Last night I went to dinner three friends. They were arguing that my belief, insurance companies are populated with human beings, is wrong. And, I failed to ask them. But I should.
Have they enjoyed their segment of conspiratorial thought?
How else could I justify my opinion? I haven’t had any actual experiences to back up my belief.
Their voices swirled in my head as I lay myself to sleep. I had become fearful.
Probably wasn’t thinking as much as feeling. Subterranean embers still glowed deep beneath the cool of the evening crust.
Bad experiences remembered. Insurance stories related. Wrapped in a pleasant visit.
So, who’s crazy? Me? Or the three of them? I guess we will see which of these two notions crystalizes in the coming weeks.
This is my first fearful experience with an insurance company. Fearful, because my survival depends on it. Or, at least, the quality it all.
And yet. People do survive for a time in the gutter. Who says I couldn’t?
Besides my common sense?
And which opinion is true? The one based in fear? Or the one built firmly on the calmness of knowing?
I am right. This is an epistemology course for disabled people fighting insurance industry brutality.
Brutality? First person?
Present! Because fighting this burns. My daily allotment of fuel for focused mental energy has shrunk quite small.
Don’t know if my tiny budget for laser thinking is a brake on my mind, or my body, or both. It could be any combination of the three.
Keep positive. Gonna need it.
If my friends are right. And because life is more enjoyable not dragging baggage everywhere.
Four and-a-half years ago I pulled a trailer of cargo on my bike to a writing retreat.
In Tucson. End of May, the temps hover somewhere above that third digit.
One hundred miles. One day. That was easier then.
Because. Retaining bad emotions exhaust me now. Is this physical? Or an enlightened state just before sleep?
Last night before sleep I was one. Against three. Both times in our thoughts.
The insurance industry and God. Three believers and one form of dissent. A good conversation. And, an effective segue for next time.
Well. That’s it. My budget spent. I won’t work on my letter to the un-named insurance company. Appealing their decision to stop paying my disability allowance. Instead, I need.