The Book of Peter

Aitken Version

Chapter 1 – Of Smoke and Sense

And Peter did sit by the fire, and the fire did crackle approvingly. And he said unto them, “Relax. Not everything is a test.” For the earth brought forth many plants, and Peter noticed none of them asked permission. And lo, some burned sage, some burned bridges, and some burned a little something green and felt… calmer.

Chapter 2 – On Sin, Which Is Mostly Nonsense

And the people asked, “Is this sinful?” And Peter replied, “Does it make you cruel?” And they said, “No.” “Does it make you judge others loudly while knowing very little?” And they said, “Also no.” And Peter said, “Then congratulations. You are already ahead of most religions.”

Chapter 3 – The Herb, Explained Poorly by Authorities

And the elders warned, saying, “Beware the plant, for it brings laughter, appetite, and introspection.” And Peter raised an eyebrow and said, “You just described happiness with snacks.” And the people murmured, “This feels like a control issue.” And Peter nodded, for he had lived among humans.

Chapter 4 – Judgment, or the Lack Thereof

Judge not your neighbor’s bowl, for thou knowest not their anxiety. Nor their back pain. Nor the week they just survived. For every person carries a burden, and some prefer wine, and some prefer weed, And some raw-dog reality like lunatics.

Chapter 5 – Law, Order, and Vibes

And Peter spoke plainly, which annoyed many: “Laws change. Plants do not.” “Empires fall. Roots remain.” “If your morality requires cages, it is not morality, it is fear with a badge.”

Chapter 6 – Of Campfires and Gods

And Peter told them a story, as all beliefs are born from stories told near fire. Some spoke of gods. Some spoke of monsters. Some spoke of rules written by men who hated fun. And Peter said, “Believe what brings you peace, But do not demand my knees for your bedtime tale.”

Chapter 7 – The True Commandments (Revised)

Be kind.

Mind your business.

Don’t weaponize your beliefs.

Hydrate.

Share snacks.

If it harms none and helps some, maybe shut up and let people live.

Chapter 8 – The Closing Benediction

And the smoke rose into the night, and no one felt holier…. Only lighter. And Peter smiled and said, “If there is a god, I suspect they prefer joy over obedience.” And the fire popped, as if in agreement. And everyone slept well. Amen-ish.

A New Preacher in Town

“Every belief begins as a story. Some just forget their stories.”

There’s a new preacher in town. No pulpit. No collection plate. No threat of eternal punishment for questioning the storyline.

You’ll find Peter most nights on the corner of Brightway & Beaumont, spreading the good word and a few aromatic sensations, reminding passersby that morality doesn’t require fear, and happiness doesn’t need permission.

Peter doesn’t preach obedience. He preaches awareness.

See, religion, like most things, started as a campfire story. A way to explain the dark, the unknown, the things we couldn’t yet measure or understand. Some stories were comforting. Some were cautionary. Some were clearly invented by a guy who didn’t like women, fun, or plants.

And somewhere along the way, those stories stopped being metaphors and started being mandates.

That’s where Peter clears his throat.

According to the Aitken Version, marijuana is neither sinful nor immoral. It doesn’t make you cruel. It doesn’t make you violent. It doesn’t make you judgmental. In fact, if anything, it tends to do the opposite, lower the volume on ego and raise the volume on empathy.

Which is awkward… because empathy was supposed to be the point.

Peter doesn’t tell you what to believe. He just asks better questions:

Does this belief make you kinder? Does it help you live alongside others without needing to control them? Or does it just make you feel superior while doing absolutely nothing for the world?

Because if your faith requires laws, cages, or shame to function, Peter suggests that’s not holiness, it’s insecurity wearing a robe.

The Book of Peter doesn’t have commandments carved in stone. It has suggestions scribbled in the margins:

Be decent.

Mind your business.

Stop confusing discomfort with sin.

Let people live their damn lives.

