A Country Run By Shaved Monkeys

This country truly is run by shaved monkeys. Administrative staff, payroll, government office workers, telephone operators of banks, gas, electricity boards…the list is endless and I’m excluding Indian call centre operators.

I still receive letters from telephone/gas companies where I have cancelled the account. What part of “No” do they not understand? In a few instances, I’ve cancelled twice. Did I inadvertently cancel my cancellation?

Pay Office were informed weeks in advance that I would have an earlier start date than the usual hospital term. I again reminded them just prior to my start. Being paranoid and distrustful, I contacted them to ensure that I was being paid for my work. No, I was not.

The Postal Redirection have not been able to enter our correct name and address details on each occasion that we have used their service. For God’s sake! I’ve written down the details exactly as they should be – all one has to do is to copy them. I just can’t understand where the difficulty is. What part of the task is causing a problem?

Hello, Council Tax department. We’ve moved. These are the names of the people ie. Thabo and I, who will be residing at this address. Our first council tax demand – “Dear Dunce and Thumbo…”

Hi, Council Tax. It should be T-H-A-B-O and I on the account. "Well, Dunce needs to call us." But Council Tax, Dunce doesn’t live at this address, nor will he, or has ever. What is the point of me letting you know the details of the changes if you’re not going to act on them? "Okay, I’ll changed it to yours and Thabo’s name. Anything else I can help you with today, Ma’am?" Yeah, how about, get a brain?

Hello, Thames Water. We’ve moved. Thabo and I will be residing at this address. Our first Thames Water bill – “Dear Dunce…”

Every day, there is some kind of, even if minor, battle. What concerns me greatly is that professionals aren’t immune to lack of common sense or intelligence. My lawyer exhibits no discernible work pride or is it competence? I paid through the arse to have a professional sort out my HSMP application. I needn’t have. I’ve had to mark up every form that she completed and sent to me for signing. Scarily, she even got my visa category incorrect. Here’s just a list of other things that made me question her abilities:

Commenting on how policy changes through Home Office into chaos. WTF?? Did she mean “threw” Home Office into chaos?

Incorrectly writing my address on separate occasions. You can’t just put the flat number and postcode without the street number; Is she not aware that many flats can occupy the same street?

Printing incorrectly my e-mail address on documents despite corresponding with me via e-mail.

Me having to clarify what she means in each of her e-mails…Thabo, who is a master drafter of contracts had difficulties understanding her. Eg. “You will be invoiced when we have received the completed application.” What? You mean you haven’t received the application I sent you three weeks ago? (She meant, yes, they have received my completed application. They are waiting for HO processing). I still haven’t received my visa-stamped passport but I have been invoiced. So, I’m left wondering if her initial statement was just wind, or if they’ve returned my passport but obviously to the wrong address.

(Arrgh! I irritate myself with all this nit-picking.)

She asked, “What were we going to charge you for our service?” Umm, did she actually mean how much I think she should charge for her service (disservice)?

Unfortunately, she came recommended by a friend. I could see that her purposeful manner and manly booming voice could give the impression of straight-shooting no-nonsense let’s-do-this~ness. The lesbian haircut helped too. I wonder if she could have done a better job if she was a lesbian, ‘cos you know, she’s a woman, I’m a woman. Sisters doin’ it for themselves. Who am I kidding?

You're Depressed

And so it drags on. Attended my counselling session which allowed me to blubber and voice, for an hour, how I've been feeling. She was very nice, picked up on verbal and non-verbal cues, paraphrased well and empathized.

She concluded with, "I think you're depressed. You should give anti-depressants some serious consideration." Well, no fucking shit!

"Have you spoken to Dr Mahmoud about it?" How many other ways can I tell him? The first thing I said to him was, "I'd like to talk to you about starting anti-depressants." He must want me to make my first suicide attempt before committing to a diagnosis. I feel even more helpless because he hadn't made any follow-up so I'm stuck in purgatory until the New Year. How can getting a prescription be such a protracted difficult process? How I hate him.

Coming Down

Drank myself silly and danced the night away to bad music. I recall dancing with the he-must-be-gay-but-seems-to-be-trying-to-get-it-on-with-all-the-girls waiter. One of the nurses drove us back to our neighbourhood and I thanked her by vomiting over her car, just the outside, but it's still vomit that needs to be cleaned up. And like a tired old story, I had to be walked home, then passed out in the lounge room leaving Thabo to put me to bed.

