednesday. Who knows.
There comes a point when you just become exhausted from the fight. I’m pretty much at that point. I’m tired of having to spend a week out of every month, fighting to get meds that were prescribed to me as “Necessary”. I guess I’m just done begging. If I get my meds, good. If not, oh well. I’m through with the fighting.
Last week I started this poem about my incompetent, imbecile of a doctor. It’s unfinished. And it didn’t really make me feel any better.
Without Title.
Here.
On our chain
Three feet
From the bowl.
You.
Your pallor
A mutation.
Foreign pigment masking
Cadaverousness.
Your mien
Piteous.
Your character
A stain.
We
To adduct Bukowski
“Born Into This”.
Some
At birth.
Others
By chance.
Surroundings.
Environment.
We
Our genetic
Mutation.
Identified.
Recognized.
Determined.
Distinguished.
Diagnosticated.
Some
Of us
Make the
Call.
Give
The nod.
Make
The selection.
We are
Invited.
Assigned.
Consulted.
Authors bio is coming up shortly. 
