wow.. i hadnt checked my mail all day and i got home and there was a really (no, like REALLY) hefty check from my insurance company and was mindblown and i looked at it and saw the way J filed my claims and like, i don't know, in addition to not charging me what i owed him from the last couple months, not even mentioning it, last week, he also like filed the claims so that i'd get all this money back, and i don't know that much about how it works, but i know like, he mentioned once that if the insurance company deems it medically unnecessary (which they did, hence denying coverage for my 2x weekly sessions), they might not hold the patient responsible for the payment, and actually charge the provider...
all my stuff from my insurance was going to my old roommate and i'd get it like way late, this was from like a month ago (THANK GOD she forwarded it, damn)... and i remember him asking me, like, do you get the mail from your insurance company at all?? and i said well it still goes to PA, but ive been getting the emails about the appeal... and he was just like oh, okay... and then he told me that about they might hold the provider responsible, and then he told me he'd be really surprised if they denied it, and a while before that, he had told me the amount i'd get back if the appeal went through--- and it was pretty much exactly what i just got in this check... and it is for totally different dates than anything having to do with the appeal...
god... and not only that, but he put his usual rate which is like $200 and like I think an extra session or two on the claims, when he was never charging me anything close to that... i mean on the claim it was like $400/week, i was usually paying like 40.
Maybe I'm just misunderstanding all of this, I had to email him and ask, but, if not, I mean, that's a really really sweet thing to do. Like the amount, is probably nothing to him, but to me it's a lifesaver... if anyone anyone anyone tries to twist this around into something fucked up about him, you are just an asshole. because he implied if I got anything back it would be from the appeal, if he actually did anything to get me reimbursed let alone bite the monetary bullet for it himself, he never wanted me to know about it, and i wouldn't have if i didn't happen to have a roommate who forwards me my stuff a month late, after i'd already heard the appeal was denied.
i might take this post down. and i might stop writing about him period, not just because i'm sick of hearing people saying really inaccurate inflammatory accusations about him, or because you guys are sick of hearing it, or that it was all just a fantasy, but like, he is a REALLY GOOD person and i really care about him, and i've had misgivings before, but i've had them real strong lately, about writing about him like this, on a public forum, be it anonymous or not.
i don't feel like he ever manipulated me at all, and furthermore, i kind of feel like my turning him into the subject of this suggestively (misleadingly, ha) titled expose is actually the bad behavior here.
Showing posts with label secrets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label secrets. Show all posts
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
On Writing.
To change it up, introspection:
I started doing this, this writing business, a few years ago, when I was 19, at the behest of my then-boyfriend. He was a writer. Is a writer still, I suppose, of plays and films and that was how I met him, I was in his thesis film for college, about junkies. It was fun, and kind of beautiful, and kind of incredibly self-indulgent. But I was really in love with him, and he was really... troubled... naturally, and jealous, and alcoholic, and depressed, and he projected, and decided I had issues and encouraged me to write. And he used to drink and moan about how difficult it was to write "the truth" and all his writing was alternately "shit" and then so brave, the tortured artist and his terrible, terrible adolescence in a typical WASP well-to-do Midwest household with a LOVELY mom who drank a little and a rebellious, charismatic, LOVELY older brother who dabbled in the punk scene, and a downright Leave it to Beaver dad. (They were all sincerely lovely people. I'm saying this to undermine his suffering. Hah.) Anyway, he encouraged me to "write it all down," "the truth," "dig deeper." "Dig deeper," he always said, always warning me about the tendency to shy from the truth and just write "bullshit." It was a condition of our relationship, that I wrote this hideous truth and bare my soul thus ridding myself of all the demons that were dragging us down.
Ironically, or maybe not, he would barely let me stay alone in his apartment for fear that I'd read his crap, about which I honestly couldn't give a flying fuck. He did it a few times, reluctantly, and I had no impulse. It didn't really interest me too much, and I'd read his plays, and it was private to him, and I respected that.
And the one time he stayed at my place when I went to work, I had a pit in my stomach a few hours after leaving. I called him and he told me, in a thick strange voice that he'd been sat there the whole time, reading my shit. I'd left my e-mail open. He read it all. Everything. My personal letters to everyone. To John. My doubts about him. Everything. There wasn't anything to really hide... it was just my thoughts, my voice, my SOUL that freaked him out. He left. I came home and my room reeked of smoke and I was just grossed out by everything about him, but I tend to cling onto people, and, I clung onto him, and we reconciled, on this condition that I "dig deeper" and write the truth. That he was always struggling to write, that ached him and scared him too much to confront...
And I wrote it, boy. No. Fucking. Problem. It was cathartic and exhilarating and put a Devil-may-care spring in my stride for a while, and I gave it to him to read, at his crappy day-job as a doorman downtown, and of course he didn't call me as I white-knuckled waited for him to do, and so I called him and he said--
"Well. It's not bullshit."