Peter knows some people prefer wine. Some prefer weed. Some prefer neither and raw-dog reality like absolute psychopaths. All are welcome. None are judged.

So if you see smoke curling into the night air near Brightway & Beaumont, don’t panic. No souls are being corrupted. No morals are being lost. No gods are being challenged.

Just a pragmatic man and his dog sitting pondering a modern campfire, choosing joy over fear, curiosity over control, and kindness over dogma.

And if there is a god? Peter suspects they’re less offended than their fan club.

The Great Car Insurance Shell Game

Let’s talk about car insurance.

Not the idea of it, because yes, we all agree it’s necessary.

I’m talking about the financial hostage situation we politely call “coverage.”

For 2025, here’s what I paid with State Farm:

March: $650.78 June: $624.39 September: $779.73 December: $637.52

Total for the year: $2,692.42

That’s not Monopoly money.

That’s real, grown-ass, worked-for-this cash.

And what do I get for that?

Two vehicles fully covered. One vehicle liability only. One 18-year-old driver (Yes, I know—insurance companies clutch their pearls when you say that out loud.)

Now before the keyboard warriors warm up, let’s address the obvious.

Yes, younger drivers cost more.

I get it. Risk tables. Statistics. Actuarial science. Fine.

But here’s where it gets spicy….

Let’s Do the Long-Game Math

I’ve been insured for 15+ years.

One claim.

Not one per year.

Not one per vehicle.

One.

Now take that annual premium and stretch it over 15 years.

That’s just over $40,000 in car insurance alone. And suddenly you start asking uncomfortable questions:

Where exactly is all that money going? At what point does “risk” turn into profit padding? Is my premium fixing roads… or upgrading someone’s third vacation home?

Because when you’re paying over $2,600 a year, that’s about $224 a month, every month, whether anything happens or not.

That’s not “just in case” money. That’s rent payment energy. That’s vacation money. That’s new tires, groceries, or fixing literally anything that breaks money.

Here’s the illusion they sell us:

“You’re paying for peace of mind.”

Cool…. But peace of mind shouldn’t feel like financial anxiety with a logo on it.

And what really grinds my gears (pun fully intended) is this:

The safer and more responsible you are, the less you actually use the service, yet the bill never seems to reflect that loyalty.

No refunds for good behavior. No loyalty discount that actually feels loyal.

Just a cheerful reminder that rates “may increase due to market conditions.”

Ah yes. The Market.

The same mysterious creature blamed for everything from gas prices to why your fries cost six dollars now.

So… Is It Fair? Is $2,692.42 fair for:

Three vehicles. One young driver. A long, clean driving history.

Maybe. But fair doesn’t mean reasonable. And reasonable doesn’t mean justifiable when the math stops mathing.

At some point, consumers deserve transparency. At some point, loyalty should count.

At some point, we should stop pretending this isn’t a system built to quietly extract maximum dollars while smiling at you through a khaki-colored commercial.

Car insurance is supposed to protect us.

Not slowly bleed us dry while congratulating us for being responsible.

And when you step back and look at decades of payments versus actual claims…

Yeah. It makes you wonder.

Now Zoom Way Out… State Farm alone services roughly 96 million policies across America.

If someone like me pays about $40,000 over 15 years, that puts the industry conversation into perspective.

That’s trillions of dollars moving through the system.

Trillions. 3.4 trillion to be exact!

So the real question becomes:

How many yachts are the American people funding and why do my rates keep going up?

A Life Written in Screams: When Lyrics Say the Quiet Parts Out Loud

There are moments when music doesn’t just sound good, it knows things about you. The parts you don’t post.

The thoughts you don’t say out loud.

The version of you that exists somewhere between rage, regret, survival, and stubborn hope.

These lyrics didn’t come from one band, one album, or even one era. They came from the same place though: the human pressure cooker.

I push my fingers in my eyes

Because sometimes reality is too loud and the only way to cope is to shut it off… even if it hurts.

