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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 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*
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From:
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The prat on the phone can rot, however.
From:
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thank you :D
From:
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The usual, ongoing good thoughts and prayers apply, of course.
From:
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He's probably not sure, either. Those types tend to be hired because they don't have much of an imagination and exhibit a cheerfully unhelpful demeanor. Sort of a human speed-bump, if you will, intended to slow things down.
You'll get there, though; of this I'm certain.
From:
no subject
Just know that I have been reading this and thinking good thoughts for you.
From:
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My best wishes to you.
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From:
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Bastard.
Hang in there, sweetie.
From:
no subject
Excessively cheerful people make me want to open up the backs of their heads, to see if they've got some kind of alien mind control implant.
Keep fighting.
From:
no subject
I was unfamiliar with either Gail Grinds or the Spoon Theory. I'm afraid to read more than the google blurbs about the first, but the second has been enlightening, and I think I'll pass it on.
*Hugs* and positive thoughts.
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From:
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its what my counselor had been trying to get me to understand, that since my energy is so limited, i have to pick and choose what i can do, and i have to learn to accept that i cant do everything.
From:
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