So, here's the gritty bit. I recently had my application for Personal Independent Payment (disability benefits) turned down. This is because, apparently, I can walk over 200m and have good strength in all my body. Neither of these things is true. They didn't take account of what I'd told them, and either they ignored what the physiotherapist who assessed me had to say or she told them things that weren't true. It's a bit of a bummer because I desperately need some more money. I've been living off savings for months now and I can't do that indefinitely. It's also a bummer because all of the money I need is related to two big facts about disability: 1) you can't work full-time or even part-time because you can't be reliable and 2) being disabled is expensive!
|"My word, Dorothy, that's a lovely chair!" - "Oh yes, Bernard, but now I can't afford to eat."|
|If I had a dog I could get so much more food. Except for the fact that I still wouldn't be able to afford it.|
|The fun never stops.|
|Typed 'I can't sleep gerd'. This is the non-baby photo.|
|Chaos is nigh and the dog will be innocent.|
|I've given up on style. Functional will do.|
ALL OF THIS.
For all of this, I get nothing. The IPC says I don't have an 'eligible' condition, which makes me feel as if my struggle with every minute of my life is a charade. The British government says that they - THEY! - 'have decided' that I am not in need of help. The people who love me now are dealing with me spending all my energy on functioning properly in public so that by the time I spend time with them alone all I can do is curl up and cry from frustration, desperation, pain and lack of hope. The act of crying this much makes me sick, it makes me faint, it gives me awful headaches and loss of vision. All I want to do is curl in a ball and not come out again, but I can't even lie down without my sodding stomach contents reappearing, so instead I try to hold it in for as long as I can, before ultimately giving up and deciding that since I'm going to die with this thing anyway I may as well choke on my own vomit and die on the floor now.
That is how I feel. It's not necessarily what I want to do, and - I promise - it doesn't mean I'm intending to kill myself. It just means that, because I have bipolar depression and a bloody difficult genetic disorder, I wouldn't mind if I did die. It would make things easier.
I can't do this fight anymore. I could do some of it before, with support, but now I can't. Everyone says I need to appeal, but I haven't got the energy to. Today, I gave all the forms to my mum, because she'll have to do it for me. I just can't. This setback has taken all the fight out of me. Part of it is BPD/bipolar talking, I know, but I just can't fight anymore. What I expect will happen is that the wonderful people I love in life will carry me through this (although it makes me so guilty to think of it) and they won't put me down until I feel a bit stronger. In the meantime, I will go on acting most of the time, around most people, but in the background always will be 'this would be so much easier if I weren't here.'
Those of you who know me personally - if I seem vague in conversation, please don't worry. It's just that I'm struggling at the moment to keep my mind on what I'm doing, and my brain wanders off and my ears close and then I don't know where I am. I'm sorry. I care about you; I care about all of you. The problem is that I don't care about me.