Not so long ago I

15 May 2000

Not so long ago I was very frustrated because there was so much uncertainty in my life.

Today, half of those four uncertainties aren't uncertain any more.

I now have an appointment for the pain clinic. I'm surprised they managed to fit me in so quickly. My appointment is at 11 am on Friday the 29th of December, 2000.

Today's date is Monday the 15th of May, 2000.

That's seven and a half months away. Seven and a half months where I have to suffer intense and debilitating pain, and the side effects of not only that pain, but of the medication I have to take when the pain is too much and I'm forced to give up whatever distraction I've found, retreat to my bed, and lie there, wishing I were dead, because at least then I wouldn't be in pain. Sleep doesn't even help, because I know when I go to sleep that I'm going to wake up in pain.

I'm 23 years old, and I feel like my life is slipping away from me. There are so many things that I can't do right now, and just as many things that I will never be able to do. Every day, I struggle to try and find the beauty in things, to find some little ray of hope, that somehow, I'll be able to get my life back on track, and I won't wind up spending the rest of my life rotting at home in my bedroom, mostly forgotten and occasionally pitied by the people I used to socialise with.

A large part of that hope was linked to trying to get Disability Living Allowance, so I could perhaps afford an electric wheelchair, so that D and I don't argue so much on the odd occasions where I get out, because he won't push me where I want to go, or he gets tired and doesn't want to push me any more. Perhaps I could get a car, an automatic, with optional hand controls, so that I could get to work, because I can still work. I'm not stupid, I haven't suddenly become unable to hold a sensible conversation. I can still type, although I can't sit in one place for too long or I get sore.

Today I got a letter from the Department of Social Security. A blatantly obvious form letter informing me that they do not consider that I qualify for any assistance whatsoever.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't entirely unexpected. I don't know anyone who has received DLA first time. From people I've spoken to, it seems to take between three and eight years. Years. Not Months. Not Weeks. Not Days. YEARS!

This makes me angry. Damn angry. Who the fuck are they to tell me that I have to suffer for three or more years to prove that I really need money to make my life better. Who the fuck are they to arbitrarily reject my claim and send out a crappy form letter that has so many points that don't apply to my situation or claim whatsoever, and then have such a crappy phone system that they were permanently engaged all afternoon while I was trying to phone to get a copy of the medical report so I can see who wrote me off first.

So here I am, cycling between burning tears at the sheer unfairness of it all, and a burning desire to discover brain transplantation, so that I can force one of these monkeys to experience what it's like to live a day in my body.

I feel like someone just stamped on my fingers, just as I got them over the edge of the pit I've been slowly pulling myself out of, and I'm freefalling right the way back down to the bottom.

I will get back out of this pit, and I might even be stronger for it, but damnit, I'm sick of the hard slog. Why can't I just have a day, a single day where I can live a normal life. Just a day, so I can remember what it feels like not to be in pain. Is that really too much to ask?

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pixeldiva is...

... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.

... passionate about many things, most of which will turn up on this site at some time or other.

... contactable via email.

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