LABELLED

intro ....

See, I may as well admit it here, but before Christmas (early November in fact) I applied for Disability Pension.  This is something people ("people" being my specialist, other medical professionals, family, friends who know) have been pressuring me to do for several years.  I always resisted because I just didn't want to go there, regardless of how sick and tired and not-functioning I was, regardless of my lack of quality of life and depression and frustration over my purely physical restrictions;  I didn't want to give up work, I didn't want to label myself "Disabled", I didn't want to admit that I'm not, really, when it comes right down to it, "normal" as physically healthy people who maybe worry about a cold once a year and aren't on massive amounts of medication just to be able to function enough to get through the day.

So ... it was a long, long fight with myself.  Its been going on all year.  I know, now, that I cannot work in a full-time, fixed hour job any longer.  Fuck, I couldn't even see myself managing a part-time job.  What employer wants a worker who - no matter how skilled or talented or amazingly competent she may be - is operating on two cylinders three days out of five (and when not working is totally housebound and bedridden), and frequently has flare-ups which keep her in bed - possibly hospitalised - for weeks at a time?  I'm a lot worse than I use to be, its true; my condition has deteriorated which is very depressing and difficult to accept/cope with, but there you go.  I had to face the fact that I simply can't do it any more - I can't work long hours in a high-responsibility, high-pressure job.  That's It.  Plain and simple.  I cannot function well enough to do that, or any other job requiring my presence on a reliable, predictable basis.  Even when I'm having a "good" day, I'm in a helluva lot of pain, I have problems with mobility and am restricted in many activities.  On a bad day - fuggeddaboudit. 

So ... Disability Pension it was.  I filled out the enormous form, and Tuxedo filled out his bit, and Zeus wrote me a Treating Doctor's Report.  My caseworker at Centrelink, I have to say, was absolutely fucking amazing, and deserves a huge monetary bonus (knowing Centrelink, he'll get made redundant in their efforts to downsize anything that moves) for being so helpful, way beyond requirements.  After a few weeks I was called in for a Work Assessment interview, about which I was nervous as hell.  One of the big issues I face with the health thing is that, apart from the fact that I walk a bit funny, I don't look sick.  This makes it difficult to explain to people that I am, in fact, very unwell and have a debilitating physical condition.  "But you don't look sick", they say.  Oh well then, I'm obviously just faking it then.  Pffft. 

The interview went well, the doctor was very pleasant, the structure of the interview was pretty casual, just talking, more relaxed chatting, not threatening at all.  I explained how life was, what I could and couldn't do, what a "week in the life" was like, I showed her my diary where I rate each day, and shows clearly all the social events and appointments and tasks I have to cross out and re-schedule because I'm in too much pain to move.  She asked pertinent questions and was very impressed with my c.v., being very sympathetic as to how frustrated I must feel, having had that sort of employment experience and knowledge and skills and not being able to use it.  I told her how I felt about work; that I'd really love to be able to, for the money of course, but also for the intellectual stimulation and social aspects, but that I just, physically, could not do it.  That the only job I could manage was one where I called the shots, where I rang the boss and told him that, maybe, I could manage five hours that day ... but I'd end up the rest of the day at home or in hospital.  What employer can accept that, in this day and age?  I told her about my past experiences with unsympathetic (ha! talk about a fucking understatement) employers, and how that had affected me.

She was so nice and approachable and good to talk to, that on departing I told her that if I knew her better, I'd give her a hug.  She told me she liked hugs.  So we gave each other a hug; she wished me luck with everything (ie, life) and told me that if my application wasn't successful then something was very very wrong with the system; even though the government is trying to cut back on the numbers of people receiving Disability and bringing in daft schemes similar to "Work for Welfare" for disabled people.

So ... after chewing my nails for a few weeks, on returning from our holiday down south I had a telephone message from my caseworker saying I'd been approved for the Disability Pension.  As the Headmistress remarked, I'm now officially Disabled.  I really don't know how I feel about that; I hate labels, but in a way its a relief ... I am recognised as being different, I don't have to fight it anymore.  Also, I get $$$ (very few, but every little helps) and some other benefits, and in general I don't feel so dependent or such a dreadful burden on Tuxedo.  That is a Good Thing.