annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary


March 9th

And still no proper title, but hey, I'm back in the groove of writing every day, done three months with only a day or two missing, so feel like I'm winning.

The clip of me being interviewed about Sam's funeral aired today and I've watched it on iplayer about a million times (BBC South East today, evening news for 9/3/2020, at 8.05 mins, only plays in UK, will be gone by the end of tomorrow) until I am now over the sorrow, for now, of seeing my girl haltingly speak, and am just left with the indignation of a) not having my gratitude expressed at all b) having a sentence cut off - I'd said Sam couldn't speak or move and was at the mercy of people being kind and they stopped there, when I'd continued to say the people she encountered were kind, especially the last care home staff and c) the suggestion that I'm campaigning against what they term 'funeral poverty' when I'm not, I didn't know anything about it and have been all wrapped up in my own situation, not doing anything about anyone else. Also, the state of me, when I get to see myself. Like, my chin - it just kind of droops, fatly - well, that's it, isn't it, I am quite fat and that includes my chin. And I don't think there's any part where I'm not crying, other than when I was interviewing Sam back in 2013, for the wheelchair van thing. The producer said she'd send me the file, though she hasn't yet, but when she does I'll share it.

I had acupuncture this morning and she said I'm running on complete empty again, which I knew - my eyes are really bad, can't see words on the telly etc and the optician said that's tiredness not bad eyes. She recommends, quite firmly, proper rest, yellow and orange fruit and veg, lots of ginger tea, some other things that I've forgotten and no gym for a bit. I remember before when it was like this and I did pick up a lot of energy by following her instructions, just in time for one of my daughters to have to go onto a psych ward and the other into a wheelchair. So I'm going to try, though I hate being here indoors. I'll have to find a way to get my head round it. Sigh.

Here's a bit I found about having my first DWP work capability interview, when they first stopped trusting doctors' reports on who was well enough to work. Having an appointment a few weeks ahead when you will be required to demonstrate to a stranger that you're mentally unwell is truly awful, drives you more nuts than you were already:

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.

Laters, darlings xx

11:39 p.m. - 09.03.20


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