So. Things settled down a little while after the last post. While I did feel very much like I did as I left NYC, the feeling passed once I got to snuggle with Maggie (it felt like a knot loosening in my bronchial tubes) and that’s where the similarity ends. I’m not recently out of the psychiatric ward, and that’s a very good thing.
Additionally, I’m even getting out of the house again – on a regular basis. On one of my more productive days in February (or early March) I looked up the Volunteering Scotland website. There were a few adverts that I responded to, but the website is shonky, so couldn’t really make it work for very long. One of the positions advertised was for Oxfam (actually, 2 or 3 were, but that’s beside the point just now) – if you know me enough to know my employment history, I had a paid job with Oxfam not long before going to the US. I got a nice reply from the store manager, inviting me in for chat about what he was looking for and what I wanted to do.
Which leads to the bizarre part. The store manager used to work for Lush, leaving the company about the time I started. In fact, once I had accepted the job, I contacted him via the customer forum, to ask for advice (which he gave, which was nice!) Once again, I feel like I’ve gone a long way to travel a short distance. Or something. Who knew it wasn’t always a bad thing?
As Helen said on Twitter once (recently), it’s a small world, but I wouldn’t want to paint it.
Totally unrelated, my newest podiatric (just making up words now) acquisition, courtesy of my lovely partner.
Yes, it means what you think it means. Feel free to laugh, it’s only going to get sillier from here on out…
So. Two years have passed since I left the US. A lot has changed in that time, but mostly cosmetically. On the inside, I guess I’m much the same. Except that I’ve had 2 more years to… do whatever it is I do.
I started seeing a CPN and we were meant to be starting IPT soon but current events mean that I’m not sure I’ll be within the care of NHS Lothian come my next appointment.
What we spoke about at my last appointment was trust, in that I have a really hard time trusting anyone. Especially in relationships. Oddly enough, after being assaulted by my first boyfriend; through an abusive relationship that included physical abuse; being cheated on by someone who turned out to have raped the woman he cheated with and then the emotional torture TCIM put me through, I don’t tell just anyone the finer details of my life or what’s in my head.
Which is never enough for most people in my life. If I got a pound for everytime I’ve heard “but I’m not like the others”, I would not be very concerned about money for a while. I would have left the US a very rich woman, and not only because of the favourable exchange rates.
I don’t want someone who will listen. If I ever manage to talk, honestly, to someone, they’ll more than likely be a trained professional. What I need is support. But most people who are physically present in my life tend to turn their backs on me when I don’t play nice like they expect me to.
I just want Maggie. She only expects me to feed her and change her litter. And play with her. Brush her. Fuss her.
All that aside, she doesn’t expect me to do things on her schedule. Except she does.
OK. She doesn’t expect me to tell her my feelings and deepest secrets because she wants to hear them. And if I do choose to talk to her, I know she’s never going to turn it back on me as a way to hurt me. She has claws for that and she uses them anyway, and probably doesn’t intend to hurt me anyway.
At the very end of last year, Mum had a routine but major operation. Because I was home for the holidays and unemployed, I stayed on through January while she recovered and healed.
Maggie came, too. In fact, she was there earlier as we took a trip down South just before Christmas, so took her to my parents then.
One evening, maybe a week or two after Mum returned home, I stuck my head round the door to see if she needed anything. The above is what greeted me, as Maggie sat up and came into view, presumably reacting to my voice. If I recall correctly, even Mum was surprised to find her there.
What makes it extra-unusual is that Maggie doesn’t care to share my parent’s bed with either of them.
It’s probably not translating well, but this photo makes me smile. I remember laughing as Maggie popped into view.
In other news, Pixlr-o-matic has been updated and a significant number of effects added. This excites me. Really, it does.
So about a month ago, I finally applied for Job Seekers Allowance.
