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London 11th may, I hope to be there health permitting to unleash some of my emotional unstability on ATOS origins.

I think this campaign is especially vital for mental illness and ‘inivisible’ diasbilites; the public perception of disability is so narrow and ATOS and their check list of stupid questions supposedly assessing work suitability that’s about as usefull and accurate as declaring all those who have turned up wearing green as fit for work, have those same attitudes. I don’t look ill or disabled I can phsyically touch my toes and turn a tap on and walk up stairs yet that does not mean I am ‘fit for work’. If I lost my benefits I would either risk a high chance of a relapse due to taking up work (and thus having to ‘go on the sick’ and start the whole kaboodble again) or more than likely I’d be found unfit to look for work 40 hours a week and not able to claim job seekers yet not able to actually get a job and get stuck in some sort of Kafka esque* horror that won’t exactly do wonders for my depression.

These tests do not adequately reflect fluctuating conditions, such as depression, or the emotional and mental symptoms which make it near impossible to work and/or hold down a job without substantial support from very understanding employers and a lot of sick days (which are found in cloud cuckoo land). A mental illness can be just a disabling as a physical one and for our government to sanction this sort of test is sickening (but then are callous fucks quite frankly, almost everything they do sickens me but in true movie trailer style “this time it’s personal”).

* I’m pretty sure he didn’t write ‘The Trial’ as a manual on how to run the welfare state, though a lot of his nightmarish visions of the depths to which humankind will sink (or ‘ideas on how to reform things and save money’) seem to have taken off in whitehall.


I got my referral for ‘talking therapies’ through so hopefully the NHS will provide me with more than 16 sessions of largely ineffectual CBT. Though the NHS being the NHS I have to wait a few weeks before they will phone up up for a phone consultation to decide what therapy will be best and then put me on another waiting list.

I want to get my medication sorted, the venlafaxine is just making me feel so numb, flat and beige (not black, black has something about it, beige is just ‘meh’)  and it’s not doing much for the depression seeing as I’m currently having one of the worst episodes in years; but trying to get anyone even vaugely interested in this is a chore, especially those people in charge of my medication. I am also worried as I had a new psychiatrist last time and he bore a spooky resemblance to Moss from the IT Crowd, but middle aged and with a bow-tie. It is worrying when your psychiatrist looks like he’s crazier than you are.  I am all for eccentric dress sense but I’m just not sure if it gives the right image for a mental health professional.

I have also started to notice that the fish in the waiting room have changed, the little glowy ones have gone. I liked them. I fear the worst, it perhaps reflects my morbid moods that I wonder how often the fish die in that place. I hope they at least flush them with dignity.

As I am at a pretty low ebb and am rather incapable of full time work my Mum has decided I should tackle the hell of the DLA form. My Mum is far more optimistic about these things, coming at it from the logical position that as far as the DWP’s own defintions of ‘disabled’ go I am disabled so I should get it; I however have had too many experiences of DWP doctors to know that I could actually be dead and still deemed capable of work (‘has not decomposed yet, so can still work’) . My friend calls the people who do the benefit medicals ‘Davros’ and it’s a definition I agree with.


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