"No." I said. "And?"
And I don't remember what he said. He was probably silent for a while. We dissolved after that. I don't know where the hell he is.
COWARD.
COWARD. COWARD.
My writing has always gotten me into trouble. Okay, I'm an exhibitionist. And obviously it's not just the writing, it's dancing, it's across the board, it's music, it's my face on some screen, lighting someone's face at 3 a.m looking at some screen, warm in the glow of radiation.
But it's the writing that freaks people out. I think every boyfriend I've had, except Sean, has read it, my private correspondences, scoured the internet for old blogs, sat at my computer and opened up My Documents and helped them-goddamn-selves. And freaked out, and obsessed, and couldn't stop, and looked at me when I got home like "Who are you. Who are you. WHAT are you." And left, afraid of their shadows and out the door.
And not just boyfriends. Family members. Old classmates.
And it's flattering, huh. And it makes me nauseous.
And I'm driven, my whole existence, is driven by these conflicting impulses to lay it all out and spread it all out on a giant screen, and to guard my privacy at all costs.
And none of them could handle it. And none of them can handle me. And nobody ever can.
I started doing this, this writing business, a few years ago, when I was 19, at the behest of my then-boyfriend. He was a writer. Is a writer still, I suppose, of plays and films and that was how I met him, I was in his thesis film for college, about junkies. It was fun, and kind of beautiful, and kind of incredibly self-indulgent. But I was really in love with him, and he was really... troubled... naturally, and jealous, and alcoholic, and depressed, and he projected, and decided I had issues and encouraged me to write. And he used to drink and moan about how difficult it was to write "the truth" and all his writing was alternately "shit" and then so brave, the tortured artist and his terrible, terrible adolescence in a typical WASP well-to-do Midwest household with a LOVELY mom who drank a little and a rebellious, charismatic, LOVELY older brother who dabbled in the punk scene, and a downright Leave it to Beaver dad. (They were all sincerely lovely people. I'm saying this to undermine his suffering. Hah.) Anyway, he encouraged me to "write it all down," "the truth," "dig deeper." "Dig deeper," he always said, always warning me about the tendency to shy from the truth and just write "bullshit." It was a condition of our relationship, that I wrote this hideous truth and bare my soul thus ridding myself of all the demons that were dragging us down.
Ironically, or maybe not, he would barely let me stay alone in his apartment for fear that I'd read his crap, about which I honestly couldn't give a flying fuck. He did it a few times, reluctantly, and I had no impulse. It didn't really interest me too much, and I'd read his plays, and it was private to him, and I respected that.
And the one time he stayed at my place when I went to work, I had a pit in my stomach a few hours after leaving. I called him and he told me, in a thick strange voice that he'd been sat there the whole time, reading my shit. I'd left my e-mail open. He read it all. Everything. My personal letters to everyone. To John. My doubts about him. Everything. There wasn't anything to really hide... it was just my thoughts, my voice, my SOUL that freaked him out. He left. I came home and my room reeked of smoke and I was just grossed out by everything about him, but I tend to cling onto people, and, I clung onto him, and we reconciled, on this condition that I "dig deeper" and write the truth. That he was always struggling to write, that ached him and scared him too much to confront...
And I wrote it, boy. No. Fucking. Problem. It was cathartic and exhilarating and put a Devil-may-care spring in my stride for a while, and I gave it to him to read, at his crappy day-job as a doorman downtown, and of course he didn't call me as I white-knuckled waited for him to do, and so I called him and he said--
"Well. It's not bullshit."
"No." I said. "And?"
And I don't remember what he said. He was probably silent for a while. We dissolved after that. I don't know where the hell he is.
COWARD.
COWARD. COWARD.
My writing has always gotten me into trouble. Okay, I'm an exhibitionist. And obviously it's not just the writing, it's dancing, it's across the board, it's music, it's my face on some screen, lighting someone's face at 3 a.m looking at some screen, warm in the glow of radiation.
But it's the writing that freaks people out. I think every boyfriend I've had, except Sean, has read it, my private correspondences, scoured the internet for old blogs, sat at my computer and opened up My Documents and helped them-goddamn-selves. And freaked out, and obsessed, and couldn't stop, and looked at me when I got home like "Who are you. Who are you. WHAT are you." And left, afraid of their shadows and out the door.
And not just boyfriends. Family members. Old classmates.
And it's flattering, huh. And it makes me nauseous.
And I'm driven, my whole existence, is driven by these conflicting impulses to lay it all out and spread it all out on a giant screen, and to guard my privacy at all costs.
And none of them could handle it. And none of them can handle me. And nobody ever can.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
THIS POST WILL SELF-DESTRUCT...
.... I wish I could put up some pictures for you all (you nebulous, indeterminately-existent-"All"...) but I'm on the DL. Here's one though... I think it's safe enough... But this post may disappear soon-ish...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)