My recollection of the last time I applied is a bit hazy; it was a couple of years ago and I was ill at the time. I’m probably equally ill just now, except it’s manifesting differently and I haven’t recently spent a week in hospital. (Plants Vs. Zombies always reminds me of being in hospital, though I seem to have forgotten how to get through the nighttime levels)
Last time, at the initial meeting, I explained that I was ill and it was still affecting my ability to work. The adviser ended the JSA claim there and then, putting me on ESA (Employment Support Allowance). As I say, my recall is very patchy, but I do remember her saying that I would have no problems afor at least the first few weeks, probably because I had expressed concerns over the medical assessment. There’s no way any ATOS doctor would ‘pass’ me as unfit for work, I knew that then and apparently so did the Job Centre staff. My ESA claim was backdated to just after my return.to the UK, I think. It was accepted and I received the full amount for about 6 weeks. Because I knew the letter from ATOS was coming (and because I was living with my parents and wanted to move sooner rather than later, not something any benefit really allows for, in my experience) I continued looking for a part-time job. Which I found about the time the second letter arrived, the one that threatened sanctions if didn’t attend the medical.
Even after phoning the DWP to end my claim, I still received the letter saying that my claim was stopped due to my non-attendance.
This time around, no mention of ESA was made. Whether or not that’s because I’ve claimed before so it’s assumed I know how, I couldn’t say. Instead, my Job Seeker’s agreement states that I’m looking for part-time work because of my ongoing illness, that I’m currently in treatment for. (Trying Interpersonal Therapy this time, still need to be awake in the morning to see a GP to sort out meds) In addition, I’m to see a disability adviser at the Job Centre some time.
So. Application made, agreements signed, sign on times appointed. Then a letter arrives, saying that I didn’t contribute enough in tax year 09-10 to qualify for contributions-based JSA. I can’t remember enough of that year to remember what I was doing, besides being ill and my ex-husband being a shit to me for a lot of it. I know I worked for Oxfam during that year, so I think I was on JSA before then. I don’t think I bothered signing on after leaving Oxfam (I got ill again) because I was emigrating to the US at the beginning of the next year. My ESA claim started at the very end of that tax year.
I did pay tax and NI that year, just not enough, apparently.
When I phoned the DWP to find out more, the person who I spoke to asked if I would like to apply for income-based JSA. He asked if I live with my partner (I do, and had said as much on my application form) and if said partner works full-time. Even after telling me I wouldn’t be awarded anything, he still wanted to make me an appointment to go the the Job Centre to apply for income-based JSA.
And this household income stuff? If I lived with my parents, would that still count? If my partner and I weren’t a couple but simply flatmates, and provably so, would that still count? Something tells me not.
The day after this, I received another letter, this one telling me that my choosing to leave my last job voluntarily (because I was ill and getting iller, as I told the DWP) would probably affect my claim. I was fired once, from a shitty job I hated, about 10 years ago. I was informed that that would probably affect my claim then, too. And they sent me a copy of the statement my shit-eating ex-manager had filled out. It was mostly bullshit, he didn’t like me because I didn’t fancy him or think he was all kinds of wonderful, but it was still in the 3 months, so… No loss; like I say, it was a shitty job working for mostly shitty people. Anyway, I digress…
Last week, I received another letter from the DWP, confirming my bank details for payment of my allowance.
If the government looked at how much could be saved on stationery and postage, I’d be willing to bet that quite a number of disabled people wouldn’t be facing down abject poverty.
Through reading a blog post (I’m afraid that I don’t know the url to link directly; Forty Shades of Grey, probably the most recent post) I have just discovered that my partner might be eligible of working tax credits, seeing as how I’m now his dependant. Much as with my own tax credits, the DWP aren’t very good at telling people who aren’t working parents/care-givers about their eligibility.
I’ve read a few times over the years about how many benefits go unclaimed, mostly by older people – who have spent most of their lives working and hearing about benefit scroungers, so the idea that they might be entitled to, never mind applying for, benefits may never have occurred. If everyone claimed what they were entitled to, what would happen? Would MPs maybe stop.voting themselves pay rises? Would their expenses and tax-payer subsidies come to an end? Probably not; the people who decide these things are the MPs after all. They, especially this government, would sell every school and hospital in the land before restricting their own benefits.