That’s the thread running through all of this. Pain isn’t avoided here. It’s examined, embraced, sometimes even preferred.

Pain without love… ’cause I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all.

That line alone explains half the people walking around pretending they’re fine. Numbness is scarier than suffering. Pain reminds you that you’re still here. Still breathing. Still capable of reacting.

There’s anger in these words, but it’s not aimless. It’s earned.

If you feel so angry just get up, let’s start a riot.

That’s not chaos for chaos’ sake. That’s the sound of someone who’s been told to sit down, shut up, and accept less for too long. Rage becomes fuel when silence stops working.

And silence? It shows up everywhere.

The silence gets us nowhere, gets us nowhere way too fast.

Silence in relationships. Silence in institutions. Silence when you know something is wrong but speaking up feels like lighting a match in a gas station.

Then there’s the internal war, the one no one sees.

I am a world before I am a man.

I was a creature before I could stand.

That’s identity in fragments. The before-and-after of trauma. The idea that who you were shaped who you became, but didn’t get erased along the way.

You can hear the exhaustion too:

On this bed I lay, losing everything I can see… was it all too much?

That’s not weakness. That’s burnout. That’s someone who carried the weight, showed up, did the work, and still ended up asking if the cost was too high.

And then there’s betrayal. Not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s quiet. Casual. Close.

You thought you were standing beside me… you were only in my way.

That line hurts because everyone’s lived it. The realization that proximity doesn’t equal loyalty. That some people aren’t allies, they’re obstacles with good PR.

Yet somehow, threaded through all of this noise, there’s persistence.

Who needs another mess? We could start over.

Not optimism. Not denial. Just defiance.

The refusal to be finished. The decision to keep going even when you don’t feel heroic doing it.

These lyrics don’t romanticize suffering, but they don’t sanitize it either. They sit with it. They acknowledge the ugliness, the anger, the contradictions.

So what if you can see the darkest side of me?

Exactly. What if you can?

That darkness didn’t appear out of nowhere. It was forged. Survived. Learned from. This music doesn’t save you. It stands next to you while you save yourself.

And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

This Isn’t Law Enforcement — It’s a Failure of Training, Leadership, and Accountability

I spent years in law enforcement. I wore the badge. I trained. I learned restraint, discipline, and the absolute weight that comes with the authority to take someone’s freedom… and, in the most extreme circumstances, their life.

What happened in Minnesota sickens me. Not because policing is hard, it is.

Not because situations get tense, they do.

But because this is not how we were trained, and it is not what we were taught to do. The Use-of-Force Continuum Exists for a Reason

Every competent officer learns the use-of-force continuum early and revisits it often. It’s not a suggestion. It’s not optional. It exists to prevent unnecessary injury and death, for the public and for officers.

Verbal commands.

Control techniques.

Intermediate force.

Lethal force…. as an absolute last resort.

What we witnessed in Minnesota looks like that entire structure was tossed aside. Multiple agents. One man.

https://www.startribune.com/ice-raids-minnesota/601546426

Let me be crystal clear: If multiple properly trained officers cannot safely detain and handcuff a single individual, armed or not, something has already gone catastrophically wrong. Either the training failed, leadership failed, or the decision-making in that moment collapsed under fear and adrenaline.

And none of those justify a fatal outcome.

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2026/jan/24/minneapolis-shooting-federal-agents

Numbers Matter — And So Does Competence

Seven officers trying to detain one man should not result in a shooting. Period.

I don’t care how uncomfortable that truth makes people.

Numbers give officers control. They give options. They give time. They reduce risk, when used correctly. That’s basic tactics. That’s policing 101.

Instead, what appears to have happened was force layered on force, escalating chaos rather than controlling it. Strikes. Punches. A struggle. Then gunfire.

And that raises the most disturbing question of all: Why did one officer decide lethal force was necessary, when the others did not?

What did he see that six others supposedly didn’t?

