Good morning, and happy Monday!

While walking my odd little dog this morning, I realized that there was a teeny tiny part of me that was filled with black, seething rage. Violent, boiling anger with the ability to destroy human life. Wrenching, choking, disgust and the need to do to serious harm. But it’s just a small part of me, so I’m not concerned.  Kind of like the stinger on a wasp – only a teeny, tiny part of the wasps’s body, but there’s a whole world of hurt all tucked up in that bee bum. So, what is it that has created this blackness of hatred? *sigh* Applying for life insurance.

The Cheerleader I’m Married To doesn’t have insurance coverage through his job, and as I’m still on my probabtionary period at work, I don’t have any, either. We decided that since we were married, it would probably be a good idea to get insurance in case something “happens” to either one of us. You know, if someone’s brakes fail, or say they die under mysterious circumstances, or if someone pisses off a ninja. Just those types of every day things that happen to us all at one point or another. I have to say, if you want to test how strong of a team you and your spouse are, apply for life insurance. It’s been far more aggravating than we had anticipated, and right now I’m feeling like a freakshow, and The Cheerleader I’m Married To is feeling somewhat broken.

Almost three years ago now, The Cheerleader I’m Married To had an ‘incident’ where he lost consciousness for a few moments. We figured it was a low blood sugar thing, but we wanted to be sure. After being run through a battery of tests on his brain and his heart, (not the least of which was the test of living with a partially-shaved chest for the heart monitor sensors… and me laughing at him a lot), his doctor, a cardiologist and a neurologist concluded that there was nothing seriously amiss. No incidents at all since then, so we’ve forgotten about it (except for my still laughing at the memory of his hilariously semi-shaved chest). Little did we know that those brief moments of time that he lost consciousness would be key in denying him disability insurance. The doctor and two specialists that cleared him were obviously mistaken, because the insurance company’s Super Doctors have decided that he’s too much of a risk to insure. Needless to say, this made The Cheerleader I’m Married To rather upset, and is now keen on discovering which amazing medical school Insurance Super Doctors attended, because man, that is one seriously kick-ass education!

As for me, the insurance company just thinks I’m too crazy to insure. As many of you know, I’ve struggled with depression for pretty much my entire life. It’s under control, and yadda, yadda, yadda. Now, when I was asked about it when we applied for insurance, I thought that I needed to be honest and disclosed it. I’m not ashamed of it, or anything, I just didn’t think it would matter. Hoooo boy, was I wrong. I had to write a one-page description of what my depression “feels like”, and how I’ve “dealt with it” since I was, oh, six years old or so. For those of you who have depression, I highly recommend that you take some time today to describe your lifetime’s worth of depression in one page. Hell, for people who don’t have depression, I recommend taking some time today to write out your lifetime’s worth of happiness in one page. Anyhoo, I wrote the letter, and that was that. Until last week when I was informed that the insurance company needed to speak with my doctor about it. Apparently I’m not insurable because I am too high of a “suicide risk”. Do you have any idea how degrading that is? I’ve dealt with depression all my life and I haven’t offed myself yet, nor do I have any plans to do so, thanks very much. Not everyone who has depression is going to kill themselves, just like not everyone who has a driver’s licence is going to ram their car into a tree. …ok, that’s an odd analogy, I’ll admit it. But c’mon man, I’m angry!

However, as was evidenced by what happened with The Cheerleader I’m Married To, even if my doctor says that I’m good to go, the insurance company’s Super Psychologists may decide that my doctor is wrong. And worse, they will decided that I am wrong. That I obviously don’t know myself nearly as well as their Super Psychologists do. Fuck you.

So yes, if you feel as though you’ve simply got too much self esteem, or if you’re just too darn happy, apply for insurance. They’ll knock you down to the appropriate peg. One prescribed by their Super Doctors, I would assume.

However, other than that, I really can’t complain about my life. Sure I have a stinger, but it’s really tiny, and not all that noticeable. And in the long run, it doesn’t truly matter what some faceless insurance company thinks of me and my brain. Think I’ll go make myself a cup of tea and reflect on how lucky I am to be Canadian, and have universal health care.