I didn't want to post till I could do it without crying. Something shifted in my brain last night and I'm like... I'm not okay. I am so very not okay. But I've managed to put most of it over to one side where it's not going to keep making me cry. At least today.

I am going to ask you not to try and be nice to me in the comments, but I'd be grateful for ...ordinary conversationy type remarks, if you can find any.
cut for drivel, navelgazing and suicidal ideation )
I want you to imagine a TV show happening with a split screen, like they did on 24 and... that other TV show, I can't remember what it was called. Both screens are showing the story of the same protagonist.

Screen A shows her going about her life. It's not perfect, but it's okay. She has some trouble with her health, but she has friends and family that support her. She lives in a country where the government is still, more or less, committed to providing a safety net for those whose health compromises their ability to work. There's still enough left of the National Health Service that she doesn't have to deal with medical bills. She's very lucky and she knows it.

Screen B shows a similar story. The bones of the plot are the same. Only on this side of the screen, her friends and family either don't believe in her health problems - oh, she's just lazy. It's just psychosomatic. She's always had an overactive imagination - or else they resent her. My health problems are worse than hers and I hold down a fulltime job. She's just playing the system. I'm a better person than she is because I wouldn't claim welfare even if my country offered it. They make sympathetic noises out of courtesy or pacifism, but they're sick of her whining. They wish she'd just disappear. Her doctor believes she's invented her symptoms out of whole cloth to swindle the government; anything she isn't outright inventing can easily be ascribed to her weight or the fact that she's a hysterical female who reads up her health problems on the Internet. He's convinced there's nothing wrong with her a strict diet and exercise regime wouldn't cure.

On Screen A, she went through some hassle with her welfare a while ago, but it was just routine. It was hard for her, but it wasn't personal. It's hard for everyone and they can't afford to be paying for anyone that could manage without it; and she succeeded in proving she couldn't, so that was all right.

On Screen B, there's a man in a local government office who's made it his personal mission to wipe this woman off the face of the earth. He supposes he could ambush her out walking and stab her, or pay someone else to do it, but he's afraid of the consequence of breaking the law, and besides, that would let her off too easily. He wants her to really suffer, and he knows just how to do it. He's going to use every legal means in his power to strip her of all support and dignity - after all, who does she think she is that his taxes should support her? She's just scrounging scum, she doesn't deserve it. So first he insists she isn't sick at all, and she has to spend half a year on one-third of her (already low) income while she waits her turn to prove to an independent tribunal that she really is. His first attempt was foiled at the tribunal stage; but that's all right. He has all the time in the world and all the resources at his disposal. He can require her to prove herself again and again and again until either he gets the result he wants or she can't face fighting another battle. When he finally succeeds in forcing her into homelessness, he'll laugh and perhaps buy all his mates drinks in the pub to celebrate.

On Screen B, the woman's neighbours hate her; she thinks she's better than they are because she has a posh accent. She reads books and she looked horrified when they bred their fifth litter of Staffie puppies and offered to sell her one. They take delight in filling her recycle bin with rotting garbage. Every time a dog barks in the neighbourhood they telephone the council and complain about her dogs, even though they're pretty sure that was some other dog they heard. They'll be delighted if she gets evicted or someone comes and takes her dogs away; who does she think she is anyway, taking up a nice flat that could have gone to someone deserving. She'll get what's coming to her.

...See, the thing is, I'm not stupid. I'm not completely delusional. I know that Screen A is telling something much closer to the truth. It's just that all my emotions, all my gut reactions, are coming straight from Screen B. And I don't know how to make it stop. I'm terrified every time I walk out of my front door, these days. I'm terrified to speak to people even though I know, really, that they don't actually hate me. This is half the reason I haven't been posting. The other half is that, after an initial first flush of feeling better, the levothyroxine is having almost no effect again; it's a rare good day when I can do as much as walk to the damn corner shop and I'm a drooling brainfogged idiot approximately four days out of seven.