One last letter arrived last week, this time from HMRC. Enclosed was a cheque for a bit over £850, from tax year 09-10 (rough guess that that’s about 10% of my earned income that year; Oxfam pay a fair hourly wage {an anti-poverty organisation can’t very well expect its employees to live in poverty; the rate was better than Lush} but I was only part-time and there for about 6 months)
So. I used to watch television a fair bit. Then after a few moves and not being able to afford a tv never mind the license, as well as developing a burgeoning video game habit, I kinda stopped. As a result, I’m not massively into Dr. Who any more. While David Tennant is extremely easy on the eye, my favourite Doctor is still Sylvester McCoy. Downton Abbey swept right past me. Insert some other massively popular tv show that I don’t know about because I don’t watch the box or, apparently, follow the trending topics of twitter at the critical times.
That’s not to say I never put it on. I still like CSI (sometimes Sunglasses of Justice for a bit of hamminess, but never NY) and I miss having Nat Geo to watch Air Crash Investigation. One day, I will own the complete box sets of ST: TNG, DS9, Babylon 5, Battlestar Galactica (the new version) and Fraiser. I’m losing the point of what I want to say.
The thing about watching the tellybox is that it tends to reflect a filtered view of the world back, and I don’t always find that reflection to be worthwhile entertainment. Basically; watching while feminist can really take the shine off things.
For example; my gleeful pleasure (I don’t see the point in being guilty about it) is Ringer. It’s just back from a mid-season break in the US and will be starting again later today here. So I’ve downloaded and watched the two episodes that have aired over there already. Love. It. It’s so overblown and soap opera-y, and somehow doesn’t take itself too seriously. And SMG. I know she’s not Buffy, but dammit. It’s hard to let go. There’s a plotline emerging that involves SMG’s step-daughter who may or may not have been sexually assaulted (they keep saying “forced to have sex” in the show; that’s rape. Why they dance around the ‘R’ word, I’m unsure.) Thus far, they’re handling it quite well. SMG finds out what happened, then goes and right hooks the man responsible. He was in their house. It’s too complicated to try to explain. She feels bad for responding with physical violence and a Point Is Made that it’s hardly an appropriate response, even if the attacker is your 16 year old step-daughter’s teacher. One of SMG’s characters (again, too confusing to explain just now) immediately believes that Juliet is telling the truth. Of course, this being twisty-turny confusing soap opera plot world, there has to be complications. Juliet had a crush on her teacher beforehand, waters are muddied. That particular line has barely started and will likely take a while to play out, but it’s important to note that Juliet was believed from the beginning. The accusations of her making it up have come later, from characters that we’re clearly meant to find unsympathetic anyway.
But lest I sound like I’m waxing lyrical about this perfect show; it’s not. The last episode I watched made a thinly veiled reference to prison rape. That, now I think about it, was in the previous episode (I think I missed it while making a cuppa) and shown again in the most recent one as part of the catch-up montage. So good they included it in that. You can imagine my impressed face.
