annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hey, Hvitveis! First off I want to send hugs to Hvitveis - I can translate your comments box right up to the bit when they ask you what kind of something or other you are and I click the wrong thing and enter a world of pain. But hugs darling. Well, I am now the other side of the fucking "medical", and it's like I've had a boil lanced; all the poison has suddenly left my system, leaving me cleansed but exhausted. Medical has become "medical" for the purposes of this assessment. Nothing about it instilled me with any confidence about any aspect. The interview took place in a building that had been designed and built about forty years ago, maybe more, as a job centre/benefits office. All but one of the doors across the front are boarded up and have a thick patina of grime - it looks as if it's been empty for years. Some shabby A4 posters direct you to the entrance, where a metal sign with "AT05 MED1CAL" in a very 'now' font has been screwed on top of the filth. The corridor is like going in the back entrance to somewhere, the place no one ever sees - just shit, no money spent, ever, on this bit, past doors padlocked shut until the one that's has been cleaned and painted, and you're there. Inside the offices was like a TV set, or a scam (well, it is a fucking scam) - everything was new and clean and as cheap and insubstantial as is consistent with people touching it. Bloke walked me down there and we had to wait a bit, but within thirty seconds of a woman coming out of the interview room I was called in. No having a little think and writing a summary, no reflection there, just, 'Next!' She introduced herself with her name, describing herself very quickly as 'a qualified medical practitioner', which stuck in my mind as in need of further clarification, but she kept me busy with instructions to sit here, no here, sign this, etc at top speed until it fell out of my mind. But now I want to know what the fuck that means. Why would she not say if she was a doctor, and if she wasn't, what skills is she calling on to potentially overrule my actual, qualified doctor? She didn't feel like a doctor, and I've met a few. I can't remember much of what she asked me apart from repeatedly demanding that I describe a typical day and not liking the way I was answering, harping on particularly about whether or not I got 'washed and dressed', which I don't actually, until and unless I have to, but I didn't want to tell her that. Ach, it was horrid and demeaning and I cried all the way through. Seven tissues in half an hour, probably not a record, but verging on a sob-a-thon. So that's me. Tomorrow I have to drive on motorways for two hours, ready to participate in a case conference/review for Elder Daughter on Monday. I don't really feel up to driving or conferring or telling ED that I'm not up to it, but I believe that after Monday I will be able to start reassembling myself and my life, to stop examining every fucking thing I do/think/feel/say and get off my own case for a bit. Get back on some mantras.
10:41 p.m. - 10.03.12 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||