I am also in the middle of switching antidepressants; this required me to wean myself completely off the Zoloft before I can start taking the Seroxat again. Which might, now I think of it, have something to do with the present state of red-alert panic paranoia. It's not usually quite this bad. I just wanted to get it down while I could. I'm now going to hit the post button before I change my mind.
I want you to imagine a TV show happening with a split screen, like they did on 24 and... that other TV show, I can't remember what it was called. Both screens are showing the story of the same protagonist.

Screen A shows her going about her life. It's not perfect, but it's okay. She has some trouble with her health, but she has friends and family that support her. She lives in a country where the government is still, more or less, committed to providing a safety net for those whose health compromises their ability to work. There's still enough left of the National Health Service that she doesn't have to deal with medical bills. She's very lucky and she knows it.

Screen B shows a similar story. The bones of the plot are the same. Only on this side of the screen, her friends and family either don't believe in her health problems - oh, she's just lazy. It's just psychosomatic. She's always had an overactive imagination - or else they resent her. My health problems are worse than hers and I hold down a fulltime job. She's just playing the system. I'm a better person than she is because I wouldn't claim welfare even if my country offered it. They make sympathetic noises out of courtesy or pacifism, but they're sick of her whining. They wish she'd just disappear. Her doctor believes she's invented her symptoms out of whole cloth to swindle the government; anything she isn't outright inventing can easily be ascribed to her weight or the fact that she's a hysterical female who reads up her health problems on the Internet. He's convinced there's nothing wrong with her a strict diet and exercise regime wouldn't cure.

On Screen A, she went through some hassle with her welfare a while ago, but it was just routine. It was hard for her, but it wasn't personal. It's hard for everyone and they can't afford to be paying for anyone that could manage without it; and she succeeded in proving she couldn't, so that was all right.

On Screen B, there's a man in a local government office who's made it his personal mission to wipe this woman off the face of the earth. He supposes he could ambush her out walking and stab her, or pay someone else to do it, but he's afraid of the consequence of breaking the law, and besides, that would let her off too easily. He wants her to really suffer, and he knows just how to do it. He's going to use every legal means in his power to strip her of all support and dignity - after all, who does she think she is that his taxes should support her? She's just scrounging scum, she doesn't deserve it. So first he insists she isn't sick at all, and she has to spend half a year on one-third of her (already low) income while she waits her turn to prove to an independent tribunal that she really is. His first attempt was foiled at the tribunal stage; but that's all right. He has all the time in the world and all the resources at his disposal. He can require her to prove herself again and again and again until either he gets the result he wants or she can't face fighting another battle. When he finally succeeds in forcing her into homelessness, he'll laugh and perhaps buy all his mates drinks in the pub to celebrate.

On Screen B, the woman's neighbours hate her; she thinks she's better than they are because she has a posh accent. She reads books and she looked horrified when they bred their fifth litter of Staffie puppies and offered to sell her one. They take delight in filling her recycle bin with rotting garbage. Every time a dog barks in the neighbourhood they telephone the council and complain about her dogs, even though they're pretty sure that was some other dog they heard. They'll be delighted if she gets evicted or someone comes and takes her dogs away; who does she think she is anyway, taking up a nice flat that could have gone to someone deserving. She'll get what's coming to her.

...See, the thing is, I'm not stupid. I'm not completely delusional. I know that Screen A is telling something much closer to the truth. It's just that all my emotions, all my gut reactions, are coming straight from Screen B. And I don't know how to make it stop. I'm terrified every time I walk out of my front door, these days. I'm terrified to speak to people even though I know, really, that they don't actually hate me. This is half the reason I haven't been posting. The other half is that, after an initial first flush of feeling better, the levothyroxine is having almost no effect again; it's a rare good day when I can do as much as walk to the damn corner shop and I'm a drooling brainfogged idiot approximately four days out of seven.

I am also in the middle of switching antidepressants; this required me to wean myself completely off the Zoloft before I can start taking the Seroxat again. Which might, now I think of it, have something to do with the present state of red-alert panic paranoia. It's not usually quite this bad. I just wanted to get it down while I could. I'm now going to hit the post button before I change my mind.
Bye now, 2010. I can't call this one a bad year or a good year - I lost my Dad, but my greatest fear had been that I'd lose him without finding him first, and that didn't happen. Spike got cancer, but we fought it and (touch wood) we won. The DWP and my own glands conspired to undermine every foundation holding me up, but I'm still standing.

