What All This Costs

Photo by Jp Valery on Unsplash

Of all I’ve disclosed about this psychotic/manic episode that still grips me, of the experiences most would keep very quiet that I have been open about, this is the post I’m embarrassed to write. It’s about money.

Where I come from money is to be whispered. Never mention what things cost, never disclose if you’re having any trouble, be frugal, live within your means, hold no debt, enjoy yourself, but don’t dare brag or show off when you’re doing well. And keep your hands in your pockets when you’re not.

So let me break all of those rules and tell you what life’s like as a man who’s about to turn 62 and has been pulled out of his career early, years before he thought to retire, because of a disability. There are a surprising number of people in the same boat I’m in. In fact, in the US most people will leave work five years before they planned to through no choice of their own, many due to disabilities, as well as reorganizations, company closures, other health problems, and outright ageism. I’ll go back to work if I can, but the disease and the doctors have yet to decide. The work that awaits an older man with a disability, who knows?

The last couple of years have been difficult. My wife and I have both endured periods of unemployment, the house needed a new roof, a ruthless inflation set in, and the emergency fund was gone. Modesty is our mantra. I drive a 2007 Kia Rio and haven’t ordered out for lunch in years. On the other hand, when it comes to drink and vacations, we’ve lived pretty well. But we’re in a period of uncertainty, that age when you’re too young to retire and too old to be taken seriously by recruiters. Then there’s the bipolar disorder and an entrenched severe episode that has me on disability right now. However, one thing has been very certain for the last few years, one thing that keeps us up nights: I am a whore for health insurance.

I’ve taken jobs, any jobs doing almost anything, regardless of pay, to get us health insurance.

The US has a national debt of more than $36 trillion, spent on God knows what, and we still can’t manage to provide people with healthcare or a secure retirement. Nearly 20% of the population is on Medicare, and those who have been there know how difficult finding quality care is under this coverage. 8% of the population, or 26 million people, have no coverage at all. 46% of people in the US have not earned enough to save for retirement, and 28% have no savings at all (all stats from the BLS).

For those of us with bipolar disorder the situation is even more dire. According to the NIH, as many as 60% of bipolar patients are unable to sustain paid employment. While bipolar disorder is considered a full disability under the ADA, the Social Security Administration holds bipolar disorder to a different standard than physical illnesses and only 28% of people with the disease qualify for long-term disability insurance through SSDI. And the hoops one has to jump through to get it are more difficult than the average person with a severe mental illness can handle. 25% of people with disabilities are on food stamps (I have been), and 17% of all homeless people have bipolar disorder.

As for me right now, I am well housed. We do have health insurance while I am on FMLA, but that will run out soon. Even so, the insurance we do have does not cover visits to my psychiatrist, which cost me $250 out of pocket and, because of the seriousness of this current episode, are frequent right now. My wife and I have planned well, and retirement seemed secure. But now I’m dipping into the IRA early, which screws up all our plans, especially in light of what has happened in the market in the last few days. But at least we do have savings.

When I saw my doctor last week and checked in, the pin pad lit up and I held the chip on my credit card to it. I saw my daughter, her friend, and I at a diner last weekend. I took a good look at the menu. My daughter’s friend ordered French toast and my daughter a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes. I settled for only a coffee. The bill was $33 before the tip. The pin pad beeped and four green lights flashed along the top as the card was accepted. This can’t go on. We’re still paying the entire credit card bill every month as my wife, who was unemployed for a year, has found a job that pays almost enough. For now we also have my disability checks, and my in-laws have helped out.

Pride is out of the question. We merely get by. My daughter has worked her tail off to secure a couple scholarships for school, and the school has been generous with financial aid. Worst case scenario – I’m old enough to take social security, although the amount I would receive at this age is paltry.

I’ve always been an optimist. I have to be. I have a teenage daughter, a solid marriage, and a mental illness that until recently has been mostly manageable. Compared to so many of my peers with bipolar disorder I have it made. But things made can crumble, and every year it becomes more expensive to be an optimist.

I used to laugh when old people would complain about having to live on a fixed income. I thought, you know exactly what you’ll make next June, I may not even have a job. Who’s better off? But now I understand. They didn’t mean fixed income, they meant fixed amount. There’s this number and that’s what you have. And each year you take some money from it until it runs out. Then game over. We can all only pray the money lasts longer than we do.

Right now I don’t know. The doctor put me back on a medicine that keeps the worst thoughts of giving up away. Thoughts like, “How much am I worth dead?” “Wouldn’t everybody be better off without me?” “Is it all worth it?” So far the struggle continues and I just suck it up. I shouldn’t drink good, or any, whiskey with the meds I’m taking anyway and long walks under blooming cherry trees are free. I can live without a lot. And the coffee at that diner really wasn’t that bad.