All the other versions of me

It's April 20th, and I'm sitting on a picnic blanket in the Piedmont Park field nearest 10th and Monroe. The weather is gorgeous, with a bright blue cloudless sky over the green field with a slight wind. There are lots of other people here, but it isn't crowded because it's a Thursday. A few hours ago I took my first commercial capsule of a mushroom blend from a state on the west coast where it is legal to sell such things to people like me, people who were on FDA approved SSRIs for a long time before those drugs stopped working.

I suppose the point of the "micro" in microdosing is that I can't really tell that I took anything. I can only hope that the blend of Lion's Mane and other dried fungi, when taken on the daily in tiny measured capsules, will help with the crying, which is still daily as it has been for months, and the overwhelming weight of things, which has been with me since I was first diagnosed with depression around age ten. I've turned to the capsules imported from another US state after realizing I'll never feel OK spending the 3k for the three legal-in-Georgia ketamine therapy sessions I was prescribed over the winter. My insurance won't cover the legal ketamine therapy. My pocket money can cover the capsules from the west coast. I could, of course, obtain illegal ketamine or illegal mushrooms anywhere for a fraction of the cost of trying the legal stuff. I'm too scared to do any of that though, so here we are. As with everything else in life, I get to be the version of me that I can afford.

I had today off not to start taking the microdose capsules, but to have the routine colonoscopy scheduled for middle aged women. To prepare for the procedure, I was prescribed tablets that, when taken with nearly 2 gallons of water, would clear my system for the scope. Unfortunately, my insurance wouldn't cover the tablets, and the pharmacy asked for $300 for the prep, or I could have an older liquid prep for free.

I took the liquid prep. When I started exorcist vomiting the night before, it was too late to do anything about the fact that my system was emptying the wrong way. So when I showed up at 6:30am after a horrible night to the surgical center asking what could be done, the answer was nothing. Now I have to pay for a canceled procedure, and I'll still have to pay $300 for the prescribed tablets anyway when we reschedule.

There's a version of me that paid the $300 for the right prescription two days ago and had her colonoscopy like doctors wanted. That person isn't worried about debt. Maybe that person also got another credit card and paid for the 3k in ketamine therapy, and is happier on the daily even though they can't make rent. I envy this version of me in some ways, because the anxiety of debt doesn't bother them as much. I thought I could muscle through the liquid prep because my insurance said I could. I also I don't think I need to pay 3k for ketamine therapy, because my insurance also insists that prescription is a luxury as well. Insurance thinks everything is a luxury, and that wanting what the doctors want is weak as fuck, and I should toughen up or pay out.

There's a version of me that walked away from the colonoscopy recommendation entirely based on the price tag. That person probably bought ketamine or mushrooms on the down low and found a sketchy trip sitter. Maybe that person is happier too, even though they might get really sick or brain damaged. Insurance will be relieved when this version of me dies younger, because being old is expensive and painful, and insurance doesn't understand why I would want that anyway.

I've chosen to be the version of me that tries to do medicine the reccomended and legal way, at least, as much as I can. It's not easy for most people to be the version of themselves they can afford. At least sitting outside in the sunshine is still free, and I am surrounded by hundreds of other versions of people who have all decided that we'll at least try to be happy in nice weather at the park. That's the best any of us can do.