My Medical

"Come for a work capability assessment", said the form from somewhere in Wembley. "Don't be late and you must turn up or we could dock your ESA benefit." The assessment was on a Saturday afternoon in March in a very clinical government building in Marylebone. So far, so same old.

What they don't tell you in the letter is what to really expect and so I'm really grateful to my fellow SHP service users (or friends as I'd prefer to call them) for giving me the SP on what goes on at these medicals and what paperwork and tablets to take with me. Thanks guys...

I last worked last August. I wish I could work. I wish I didn't have a diagnosis for PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder to the uninitiated) but I do. It means I can work until something upsets me or triggers a flashback to the powerlessness of being abused as a small child and then all bets are off. The flight or fight mechanism turns itself up to full volume and I either walk out of the workplace or tell someone (usually a boss and always a man) to go f*** themselves. This is not the best way to stay in a job and so the cycle of losing jobs continues. But enough of that old story.

Currently I'm getting better with the help of a top psychotherapist with Solace Woman's Aid in Islington, medication from my GP, lots of learning new skills like shutting up when I'd rather swear, saying "no" nicely at SHP, CAST, CRI, and some hard core academic theory with a teacher at City Lit called Christiane Sanderson who explains the science behind the often 'random' behaviour that stems from being sexually abused as a kid. 

I see the Iraqi doctor at Marylebone and once he's checked that I'm physically OK he asks about my mental health, so I hand him the psychiatrist's copious notes on the background to my mental diagnosis. As he reads I can see he wished he hadn't asked. He assured me he's a GP and not an expert in 'These Things'. Whatever mate? He's in a hurry to get rid of me after that and so I dissociate at the dehumanising of this awkward medical history. Basically what I do is shut up and leave my body. It seems easier than explaining to the nice doctor that I'd rather not be living alone in a less than ideal bedsit because I'm incapable of being in a relationship. I can't be arsed to tell him that looking at my past is not my pastime of choice. That it's not self-indulgent time-wasting and opening a can of worms just for the fun of it. That it's painful to feel you drowned in booze for your adult life. And that I'm committed, not to an institution, but to getting better. I want to tell him I do this 'feeling feelings' work because I want to live; not die by hurting myself because of what someone else did to me when I was too young to understand that I wasn't to blame.

Now I've left my body and am on the ceiling (not literally). I can hear him saying something about photocopying the report. Whatever. I used to cope with the self loathing of being abused by wearing my addict and an alcoholic hat at a jaunty angle. When I took that off 15 months ago the flashbacks came back like devils from hell. And guess what? So did the dissociation. So I say goodbye and leave the building. I know I'm in danger because I'm only partly conscious. I buy chips, chocolate, and fags to help me feel comforted. I'm very disorientated and need to get away from traffic fast. So my medical ends with me getting on the first bus I see and ending up in Edgeware. What can I say? It beats getting drunk.

Kate Grace