Was he scared?

Was he poorly trained?

Was he overwhelmed?

Because from the outside looking in, this doesn’t look like a measured response to an imminent deadly threat. It looks like panic in uniform.

And panic has no place holding a firearm over someone’s life.

The “He Was Armed” Argument Isn’t a Free Pass

I don’t know if the man reached for his firearm. I want to believe he didn’t.

But here’s the reality former officers understand and armchair quarterbacks don’t: being armed is not the same as being a lethal threat.

Plenty of lawful gun owners interact with police every single day without being shot.

If a suspect is being actively restrained by multiple officers, that context matters. A lot. That’s where training, positioning, weapon retention, and communication are supposed to take over.

A man being physically subdued is not a “shoot first, sort it out later” scenario.

That’s not policing.

That’s not defense.

That’s a failure.

This Is Bigger Than One Incident

What makes this even more disturbing is the environment in which it’s happening.

Our own government has created chaos inside our borders through aggressive, poorly coordinated enforcement strategies that prioritize optics and speed over safety and restraint. The result? Fear. Distrust. And now, dead civilians.

There were, and still are, a thousand better ways to handle immigration enforcement. Smarter targeting. Better intelligence. Non-militarized operations. Clear coordination with local agencies.

Instead, what we’re seeing feels reactionary, heavy-handed, and reckless. And when federal agents start operating like an occupying force instead of public servants, something has gone terribly wrong.

This Disgraces the Badge

Let me say what too many won’t: This disgraces the badge.

Not every agent. Not every officer. But actions like this stain all of us who took the oath seriously. They undermine public trust. They endanger good officers. And they make every future encounter more volatile.

Law enforcement legitimacy is built on restraint, accountability, and professionalism…. not fear, domination, or unchecked force.

When lethal force becomes the shortcut instead of the last resort, we’re no better than the monsters we claim to be protecting people from.

I didn’t leave law enforcement to stay silent when I see it done wrong.

This wasn’t justice.

This wasn’t safety.

This wasn’t training in action.

This was a preventable tragedy and until we demand accountability, transparency, and better leadership, it won’t be the last. And that should terrify every single one of us!

Why We Prepare for Everything Except Losing Each Other

I’ve experienced loss. And here’s the truth no one really wants to sit with: you can’t prepare for it.

That’s the part that still eats at me. From the moment we’re born until the final stretch of our lives, we’re taught to do.

Build something.

Be successful.

Provide.

Love deeply.

Chase adventure.

Live fully.

What we are never taught, what we actively avoid, is how to prepare for loss. Losing a pet is devastating. And for some people, the bond between human and animal is deeper than they’ll ever admit out loud. A pet isn’t “just a pet.” It’s routine. Comfort. Presence. It’s unconditional loyalty waiting for you at the door on your worst day.

As brutal as losing a pet is, it still doesn’t prepare you for losing a family member or a close friend.

I’ve lost all of it over the years…. family members, pets, and a best friend.

And every single loss felt eerily familiar. Different faces, same hollow feeling.

I always circle back to the same question: How did I manage to never be prepared for those moments?

The answer, unfortunately, is simple. You can’t prepare for sudden loss. The unexpected deaths. The accidents. The phone calls that permanently divide your life into before and after.

With those, we grieve however we can. We stumble forward. Eventually, somehow, we rejoin life… changed, but moving. And then, like experts at avoidance, we skip right past the bigger issue.

Our aging family members. The people who shaped us. The anchors of our lives.

We know the clock is ticking. We see it. We feel it. And yet we treat it like background noise… until illness shows up, or tragedy strikes, and suddenly we’re frozen. Motionless. Confused. Grief-stricken to the point where basic functionality shuts down.

So here’s the uncomfortable question: While we’re all out here “living our best lives,” why aren’t we preparing for the inevitable?

Why do we avoid preparing for the day we lose the person who matters most to us? I don’t think there’s a satisfying answer.

