Life...At A Cost

I broke down in tears at the pharmacy this morning because I cost too much to live. No, seriously, it costs at least $1400 additionally from my family every month, on top of the check I receive from the federal government for providing the country my disability.

I mean, I was only $20 off. My car payment of $150 went through the night before, I just had not calculated that I would need to hold an extra $20 in my account for my prescriptions. I will not get into my prescriptions here but just know they tend to cost a lot in terms of other peoples’ money and my time just to secure.

I then go to the extra effort of taking them as prescribed, so as to not waste other peoples’ money firstly, and so as to not spiral into the chaos that is my unmedicated medical condition (insanity), and thus not waste my very precious time by again visiting a mental institution.

It is expensive to live, am I right? Rent, utilities, we have to pay to communicate so cell phone bill, gas for the car, rent of the car, insurance for the car, repairs, maintenance, upkeep...that’s if you’re normal...but no one is normal, right? It is ok to not be ok?

If you say so, fine, but it is certainly expensive either way. In addition to the federal government backing the mission that is Justin’s Life, my parents afford me money to make up the difference between me being a have and a have not...sorta.

For $1400 or so a month, on top of the $1500 or so a month I earn by being disabled (what a moral conundrum in and of itself, I must add), I earn the right to live at the poverty line, at least in economic costs.

But let's talk about emotional cost, or moral cost, or intellectual costs. I cannot fathom the costs of these things for others but I can provide you with a balanced account from this morning.

The emotional costs were high; high enough for me to cry as the pharmacists administered my medications and politely removed items I could not afford to buy if I wanted to afford my medications, like mouthwash. Or deodorant.

It makes me feel bad to think that my breath smells, but it makes me feel worse to wake up in a mental institution so there is a quick emotional cost decision; be unhygienic so long as it keeps you out of a mental institution or worse.

But then again, hygiene is a "prime indicator of mental health" according to every medical or legal or religious figure I have had the opportunity to discuss the State Of Justin's Mental Health With. Ever.

And so I cried. It sucks to feel bad, and we all feel bad, and we all got a fascade if we can manage ourselves. My mask fell off. I am afraid not only of myself but of what "they" actually do to each and every one of us in the most expensive "free country" in history.

As a 40 year old, 6’3”, white male in Manhattan, Kansas, I am sure I made an awkward situation for the attending pharmacists. They are just trying to do their job in the midst of my existential crisis. I would love to thrive, or at least have clean-smelling breath, but I have to survive.

If it costs a lot of money to be disabled, I apologize to the economy. But I never met an economy that rewarded me for having emotions so powerful they must be sedated and subdued with prescription medications, so how much is my emotional labor worth in this moment?

I am breaking down, apologizing for not having enough money to pay for what I need, and these two pharmacists are not paid to deal with my shit. So did I make an emotional deposit with the pharmacists or a withdrawal? I guess that is up to the fine folks volunteering for DOGE.

That is where the moral costs comes into play. Were we in Sparta, my baby body would have disintegrated long ago, because I was born dead and purple (allegedly), and thus in Sparta I would have no value to add to the fight. But I was born in America, baby!

No concern for the umbilical cord strangling my oxygen supply, they just forced one tube down my throat and another up my butt to bring my to life, according to someone no longer with us. According to those still living I was born happy and healthy. Yeah right!

Either way, according to the federal government, I am permanently unhealthy or, disabled. But I was born in America, baby, so I have the rights of Life, Liberty and The Pursuit of Happiness, right?

Healthcare, however, does not fall under the auspices of those rights. I gotta go fight for those rights every second of whatever you could call this life. A moral dilemma; be a burden on the economy merely by existing or take your chances without the support structure that allows you to survive?

A further moral dilemma; believing you are meant to thrive while knowing it takes much more than your emotional budget just to survive whatever you can call a life. Living the dream? Your life sounds like a nightmare?

You would NOT want to know my visions...I just keep L-I-V-I-N, as a wise man once advised.

Thus the intellectual costs. My IQ is high as fuck. Too high, really. According to a former psychiatrist I connect too many dots...that is a nice way of saying I am paranoid, delusional, and insane. But then again everything IS connected, right?

From my left nut to my right brain to the end of the cosmos everything is connected simply enough by the reality of energy alone. And other darker matters from what I have experienced...but I digress. That is a good enough stretch for my intellect to admit, in my opinion, that this morning I cried by design.

So for me to feel as if I am being preyed upon may be emotional labor, but I definitely have to do the intellectual jumping jacks of rationalizing why I have to pay to play the game that is life.

What if I spent the money my family has to give me to survive on a business that could make me independently wealthy? Then all my problems would be solved (affordable)! But as a real one once said, “Mo money, mo problems.”

That is the smartest thing I have ever heard and I say that as someone who has seen what happens when people get the wealth they worked toward...I have enough problems as it is.

And so the economy did what it was designed to do; take labor from me in return for a good and service. The labor, however, was in the form of financial, emotional, moral, and intellectual production for Your's Truly; my family came through for me financially, as they tend to do.

I merely had to invest the emotional, moral, and intellectual labor. To survive. What am I capable of when I begin to thrive?

Aural Dilemma, JHB, 2025