2010's been the year with no middle ground. I've been wrestling a tiger all year, and some days he wins and some days I do. I've been holding my own, I'm even starting to move forward, but I am so godfucked tired and gunshy now. I really need a break from "interesting times." I hope to fuck 2011 can do that for me.

For everyone reading this, I wish you ease from pain, rain where it's needed, sunshine where it's wanted, snow where it's relished, and all the peace, love, joy and plenty you can take. I love you all.

And a special note to some of you - you know who you are. Thank you. I've kept a list of all your addresses, saved in two places so as not to lose it. I said when I promised artwork-for-help that I might take some time doing it; thanks to deathtired I've already taken more than I meant. I just wanted to say I'm not forgetting, I'm not going to break that promise. But please be patient a bit longer. The pills are working, but I still don't have enough energy to throw balls for the dogs two days running and making art takes a lot out of me. Thank you, again, some more.

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE.
Bye now, 2010. I can't call this one a bad year or a good year - I lost my Dad, but my greatest fear had been that I'd lose him without finding him first, and that didn't happen. Spike got cancer, but we fought it and (touch wood) we won. The DWP and my own glands conspired to undermine every foundation holding me up, but I'm still standing.

2010's been the year with no middle ground. I've been wrestling a tiger all year, and some days he wins and some days I do. I've been holding my own, I'm even starting to move forward, but I am so godfucked tired and gunshy now. I really need a break from "interesting times." I hope to fuck 2011 can do that for me.

For everyone reading this, I wish you ease from pain, rain where it's needed, sunshine where it's wanted, snow where it's relished, and all the peace, love, joy and plenty you can take. I love you all.

And a special note to some of you - you know who you are. Thank you. I've kept a list of all your addresses, saved in two places so as not to lose it. I said when I promised artwork-for-help that I might take some time doing it; thanks to deathtired I've already taken more than I meant. I just wanted to say I'm not forgetting, I'm not going to break that promise. But please be patient a bit longer. The pills are working, but I still don't have enough energy to throw balls for the dogs two days running and making art takes a lot out of me. Thank you, again, some more.

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE.
You know that feeling you get just before you realise that you've left the gas on, or an oven glove on a hot stovetop, or your keys/child/dog in the car, or something? That urgent sense of imminent disaster that you can prevent as soon as you remember just what it is?

I haven't stopped feeling like that almost constantly since the beginning of the DWP/mental illness medical drama. And that was back in September last year. It doesn't leave me with a lot of energy. I crave people and socialising and interaction as much as I ever did but every second of contact with anyone uses up energy. I used to have enough and to spare but this constant shoe-drop vigilance soaks up so much that I've all but shut down. It's killed my attention span and my capacity for concentration, neither of which were all that great to start with. Then I feel guilty about not answering comments and not finishing projects and etc etc etc. It's become a downward spiral that I don't have the energy to lift myself out of unaided.

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow afternoon. I need this to change before I break irretrievably. I probably won't answer comments on this entry either because I need to go and lie down till my heart stops hammering, but know that I am reading them and that I'm committed to resuming normal service as soon as possible. thank you.
You know that feeling you get just before you realise that you've left the gas on, or an oven glove on a hot stovetop, or your keys/child/dog in the car, or something? That urgent sense of imminent disaster that you can prevent as soon as you remember just what it is?

I haven't stopped feeling like that almost constantly since the beginning of the DWP/mental illness medical drama. And that was back in September last year. It doesn't leave me with a lot of energy. I crave people and socialising and interaction as much as I ever did but every second of contact with anyone uses up energy. I used to have enough and to spare but this constant shoe-drop vigilance soaks up so much that I've all but shut down. It's killed my attention span and my capacity for concentration, neither of which were all that great to start with. Then I feel guilty about not answering comments and not finishing projects and etc etc etc. It's become a downward spiral that I don't have the energy to lift myself out of unaided.