And I’m not convinced it’s even possible to truly prepare for that kind of loss, without it costing you your ability to live.

Because preparation would consume you.

Physically.

Mentally.

Emotionally.

If you lived every day bracing for loss, you wouldn’t be living, you’d be waiting.

So maybe the point isn’t preparation. Maybe the closest thing we get is presence. Calling more. Saying the things we usually save for “later.”

Showing up now instead of assuming time will handle it for us. Loss will come whether we’re ready or not. That part is unavoidable.

But regret? That one’s optional. And maybe, just maybe; that’s the only preparation that actually matters.

If Aliens Came to Earth, Who the Hell Do We Put in Charge?

Let’s say aliens show up tomorrow. Not the cute, “E.T. phone home” kind.

The “our ships blot out the sun and your Wi-Fi immediately stops working” kind.

Every human on Earth asks the same question at once: “Cool… so who’s talking to them?” And right away, the panic sets in, because deep down, we all know the answer is probably someone deeply unqualified bureaucrat!

Option 1: Politicians Absolutely not!!

If politicians are in charge of first contact, the aliens will be: Thanked for coming. Blamed for something they didn’t do. Asked for campaign donations, then detained, jailed or deported.

Within minutes, one of them would say:“Frankly, we’ve always had a great relationship with the Arquillians.”

We haven’t. We met them twelve seconds ago. By day two, half the planet would be convinced the aliens are either: A hoax. A threat. Or somehow responsible for gas prices.

Hard pass.

Option 2: Billionaires. No. Aliens didn’t travel across galaxies to hear:

“So… how do we monetize this?” Also, no one wants Earth’s first intergalactic message to be: “We come in peace, but please accept this subscription model.”

Option 3: The Military. Necessary? Yes.

Front-facing? Let’s maybe not start with missiles. Leading with generals sends a very clear message: “We assume you’re hostile.”

Aliens show up curious, leave offended, and suddenly we’re the bad guys in our own extinction event. Not ideal.

Option 4: Scientists. Now we’re talking. Scientists would actually ask good questions like: “Where are you from?” “How did you get here?” “Why did you choose us?” But they’d also forget to explain TikTok, reality TV, or why we argue online with strangers at 2 a.m.

Aliens deserve the full picture. So Who Should Speak for Humanity?

Honestly? A group chat. Not one person. Not one nation. A carefully selected team of people who all balance each other out:

A scientist to explain how the universe works. An artist to explain why we paint sunsets. A philosopher to explain why we argue about everything. A humanitarian to explain compassion. And one brutally honest person whose only job is to say: “Yeah… we’re aware this looks bad.”

No flags. No weapons. No speeches written by interns.

Just: “We’re a mess. We fight. We panic. We love dogs more than most people. But we’re trying.”

Because Let’s Be Real…. If aliens came to Earth and judged us solely by our leadership, we’d be toast.

But if they judged us by: Our art. Our humor. Our ability to laugh at ourselves. And our refusal to stop hoping, even when history suggests we should

We might actually pass. Barely. But still.

If aliens are smart enough to find us, they’re smart enough to see that humanity isn’t defined by power. It’s defined by the chaos we somehow turn into meaning. And if they can’t handle that? Well… at least we didn’t send a politician first.

English Language Throwing Curve Balls

Have you ever thought about the meaning of the word bark?

I have. Probably more than a healthy amount for a grown man with responsibilities.

See, this thought arrived courtesy of Coda, my fearless companion, who is currently running from window to window and outside, barking at what I can only assume is a leaf that owes him money.

This leaf is living rent-free in his head.

What I can’t figure out is why Coda is yelling “TREE ARMOR!”

Because yes, bark is both: The sound a dog makes and the outer protective layer of a tree

Which means, linguistically speaking, my dog isn’t barking…. He’s aggressively announcing forestry facts.

Who Approved This? Why is bark the sound a dog makes and the outside protective covering of a tree?

