No rest for you Stigmum

I'm resting my head to grab a little energy before taking Zat bike downstairs in a decluttering attempt of my corridor and then having to run around the Heath after a little boy. Then the phone rings. It's my support worker. He spoke to his managers this morning to try and get me on the exceptions panel, he was calling to let me know how it went. I've asked him to email it for me "because if I have to sue the fucking bastards I fucking will."

Apparantly, because my flat is a "health and safety issue", this is not grounds to move me. The state of my flat concerns them which means I cannot be rehoused. Not only might my next flat be messy, but I have la la points, I'm la la on the waiting list, they are going to have to call in social services because my son is at risk.

Why weren't the social services called in earlier this year when the manager came round declaring this box a "health and safety issue"? She was a judgemental fucking cow: "You have a lot of things," she'd said. Well not really, I'd said calmly, because most of it is in storage with YOU. I had a life before all this you know. Can't I keep some things from it????

No, no, you're not allowed books and music when you're in temporary accommodation. You're not allowed anything that might breath some life into you.

"They make judgements on me," I screech. "Because I'm white, because I'm well spoken, because I'm well educated. If I can find a lawyer I'm going to sue the fucking bastards for discrimination."

My support worker, who for the purposes of this post is not white, said something supportive but I can't remember for the life of me what.

But forget about THAT for a minute.

My support worker had my doctor's letter in his hand saying that my housing issues were an instrumental part of my depression. Move her. Securely.

"They don't see it like that," says support worker. "They will see it as you will need help as far as psychological matters are concerned but where they are concerned, housing is not a part of that."

"Oh no? What about that letter I gave you yesterday, from LAST YEAR from my shrink, saying I needed space to work on my depression and my son needing a separate room was of "valuable importance." They ignored that didn't they? IGNORED THAT? The state of my flat is detrimental to my son they're saying but my mental health isn't part of that? No? No? Why don't they just fucking move me and SEE. A little experiment, go on, see what that does."

"They don't see it like that."

I went on and on and fucking on "tell them this, tell them that, they should fucking know, I've been writing to them since January" on and on.

Oh I was angry, and why spare you that anger here in Blogland? Why wait until I'm 70 (if I get that far which doesn't fucking look like it) and write my memoirs in a softly softly retrospective way. Fuck that. You need to know what kind of country you are living in and I've made it my business to tell you.

He told me he'll call me after his lunch. I won't blog again today. No, I'll be too busy smashing fucking plates in my kitchen. Oh no, can't do that. We're still eating off plastic ones because like some prize fucking turkey, I thought FOUR YEARS AGO that getting real ones would be too flipping heavy to carry when we MOVE.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH

Where are my fags? May as well just hurt myself.