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow afternoon. I need this to change before I break irretrievably. I probably won't answer comments on this entry either because I need to go and lie down till my heart stops hammering, but know that I am reading them and that I'm committed to resuming normal service as soon as possible. thank you.
[livejournal.com profile] miintikwa is doing a monthly One Card Draw today. You should go look.

I has a date for DWP tribunal: 27th Jan.

*flailpanic*
Tags:
[livejournal.com profile] miintikwa is doing a monthly One Card Draw today. You should go look.

I has a date for DWP tribunal: 27th Jan.

*flailpanic*
Tags:
* bullet pointed for my convenience

* found my yellow rubber ring that Squish lost a week ago when something distracted him. The park is ankle-deep in leaves right now (note to self, charge batteries and take vids) and it's desperately easy to lose dog toys, which is stressy because I can't currently afford to replace any. I think one of the neighbour kids found it, because it was placed conspicuously by the dog-poo bin for me to find this afternoon. YAY NEIGHBOUR KIDS.

* Right here, right now, is my perfect climate. I am still stressed almost to the point of spoon event horizon but the weather's given me just enough edge on it to peek over the ramparts. Trust me to get my SAD ass-backwards.

* the DWP and the tortuous process of the tribunal continues to grind onwards, vaster than empires and more slow. See above re: stressed, spoon event horizon. My head hurts every time I think about it and I mean that perfectly literally. This week I have set myself the task of contacting my doctor and the Citizen's Advice Bureau, and I'll worry over getting myself to the appointment later.

* don't think I've stopped caring about you just because I don't have the energy to pull words together into a coherent comment on an LJ entry. I haven't.

* my sister has a dog, and I have adorable niece snuggled with said dog pics that I shall post later.
* bullet pointed for my convenience

* found my yellow rubber ring that Squish lost a week ago when something distracted him. The park is ankle-deep in leaves right now (note to self, charge batteries and take vids) and it's desperately easy to lose dog toys, which is stressy because I can't currently afford to replace any. I think one of the neighbour kids found it, because it was placed conspicuously by the dog-poo bin for me to find this afternoon. YAY NEIGHBOUR KIDS.

* Right here, right now, is my perfect climate. I am still stressed almost to the point of spoon event horizon but the weather's given me just enough edge on it to peek over the ramparts. Trust me to get my SAD ass-backwards.

* the DWP and the tortuous process of the tribunal continues to grind onwards, vaster than empires and more slow. See above re: stressed, spoon event horizon. My head hurts every time I think about it and I mean that perfectly literally. This week I have set myself the task of contacting my doctor and the Citizen's Advice Bureau, and I'll worry over getting myself to the appointment later.

* don't think I've stopped caring about you just because I don't have the energy to pull words together into a coherent comment on an LJ entry. I haven't.

* my sister has a dog, and I have adorable niece snuggled with said dog pics that I shall post later.
lizblackdog: (Aeryn:  crackers)
( Oct. 7th, 2009 04:27 pm)
Appeal denied.

hope is a bitch, even when you know there shouldn't be any. now it goes to a tribunal. I have no idea what i'm meant to do with that. now probably isn't the time to tell me.

in the same mail drop, a letter from Bournemouth Borough Council housing landlord services. I was so sure that it was going to be about unpaid rent that i'm proud of myself for even managing to open it, but it was only a flyer about unattended items left in hallways and stairwells.

small fucking mercies. ha fucking ha.
Tags:
lizblackdog: (Aeryn:  crackers)
( Oct. 7th, 2009 04:27 pm)
Appeal denied.

hope is a bitch, even when you know there shouldn't be any. now it goes to a tribunal. I have no idea what i'm meant to do with that. now probably isn't the time to tell me.

in the same mail drop, a letter from Bournemouth Borough Council housing landlord services. I was so sure that it was going to be about unpaid rent that i'm proud of myself for even managing to open it, but it was only a flyer about unattended items left in hallways and stairwells.

small fucking mercies. ha fucking ha.
Tags:
I was telephoned this morning by a cheerful man from the DWP who did his best, in the manner of a religious zealot knocking on the door, to convince me that losing my appeal would be a Good Thing full of Fresh New Opportunities for Productive Work.

