Important Advice for the Atos Medical Examination: Beware the warm smile and the gentle voice!

I was at the SHP blog workshop on Friday when a conversation began about the Atos medical examination and about the assessment procedure. One of the participants in the conversation had recently been for a medical examination she had taken a friend to observe the procedure. Her friend began taking notes at which point the examiner told the person to stop as it is not allowed.

That was wrong.

Being on ESA doesn't exactly lend itself to going to the theatre

Kate Grace

Being on ESA doesn’t exactly lend itself to going to the theatre. So, it came as a welcome surprise to be invited to go to see a play at the King’s Head Theatre in Islington with other SHPers.

When we arrived at this north London fringe venue the friendly bar staff even offered us a complimentary lime and soda which certainly helped with feeling less awkward amongst the fee-paying, hard-drinking hipsters who’d come to see David K. O’Hara’s new play The Upstairs Room.

The set lent itself perfectly to what was billed as An Apocalyptic Love Story. With a couple of old sofas and  just a curtain to protect one’s privacy in the toilet department, we were effectively locked in a bleak attic with an end-of- the-world soundtrack adding to the ambiguity of what was happening outside this godforsaken garret that time forgot.

The plot, such as it was, involved Gordon, an American writer, paying good money to be protected from “them” before he could be smuggled out of London to the safety of the US.

 

With forged papers, meagre rations, a sneering hotel manager, a volatile daughter and a mystery blonde for love interest, The Upstairs Room was like an evening of Kafka meets Anne Frank.  An atmospheric, intelligently written play that compelled its audience to imagine how past and present relationships can so easily can get mixed up.

Thought-provoking? Certainly. A Hollywood ending with songs from the shows? What do you think?

 

The real beauty though was how good it felt to get out of the usual Friday night routine to go to live theatre. So thanks SHP for the invite.



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