The other show I’ve been making a point of watching is Community. Again, not without faults, but better than some other offerings. What actually spurred me to get my grubby mitts on it was The Big Bang Theory. Which I do sorta, kinda… well, not dislike. Maybe it’ll warm up for me? The first couple of episodes were fine, then I happened to flick the telly on the other day and it was on E4. The episode that was being broadcast was newer and the main theme seemed to be the hilarious chestnut of ‘women don’t let you have any fun. Ever.’ Sheldon’s girlfriend graduate student ‘groupie’, according to Wikipedia, prevents him from watching tv, playing video games, going paint-balling and so on, as they are a distraction from his research. Overall, and possibly wrongly, my impression of The Big Bang Theory is that it is funny, sure, but still buys into the really tired and overplayed gender stereotypes, especially when they deal with romantic relationships. At least they allow for women to be intelligent and nerdy, I guess that’s something…
Anyway. I’d heard mention of Community, so figured that as my insomnia/screwy sleep pattern is so bothersome just now, I might as well see what it’s like. As I catch up to season 3, currently being aired in the US, I like it. The female characters aren’t just there to serve as something for the male characters to ‘bounce’ off of. Most of the time. They have a way of lampooning certain tropes, including racism and homophobia, that usually works. Usually. Pierce ( Chevy Chase’s character) regularly makes bigoted comments; it appears to be one of the important character descriptors – he makes these comments because he’s generally unsympathetic. Chang, a semi-regular cast member, is shown to often use ‘gay’ as derogatory. It’s jarring, but again it is, I think, a contextual shorthand for ‘don’t like this guy’. The more that’s shown of him, the less tolerable he gets, save for a few flashes of some humanity in there, somewhere. What they do toss about like it’s nothing though, is ‘lame’. I hate that word as a pejorative. In one of the early episodes, ‘tardy’ is used* and Pierce apologises to Abed (who I think has an Autistic Spectrum disorder, though as far as I’m aware it has yet to be stated in the show and ARGH! the wikipedia entry for the character is more than a little presumptive about what it’s like for someone with Apserger’s) so it’s not that the show’s producers have no awareness of ableism. And yet. Lots of things which have no difficulty with mobility are described as ‘lame’.
The other thing that’s bugging me about Community? The character of Jeff Winger is the only one who is allowed to change from the character he was in the pilot episode. The rest of the ensemble have episodes in which Something Happens and they have Lessons, but they never really change. It’s almost like Friends; towards the end of that the female characters got more and more 1 dimensional. And less funny and likeable. This immutability of the main cast bothers me because Winger is based on the show creator, and it gets to be fairly obvious. The creator guy went to college and got to care about his classmates “even though they had nothing to do with the film industry and I had nothing to gain from them and nothing to offer them.” Except he clearly has gained from them. The hit tv show about a bunch of people thrown together by their happening to take a Spanish class at a community college? Ringing any bells for ya?
Anyway. Like I think I said, nothing’s perfect. And I’m enjoying Community about 98% of the time. I’m wilfully blanking out the ‘fun’ name for the Transfer Dance at the end of season one. Hopefully it was used because it’s offensive, given that the Dean spends so much time trying to be non-offensive. But they probably just thought it was funny, or something.
The Hallowe’en episode Epidemiology had me crying with laughter though. ABBA will never be quite the same again.
*fun fact: I honestly didn’t realise the root of the word until I was reading FWD/Forward recently. I mean, it’s fairly obvious now that it’s derived from ‘retarded’, but it’s not a word I use and had never given it thought before.
edited to add: So the Ringer plot I mentioned? Oh dear. It was all a ruse to get money from Julie’s daddy after he stopped her trust fund. There might be more in that story, but the ‘cry rape’ trope was well and truly perpetuated.
About 8 or 9 years ago, I had not long split up with the Evil Ex. This is the Evil Ex who, amongst other things, tried to strangle me, pinned me to the floor, raped me… And countless other things that I cannot recall because my mind won’t let me. Not all at once, you understand. Over the course of about 18 months to 2 years, until I found the wherewithal to say ‘no more’.
At that time, and for most of the years since then, I was in a precarious financial situation. I couldn’t find full-time work; working two jobs led to countless conflicts – one manager would schedule me to start at 2pm, say. So the other would schedule me to finish at 2pm. Of course, the latter manager would insist I stay on the shop floor until 2pm and the former would expect me to be on their shop floor at 2pm. So that didn’t last; one manager offered me a 20 hour contract with more as and when available. I took that. Ends almost met; my Mum often made up the shortfall.
