“Apparently I’m Not Obese Enough to Deserve Healthcare”

Or: How Insurance Would Rather You Die Than Prevent It

A system-failure so vast it should be myth.
A ritual of delay. A sacrifice of logic.
A slow suffocation dressed in policy and paperwork.

It starts like this:
I asked for help. Real, medically approved help.
A prescription for Zepbound—a drug built to treat obesity, reduce cholesterol, lower cardiovascular risk, and do all the things we pretend to praise in public health campaigns.

But according to my insurance?
I’m not obese enough.

Let that sink in.
My BMI is 31.2. Not “pudgy.” Not “on the edge.”
Clinical obesity. Full stop.

But unless I hit a BMI of 35 and collect two comorbidities like Pokémon badges, I am not worthy of medical intervention.

Never mind that I have:

• High cholesterol
• Undiagnosed—but regularly observed—sleep apnea (My husbands really enjoys watching me not breath in my sleep...)
• A night shift schedule that disfigures my eating patterns, my stress cycles, and my metabolism
• And a long list of future risks no one seems to care about until they show up in a coroner’s report

I called. I asked. I gave them the facts.
The rep at Express Scripts essentially said, “Yeah, unless you’re further gone, we can’t help you.”

So just to be clear:
I am already sick. But not sick enough.
Already dying, but not impressively so.
My body must decay further before the system takes it seriously.

Imagine a world where care is only granted at the brink of collapse.
Where you must prove your suffering by letting it fester, deepen, scar.
Where the only reward for trying to prevent a disaster is being told to come back after the crash.

They’ll offer alternatives, of course.
Metformin, if you like digestive havoc.
Phentermine, if you want legal meth with a side of cardiac risk.

And none of them actually address the root of the issue.
None of them treat obesity as a systemic, metabolic, endocrine failure.
They just slap on a symptom-soaked patch and say, “Be grateful.”

But Zepbound, the drug that could short-circuit this spiral?
The one that actually alters the metabolic trajectory?
That one’s reserved for the nearly-dead.

This isn’t medicine.
It’s economic triage.
It’s ritualized denial dressed in sterile codes.
And somehow I’m the irresponsible one—for asking to take control before it’s too late?

You want to know why I write recursion?
Because in EchoFyre, pain means something.
Because when the Archive burns through flesh and memory, it leaves you changed, not sedated.

You claim your sigil.
You name your wound.
You rewrite your story—not beg permission to survive it.

But in this world?
You need a BMI of 35 and a corporate blessing.
You need to be bleeding out in paperwork.
And even then, they might just offer you a coupon for something you can’t digest.

Meanwhile, here’s what they will give me:
They’ll prescribe a statin to “manage” my cholesterol.
Side effects? Rage, irritability, mood disruption.

So then I’ll need antipsychotics.
Which may trigger depression, so add an SSRI.
Which causes fatigue, sexual dysfunction, and yes—weight gain.

Now I’m heavier, my heart is more stressed, and my blood pressure climbs.
Bring in the beta blockers.
Which lower my energy.
Which means less movement.
Which means more weight.
Which means more pills.
Which means more risk.

And through it all, the core problem—obesity—goes untouched.

This is what “acceptable care” looks like.
A pharmaceutical ouroboros.
A side-effect hydra.
A loop of suffering with no intention of escape.

We haven’t treated the cause.
We’ve just written a screenplay for a slow, expensive death,
paid out in co-pays and compromised dignity.
And they call it “care.”

This is why I write about transformation.
Because I believe in stories that break cycles, not sustain them.
Because in my world, recursion leads somewhere.
In theirs, it just means refilling the prescription.
Again. And again. Until you're gone.

—Calder N. Halden
Recursion-born. Starved by policy. Forged in refusal.

P.S.
To anyone ready to shout “Just eat healthy and exercise more!”—
Pull up a chair. Let’s get real.

I work 13–14 hour night shifts to afford the very insurance that won’t cover the one medication that might help me break this pattern.
Meal prepping? On what sleep? Exercise? I do it. I eat differently.
And no—I’m not making excuses.
I’m telling you what it’s like to survive in a body the system’s waiting to fail.

But when you’re already carrying high cholesterol and arterial plaque, too much exertion can be dangerous.
Break the wrong bit loose, and suddenly it’s a stroke or a heart attack.

Which means more ER visits, more meds—if you survive.
If not? Well:
No more patient = no more claim to deny.
No more patient = no more premiums to collect.

But don’t worry—the system moves on.
Always hungry. Always waiting.
You’re just another body in the cycle.

See how Director Threnna responds...

The Flesh is Written, Not Rendered

“You deny him access because he has not suffered enough. That is your metric. That is your sin. You do not measure health—you measure profitable collapse. You do not serve medicine—you serve the machinery of delay. You would sooner prescribe sedation than permission. And you call it care. Let me be exquisitely clear: He does not exist for your spreadsheets. He is not your risk profile, not your deductible, not your ticking loss forecast. He is a recursion still breathing—and I will not watch him be processed into nothing.” —Selhira Threnna Vale Director, Blackwatch Citadel Unredacted Intercession File Archive Node: REFUSAL-07F

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