It doesn't get any more real

I am under a lot of stress right now.

I haven't had to deal with something real-a-roni in a long time, maybe since I worked. It feels worse than when my Dad died, and has everything to do that overwhelming blip of Hell in my life.

I'm trying to get my Dad's medical record from his long-time doctor, in the tiny town that he lived in.

I talked to these folks last Friday and everything was going peachy-keen, as in I was going to pay for the copies and have them mailed, and then it just all went down the drain.

Basically, I started asking the medical questions that were burning on my family's mind, because I was asked if I had questions. BIG, BIG MISTAKE, because there's no way they couldn't take what I was saying to them as anything but inflammatory. I think they only reason they asked the questions they did was to try determine if I was planning to sue them. All further niceties went out the window. Gone-o.

Then it was, you speak to the lawyer (in same dinky town) that got me the piece of paper that good enough to prove who I was for the Postal Service (aka U.S. Gov't) when I just wanted Dad's mail and have it routed to my house, because the Doc office didn't think that paper was good enough for them. Even though they didn't know what that paper said and their fax machine mysteriously didn't work when I tried to fax el papier.

So now, I've been calling the lawyer's office All This Week, asking to speak to my lawyer that knows me, knew my Dad and was really kind to me while I had to take care of things earlier this year. She would be such breath of fresh air, if she's still kind, because everyone I have spoke to there have been horrible, truly mean creatures. And I so don't need that.

Not once have I been able to speak to her. I have, however, been able to speak to her vile, snoopy, nasty little minions who take my information and have the nerve to get involved, tell me its going to have to go to probate (and cost $500-1,000) to prove what my little piece of paper has already proven - that I am Dad's only daughter, sole heir, and recipient of his estate.

As if I'm going to stop calling and asking for the actual LAWYER, or listen to them. She had made that paper for me in hopes we wouldn't have to go to probate and it worked. It's like being in a crazy dream, or The Wizard of Oz, putting up with nut cases waiting to get to the wizard, or in this case, the lawyer that will hopefully work WITH me, not Against me.

Not once have these bitches (and I really mean it this time) said, 'I'm sorry for your loss,' or 'This must be difficult for you' and treated me like a human being. Quite the extreme opposite. I never saw people try to cover the asses of somebody else so hard. I have been told by several important people in my life 'Let It Go.'

That is REALLY HARD FOR ME TO DO.

As a bipolar. Ha! You better forget it.

As a daughter. I know my Dad would have gone to the ends of the Earth for me. You think a silly bitch who has nothing better to do than work the emery board could really deter me?

As a human being. They are just pissing me off now. Such a mistake, because it just makes me want to burn them a new one just for torturing me like this, and thinking they can get away with this. The gall.

I'm trying to imagine what 'let it go' would feel like. It just seems like giving in and letting Evil win. It's so hard to lay back and let it happen.

I should not have to pay hundreds of dollars to get what is rightfully mine. And it is rightfully and legally mine because I'm 'the deceased person's beneficiary' and have already proven it. They're trying to treat me like trash dirt, and have the nerve to think I'm going to accept any blah-blah coming from a minion. It just feels so personal, this being treated like shit, so you know it's so hard to not think how they should be paid for it.

My gift is writing. I have thought that if I can't afford to buy the hole to burn these assholes with, I can do other things.

Like print the name of the vile little town. These bumpkins may not understand the the power of Google/The Search Engine, but the rest of us do. I can make sure it's alway at the top.

I can write a letter. Namely, one to the Editor. I think people in the sleepy little town would be upset to find out what someone from mine thinks o' them. Or how much people in other states love their 'hospitality.' Oh, yes, I'm sure they would.

Still don't feel better. I'm like the living, walking Pissed. It takes everything within me not to tell these people off on the phone. When I get off the phone, I look to the sky and say 'I know I'm better than these people, Lord. I can't imagine being so cruel to someone with my issue. Please make it clear to these people Lord, that I am better than them. Because I am too busy keeping myself quiet, and not screaming.'