I was so acutely aware of my intention to drink excessively. All night I felt prickly and socially awkward- unhappiness trying to push its way through. I woke up this morning still drunk. As the alcohol wore off, feeling down in the dumps came on. It felt worse than any other drug-induced come down I've had. The same shit ten times worse along with guilt, shame and hopelessness on top of the hangover.

I couldn't go to a friend's birthday bash tonight because I was so fearful of breaking down in public, in front of others and humiliating myself more. Or humiliating Thabo. He made sure that I knew that he was sticking by me through all of this. He sent me this message on his way out:

"You are the most beautiful person in the world. We will get better. I will make sure of it."

I'm in a bit of trouble. I hope my counselling session goes okay. I'm scared of it turning out the way it did with the GP. He was my last hope and it felt like he destroyed it.

No, I Don't Need My Cervix Or Medication

I had the most painful Pap smear ever this morning. Besides trying to create a whole new vagina for me, the nurse scraped at my cervix with such vigour that I think she may have removed it completely.

I also saw the GP. Not MY GP but some assistant GP, "Dr Mahmoud". As I attempted to (words through a clenched jaw holding back tears) provide reasons why I felt depressed, why I thought I was depressed and why I wanted to be on anti-depressants, he informed me that feeling depressed is a normal reaction to bad things that happen in life and he is reluctant to give me the diagnosis because it means labelling me as having depression. I am to see a counsellor next week for professional assessment. Maybe medicine works differently in England; I thought a GP was in the perfect position to make an assessment. He asked me what started it.

I don't think he really listened. I could hear myself repeating the same things over and over again and I know he understands English because he was more than keen to inform me of his previous training, interests, and his own difficulties with registration and bureaucracy when he first moved to the UK 20 years ago.

Why can't he understand that I didn't decide on a whim that I am depressed and that I suddenly want medical intervention? Doesn't he realize that I've thought about the whole stigma of depression before? Does he not realize that I wouldn't be here unless I really needed to be? Normal reaction?! That I want to be dead or wish mortal harm upon everyone who crosses me, everyday for months on end? I actually have insight and understanding, something which my medical experience has prepared me for. Why do I feel like this is a debate on whether or not I am depressed or just feeling low? Why must I make up an argument to convince him?

The whole consultation could have gone one of two ways. And it went the way I dreaded and the way which made up one of reasons I'd held off on seeing someone for such a long time. I've asked for help and now I feel so much worse.

'Tis The Season To Be Jolly

I have to fight back tears everyday when I walk to and from work.

I find myself swearing a lot about patients and their demands; the more trivial the more I swear. People have noticed but I have yet to be reprimanded. Work used to be an escape from the outside bleakness. Now it consumes me also.

My thoughts are blunted, my concentration is diminished and my memory poor. Sometimes, I feel like I'm slipping out of reality. I don't hear voices or see things; I don't have delusions of grandeur or persecution; I'm not psychotic.

I don't drink to mute my pain but when I go out with colleagues or friends, I'm cheerful and fun and I drink too much because it feels good. For one brief moment the heaviness lifts and I forget how shit I am feeling.

The coming Christmas social events terrify me. I don't feel confident in my ability to uphold my current fascade and "just be me". It hasn't always worked in recent times. What if I say something hateful? What if I cry?

Everyday, I mechanically go through the motions of living. But I'm starting to falter and find it more and more difficult to uphold my duties and perform tasks.

I'm scared to look people in the eyes because they might see the truth that I am really dead inside.

I told two friends and they held my hand and told me that they loved me.

'Tis the season to be jolly. I hope Santa comes early to bring me the best Christmas present ever. Gift wrapped by my GP.

Happy Again

I'm sick with a cold, unwell in the head (unless normal people fall asleep dreaming they'll sleep forever and always awake feeling disappointed) and we're stealing broadband until our own gets installed. The weight and heaviness just doesn't shift and I am feeling so fatigued, and all the time.

Much like this congestion and runny nose that hasn't budged even a tiny bit with, "Sudafed." British Sudafed's "active" ingredient is phenylephrine, a less effective alternative to what I'm used to when taking Sudafed from elsewhere. Give me pseudoephedrine, PLEASE. I want to be able to breath through my nose again. I want stop the nasal drip. I want to be able to sleep through the night.

But more than anything, I want to feel like I want to live. I want to feel alive. I want to stop wishing for a different life because I feel so trapped and helpless to do anything about the current one in which I find myself. I want to remember what it feels like to be happy again.

Dirty Little Secret

I have a dirty little secret...

I voted on, "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!"