I am a great turtle. Like a really great turtle. A Google search of “turtle named Cathy” just yielded, “did you mean ‘turtle named Kathy’”
And no I did not, Google.
So there isn’t photographic evidence except for this:
But, I think that’s all the proof the people need.
Me and my shell have been hanging out… or is it hanging in? ….
A LOT recently.
I heard something scary and scampered back to the warm cozy solitude of shell-life faster than a fainting goat can, well, faint.
$44,000 dollars. That’s the cost for me to go to the closest facility equipped to deal with complex trauma. It isn’t even in my state. They work on a reimbursement basis with insurance. Meaning I’d just have to hope that any insurance I’d get would cover it. And considering the things going on there…well read this and tell me I’ll get covered.
All the other options are just for military/ex military personnel or don’t even begin to cover what I’d need. I called hospital after hospital.
So, I just took my leave of getting better and slipped effortlessly into “making it”. I did all the productive things well-people are supposed to do.
While, silently, all my resolve…dissolved.
Frankly I’m sad and scared and disappointed there aren’t more options for someone like me.
I don’t need to sober up, I need a place to fall apart. I have personalities that need integrated, compounded trauma that needs expounding; wounds that are threatening to bleed me out.
I need help. The worst part is, like so many Americans, I know how to find it. I just can’t front the bill.
If maybe I really was a turtle Doug could send me off to a turtle sanctuary.
Until I wake up as a turtle, I’ll just be undercover, I mean under covers, as one.