There is no explanation that doesn’t involve: A drunken poet. Too much ale. And a dare.

This absolutely feels like someone in the Middle Ages went, “You know what would be hilarious? Let’s ruin English forever.”

And it worked. English: The Ultimate Hoarder The English language is like a bad hoarder with emotional attachment issues.

It doesn’t let go of words. It steals them.

From the likes of Vikings, Romans, French aristocrats, and probably one guy yelling in a tavern

English doesn’t curate. It just piles words in a corner and says, “We’ll figure it out later.”

Later never came.

Let’s Talk About “Run” (Because Why Not?)

Like bark, there’s also run.

You can: Run a race. Run a business. Run out of milk. And, my personal winter favorite… Have your nose run.

NONE OF THESE ARE THE SAME ACTIVITY.

One involves fitness.

One involves capitalism.

One involves disappointment.

And one involves tissues and dignity loss.

Yet English was like: “Yep. Same word. You’ll figure it out.”

Coda Is My Morning Linguistics Professor. Barking and running is what Coda gives me every morning.

And as I watch him run… free, focused, chasing invisible enemies. I start to understand the meaning of run.

Until I: Sneeze, go to work, or try to make cereal… then my runs are all different.

Who decided this? Tree Bark vs. Dog Bark…. Let’s compare.

Tree bark: Chill Silent, has minded its business for centuries.

Dog bark: Loud, opinionated and has STRONG feelings about the mailman.

And yet… Same word.

That’s like calling a whisper and a fire alarm by the same name and saying,

“Context will figure it out.”

No. Context is exhausted.

So here I am, lying in bed, thinking about coffee, listening to Coda announce tree armor to the neighborhood, stuck between, a tree’s calm, silent bark, and a dog’s loud, passionate bark.

And realizing something important: English isn’t broken. It’s chaotic by design. Much like Coda. Much like my mornings. Much like life.

Now excuse me while I run to get coffee and tell my dog that linguistically speaking, he’s yelling at botany.

(Honestly, I’m not running, I’m driving to get coffee)

Prayers, Good Vibes, and the Performance of Caring

Anytime something bad happens, locally or globally, it lands on social media within minutes. And honestly? That part doesn’t bother me.

People grieve differently. Some need to talk. Some need to vent. Some need to feel less alone. And news outlets? Social media is basically their second newsroom now. None of that is surprising. What does get under my skin is the flood of comments that immediately follow:

“Sending prayers.”

“Praying for you.”

“Prayers for the families.”

“Prayers for first responders.”

Now listen… if you pray, cool. Truly. No one should stop you or shame you for it. Faith is personal, and I respect that.

But here’s the uncomfortable question nobody wants to ask: How many of those people are actually praying?

Like… genuinely stopping what they’re doing. Dropping to their knees. Hands together. Intentional thought. A real moment of reflection or connection.

Because typing “sending prayers” while standing in line at Target or scrolling on the toilet isn’t prayer. It’s a comment.

And when hundreds of people say they’re praying, but aren’t, it becomes no different than any other empty promise we casually toss around every day.

As a society, we’ve accepted the gesture without the action. The appearance of compassion without the effort of it.

And that’s the part that feels dishonest.

I’m not religious. So if something happens to me, praying for me, or saying you’ll pray for me, doesn’t really land. I’d honestly rather you send good vibes. But even that has the same problem.

Because “sending good vibes” is often just another phrase people use to signal that they’re participating in the moment, without actually doing anything meaningful.

It’s not prayer.

It’s not energy.

It’s not support.

It’s words.

Words designed to make the person typing them feel like they contributed. Like they helped. Like they checked the “I care” box for the day.

And I get it..: most people don’t know what to say when tragedy hits. Silence feels wrong. Doing nothing feels worse.

But maybe the answer isn’t louder words. Maybe it’s honesty.