In the aftermath of breaking up with the EE, I never got around to sorting out a bank account. Banks, at that time, were 9-5, Monday to Friday. I was pretty much always working and didn’t have enough of a lunch break to leave the shop, never mind hang around the bank. So I continued to use the account that had his name on it, as well as mine. He had given me his card (unusually generous of him; perhaps he knew it was pointless to keep it as I never had much money spare) but hadn’t taken his name off the account. I kept an eye on statements anyway, just in case he got any funny ideas (for all that I could’ve done anyway, if he had taken all my money)
Then, one day, my rent didn’t go into my flatmate’s bank account. I checked up; the person who wrote down her details at my bank when we were setting up the standing order had gotten a number wrong. It was the bank’s mistake. As I was talking to a different bank employee about it, I mentioned that I had panicked; worried that EE had purloined the money. She asked if we had split up. I confirmed that. Immediately she froze the account. No money in, no money out. Well. No money out, anyway. A friend was transferring £100 to me, so I could buy a train ticket to visit her. That went into the frozen account just fine. Last I heard, it was still there.
I protested at the time; it was my only account and it was my money. She sneered a bit; there was only £3.24 in the account at the time. She missed the point somewhat; it was my money. I wasn’t allowed to withdraw it until EE had taken his name off. The bank wouldn’t get involved in contacting him to ask him to come and do so, no. They would cut me off from my income quite happily (there was a mad scramble to make sure my wages did not go into that account next pay day) and probably take any money should they feel the need to levy any charges but they would not write to him. I tried to explain that I was afraid of him and what he might do, should I get in touch. Not interested. If I wanted the account back, I had to. I couldn’t afford a lawyer to do it for me (remember the balance at the time?) so I was left with few options. I opened a new account. Transferred all my bills and stuff to that. What else could I have done?
A couple of years ago, I went to a different branch of HBOS, to take my name off the account. The teller looked at it; it was still frozen as you’d expect, and had just over £100 in it. She was baffled as to why I was giving up my claim on that money which is rightfully mine, even now. I can’t remember what I said to her; probably that there isn’t enough money in the world to induce me to contact that psychopathic bastard and even if there was, it’d be more than £103.24.
Should he ever discover that that money is there I hope that, should he do anything other than give it to Women’s Aid or Rape Crisis, he’s hit by a bus. An empty bus with a broken handbrake.
It might as well be blood money.
And also, don’t give HBOS your business. They’re not very nice to survivors of IPV.
Due to a delay in the kitchen renovations, Maggie might not be able to come home for another month. I miss her dreadfully already, it’s only been a week.
And who wouldn’t miss that perfect pink nose?
Her favourite place to sleep is wherever I sleep. She often bests me to it.
Over the past few months, Maggie has started curling up next to me at night. Not particularly often; maybe monthly, when I have cramps that would, I suppose, be menstrual if I still had periods.
Last night was a snuggly night. She’d actually curled up on my bed long before I got into it, but didn’t shift when I got in. The upshot of that being that I had about 4 inches of mattress to fit myself on beside her, and only enough duvet to go over me, not all the way down the other side. In other words, my bum was hanging off the side of the bed, getting a chilly draught. But Maggie is a dead weight when she wants to be and I didn’t have the heart to move her. I like cuddling with her and she often moves of her own accord after a while anyway.
At about 5am or so, I woke with a bit of a start from a vivid and bizarre dream. No idea what it was, just that it was vivid. And bizarre.
Maggie hadn’t moved.
She’d been lying on my bed in that position for about 5 hours. Her back felt cold. I couldn’t feel her breathing or find a pulse. Touching her face elicited nothing.
As I was waking Rich in a blind panic, she stirred and looked round, utterly oblivious to the tizz I’d gotten myself in, or the adrenaline that was rushing through me so fast, I’m a little surprised Rich didn’t have to bat me off the ceiling.