I was not at any point rude to him, and I only cried a little. He, meanwhile, confirmed for me that the medical assessor had totally failed to get it on a grand scale, as he had actually STATED in the report that the fact that I was able to walk my damn dogs indicated to him that I clearly would have no difficulty putting myself through the mill of qualifying for fucking jobseeker's allowance.

I discovered that he had a computer in front of him, and I asked him to google Gail Grinds - she was the Florida woman who died after not leaving her couch for seven-odd years. Unfortunately all the news reports about her that remain accessible on the Internet rather completely miss the point there too, and so did Excessively Cheerful Phone Guy; he assumed she was simply 'too fat' and there was the end of it. I attempted to point out that... hey, one doesn't just decide overnight that you're too fat to get up and walk to the toilet. That something like this just DOES NOT HAPPEN without some kind of overwhelming, self-preservation-negating terror or misery or inertia that goes far, far beyond any amount of weight gain.

I don't know if he got it. I told him to google Spoon Theory as well, as he had never heard of it ("Too intelligent for me!" he said in an obscenely cheerful, almost proud tone). I don't know if he'll get that either.

I always remember Gail Grinds, and the dismissive, casual shallow nastiness of those news reports and blogs makes me die a little inside. Because that could so easily have been me. There but for the grace of Dog.

Fuck knows, I don't want to make a long fight out of this. But it's looking increasingly like I'm being backed into it - a fight I doubt very much I have the strength or resources to ENDURE, never mind fucking win.

Still, apparently they've at least started paying me the statutory reduced rate until the appeal's decided. this at least should mean I won't have to sponge further off my mother or get evicted from my fucking home while the gears grind. Small fucking mercies.

ETA: They have not, in fact, begun to pay me. I am clearly going to have to chase that up by phone-tag. *headdesk*
I was telephoned this morning by a cheerful man from the DWP who did his best, in the manner of a religious zealot knocking on the door, to convince me that losing my appeal would be a Good Thing full of Fresh New Opportunities for Productive Work.

I was not at any point rude to him, and I only cried a little. He, meanwhile, confirmed for me that the medical assessor had totally failed to get it on a grand scale, as he had actually STATED in the report that the fact that I was able to walk my damn dogs indicated to him that I clearly would have no difficulty putting myself through the mill of qualifying for fucking jobseeker's allowance.

I discovered that he had a computer in front of him, and I asked him to google Gail Grinds - she was the Florida woman who died after not leaving her couch for seven-odd years. Unfortunately all the news reports about her that remain accessible on the Internet rather completely miss the point there too, and so did Excessively Cheerful Phone Guy; he assumed she was simply 'too fat' and there was the end of it. I attempted to point out that... hey, one doesn't just decide overnight that you're too fat to get up and walk to the toilet. That something like this just DOES NOT HAPPEN without some kind of overwhelming, self-preservation-negating terror or misery or inertia that goes far, far beyond any amount of weight gain.

I don't know if he got it. I told him to google Spoon Theory as well, as he had never heard of it ("Too intelligent for me!" he said in an obscenely cheerful, almost proud tone). I don't know if he'll get that either.

I always remember Gail Grinds, and the dismissive, casual shallow nastiness of those news reports and blogs makes me die a little inside. Because that could so easily have been me. There but for the grace of Dog.

Fuck knows, I don't want to make a long fight out of this. But it's looking increasingly like I'm being backed into it - a fight I doubt very much I have the strength or resources to ENDURE, never mind fucking win.

Still, apparently they've at least started paying me the statutory reduced rate until the appeal's decided. this at least should mean I won't have to sponge further off my mother or get evicted from my fucking home while the gears grind. Small fucking mercies.

ETA: They have not, in fact, begun to pay me. I am clearly going to have to chase that up by phone-tag. *headdesk*
so the DWP are supposed to pay me at a reduced rate while they decide the appeal, but naturally I've heard nothing. I wonder how long I'll be expected to live on air and hope?

i ought to phone them to find out how things stand, but I don't think I have the spoons for another two hours of call queuing muzak punctuated with smug recorded messages.

grrrrr.
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