Say: “This breaks my heart.” “I don’t know what to say, but I’m thinking about you.” Or, wild idea, actually do something. Reach out. Check in. Show up.

Because compassion isn’t measured by how fast you comment or how many praying-hand emojis you use. It’s measured by sincerity.

And right now, social media is overflowing with performances of care… while real empathy quietly gets drowned out in the noise.

Life is already chaotic enough. We don’t need to add hollow comfort to the list.

WV PEIA: Insurance That Doesn’t Insure Health—Just Delays Relief

Let’s get something straight right out of the gate:

WV PEIA does not insure health.

They insure hesitation. They insure delay. They insure the hope that if you wait long enough, you’ll either give up or learn to live with pain.

And honestly? They’re very good at it.

PEIA hates done care

Preventative care? Fine.

Routine visits? Sure.

But done care, you know, care that actually fixes a problem instead of endlessly managing it? That’s where PEIA starts clutching its pearls.

Spine surgery. Structural repair. Long-term solutions. Suddenly it’s all “Have you tried suffering longer?”

They love treatments that: Are temporary. Need to be repeated. Kick the can down the road.

Injections? Approved.

PT forever? Absolutely.

Actually fixing the problem? Whoa there, cowboy.

You’re discouraged from using the insurance you pay for. PEIA technically exists to provide coverage, but their real specialty is making you feel like you’re doing something wrong by asking for it.

Need advanced care?

You’ll be buried under: Prior authorizations. Documentation requirements. Appeals & Denials worded just politely enough to still feel like a slap.

The message is clear: “We’re not saying no… we’re just making this so difficult you stop asking.”

They make you feel guilty for being sick or injured

This one’s personal. If your condition is labeled “degenerative,” PEIA treats it like a character flaw.

Wear and tear?

Aging spine?

Long-term damage from physically demanding work or life?

Apparently that’s on you.

Never mind that:

Degeneration causes real pain Degeneration causes nerve damage Degeneration doesn’t magically stop because insurance says it’s “normal”

You’re made to feel like needing care is somehow indulgent…: as if you’re asking for luxury healthcare instead of basic function.

“Medical necessity” as a weapon. PEIA loves the phrase medical necessity the way villains love monologues.

They don’t use it to determine care. They use it to deny care.

Case in point: I was given five criteria to meet in order to appeal a denied surgery.

I met four out of five.

FOUR. OUT. OF. FIVE.

Denied anyway.

Among the criteria I did meet:

Proximity to provider. Established relationship with provider. Failed conservative care.

(And yes, failed care means PT, injections, and time. Lots of time.)

What did PEIA say? Nope. Still not good enough. So let’s be honest, this was never about criteria. It was about cost avoidance.

They charge you for “being insured” and then don’t count your payments

Here’s where it gets even more outrageous: I met my deductible 100%. I even have the receipts to prove it. Yet PEIA continued billing me, claiming I “didn’t meet my deductible.” Why? Because apparently, I was “technically in-network but out of state.”

Translation: all the money I already paid… doesn’t count.

Where did it go? Who cashed it? Certainly not toward the care I needed. Certainly not toward my deductible. Just vanished into the bureaucratic void, like some fancy magic trick.

This isn’t just incompetence, it’s a scam disguised as policy.

PEIA doesn’t insure health, they insure delay!

Here’s the truth no one wants to say out loud: PEIA’s model works best when:

People put off care. People manage pain instead of fixing it. People eventually stop trying.

They don’t measure success by recovery.

They measure it by how long they can delay paying for meaningful treatment. And for teachers, public employees, and families who depend on this coverage?

That delay isn’t abstract. It’s physical. It’s emotional. It’s exhausting.

Healthcare shouldn’t feel like a moral failing. Needing treatment shouldn’t feel like a negotiation.

And insurance shouldn’t act like it’s doing you a favor by barely showing up.

WV PEIA doesn’t protect health. It protects budgets. And the people paying the price?

They’re the ones just trying to feel normal again.