When I woke up I was apparently sufficiently groggy enough that the fact I was sweating gently from the heat Maggie generates – even though I was only half-covered by the duvet and the room was quite chilly – didn’t register. That Maggie’s back often feels cold to the touch, presumably because of some method of retaining body heat (probably involving fur) is a cat thing – didn’t register. My vague awareness that her breathing slows while she’s sleeping (though she often snores, so I’m very aware of it at the time) – didn’t register. That I don’t know how to take her pulse – didn’t register.
It took quite a while to get back to sleep. Not for Rich (who barely woke up, really) or Maggie (who barely moved until about an hour later, when she was hungry) of course.
While trying to calm myself down (and not fall off the edge of the bed; as mentioned Maggie didn’t move so I was still perched on a narrow strip at the edge) I realised something.
Maggie must’ve been quite deeply asleep, to not have moved or immediately react when I touched her face. She was deeply asleep while curled up right next to me. For about 5 hours.
She couldn’t tell me she loves me any better way if she suddenly developed the capacity for speech
To go a bit retro (vintage?), I yoinked this from Sal’s blog. And given that I’m sitting in the back bedroom of my parents’ house, it’s like 2007 all over again…
1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?
Lived in Edinburgh? Ooh! Ooh! I know! I met Sal! We went down for her wedding and she’s actually even lovelier in person, which I wouldn’t believe possible, but there you go.
I also ate something after the cat licked it; something the thought of would have given me the dry boke a mere 2 years ago, but that’s not quite the same kind of thing. And I had two ultrasounds. I’m not sure the ovarian cysts they confirmed are a new experience though.
2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don’t recall making any resolutions – it’s not really something I do because who sets out to be a worse person and have a crappy year? Setting yourself up to fail (as so many resolutions do) achieves feeling that way quite well though, I gather. This year, though; be a proper vegan again, level my alts to 85, take more photos (and, indeed, get all that 120 film developed, sort out a scanner that works, scan developed negs, create an online gallery of the better ones. Hopefully, that will take a bit more than two minutes to upload 3 photos of Maggie. Because it’s more than 3 photos, and they not all of Maggie.) Learn to play guitar, with a view to learning L7 songs.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Nope.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
No, thankfully. Though I gather it was a bit close for at least one friend, for a while there.
5. What countries did you visit?
Does England count?
6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?
A notion of my Purpose In Life. The wherewithall to fund my shoe habit. An easily-maintained edgy haircut that doesn’t look like a home-cut bob after 2 weeks (my fault, not the hairdresser, I hasten to point out!)
7. What dates from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
June 10th – meeting Sal (the day before her wedding) December 16th – finding out that the divorce had finally been granted.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Making it through? Not going and smacking my ex-husband for being a self-involved twat?
9. What was your biggest failure?
The fund-raising event that I was organising. It never happened because I was crippled with depression when I should’ve been working on that.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
The depression came back, though it doesn’t seem to have been as bad as it could’ve been.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
The most amazeballs shoes of EVAR.
12. Where did most of your money go?
Coffee shops.
13. What did you get really excited about?
The above shoes? Getting a new phone? I spent like, a month, researching what Android phone I wanted. More seriously though; going to Sal’s wedding and spending Christmas with Rich and my family.
14. What song will always remind you of 2011?
15. Compared to this time last year, are you: – happier or sadder? Happier. It’s not a straight line, but the general trend is upward. – thinner or fatter? Fatter. – richer or poorer? Poorer, what with being ill and not working.
16. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Writing. The muse up and left and I’m struggling to get back in the habit.
17. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Caring so much about people who have shown they don’t really care that much about me.
18. How did you spend Christmas?
With Rich and immediate family. We ate, played Scrabble, faffed around and generally had a quite nice time. Well, I did.
19. What was your favourite TV program?
Ringer. I can’t wait for it to start up again. It’s so bad it’s good, you know? Except it’s not that bad, really.
20. What were your favourite books of the year?
I got a Kindle earlier this year, which I love. I still haven’t read all the books I’d like to read though. One of Us by Michael Marshall Smith (Only Forward is also wonderful, I read that in 2010) comes to mind. I have read other books, but I can’t recall anything particular.
21. What was your favourite music from this year?
MEN, OK Go and School of Seven Bells, though I was well-versed in OK Go’s music before 2011. The others I came across in the past year.
22. What were your favourite films of the year?
I watch so few films, it’s laughable. I bought Whip It though. It’s not perfect, but it’s quite something for me to actually buy a copy of a movie.
23. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 32 and I went out and bought Fallout: New Vegas. My brother sent me an HMV giftcard; the game was just out and I had recently spent a weeks’ holiday playing Fallout 3. I still haven’t taken the cellophane off it, or finished Fallout 3. Getting there, though…
24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
My online friends living on my street. Finding out my Purpose and doing it.
25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?
If I like something, wear it. Hence the shoes pictured above. Wearing them, I discovered that they make my dodgy knees sore. I’ll persevere.
26. What kept you sane?
Maggie.
27. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011.
Be the person I want to be, not what I think someone else wants me to be (especially if that’s not me as I am). There’s someone pretty gosh darned amazing who loves me as I am, who doesn’t want me to be Me 2.0. It’s the best feeling and the joy of it surprises me fairly regularly still.
This is not a new circumstance. I don’t think I’ve made it through two consecutive winters as a functioning person in the last 10 years.
It pains me that Christmas rolls around and I’m unable to get the gifts I want to give the people I love, at least, not without a lot of shuffling and reorganization and shopping around for cheaper alternatives. Even once settled on what I’m going to do (one year all my gift purchases were made in pound shops. All the recipients had the good grace to be fine with that, but tacky crap looks even tackier along side the gifts that originated with the John Lewis partnership) it’s painful. No-one I’m giving a gift to cares about the financial value attached to it. In most cases, I suspect they’re more glad that I’m not swinging from the doorframe. But it is a big, sparkly, all-singing, all-dancing reminder to me that I’ve failed, once again, to be a normal person.
Right now, there’s little I’d like more than to have a job that allowed me to feel like I wasn’t wasting my life. Though, having dropped out of uni and having to leave several jobs all for reasons centering on my patchy mental health, any job I would be able to get would be at the low-paid, menial end of the scale. I have applied for quite a few retail jobs in the last few weeks. No idea how many; I’d have to check the sent folder. Needless to say, I’ve heard nothing back. So the growing feeling that I’m in no condition to really do any paid employment just now is mostly academic.
The other option is to claim benefits. Something I’ve not yet done, as I have been mostly asleep during office hours (I direct you to the timestamp and add that I spent a good hour or two playing WoW and reading things in my reader first, as well as a fair bit of faffing with my new phone.) Besides being asleep, oftentimes I don’t feel able to make phone calls. The anxiety gets too much.
Assuming I do manage to call the DWP, I know I should probably try to claim ESA. When it’s bad, I don’t feel able to leave the house. If I do, everything feels like it’s in a slightly different dimension to me. Having to deal with people, especially in Edinburgh where they STARE (it’s probably because my hair is still a bit blue, and I have facial piercings – the people in this city seem remarkably conservative) and are phenomenally rude. I haven’t been barged into quite so much since I was outside Selfridge’s in December two years ago. I could replicate the experience by scrubbing myself with wire wool until I bled a bit, then rolled in salt.
The notion of having to leave the house to sign on, whether I felt able to or not on any given day, fills me with an oily dread. Never mind the job seeking part, though I can do moat of that relatively easily.
But I should be eligible for ESA. I’m too ill to work. But I’m not daft. If people who have visible, long-term and/or degenerative conditions are finding their claims refused, what hope do I have?
JSA is unlikely too. I live with my partner. When I get together the wherewithal to make my claim, it’ll be turned down – I can depend on him, according to the government. Never mind that being forced to depend on anyone will exacerbate problems that really need addressing.
Damned if I do, damned if don’t. I really cannot see a way out of this, other than a miraculous recovery.
