Following the visit to my doc, I go to meet my support worker. I sent him a text yesterday saying I hadn't heard from him for ages. "A home visit?" he'd suggested. Luckily I was out so a cafe was agreed.
I have to say, before I continue with my diatribe, that I feel really sorry for my support worker. I'd hate to have his job.
First thing I do is lay into him about telling my doctor my messy flat is a risk and a danger to my son. He tells me he didn't but is concerned about it.
"If it's such a concern, such a concern," I repeat for emphasis, "why hasn't anything been done about it before now? Four years I've lived there. Six months ago the managers came and made their judgements. Why now? Why is it such a concern now??"
I feel rather relieved we're not in my flat. It looks worse than the last time he saw it. Copies of the CNJ, the Sun, Mirror, Observer, Sunday Times, haven't found their way to recycling yet, never mind the stuff that hasn't been put away and the other stuff stuffed in every conceivable nook and cranny.
Support worker and I go through my "risk assessments" and he allows me to jot in my input. Alongside violence, addiction, sexual abuse, health and safety, all kinds of risks, I write: "Do I need these to secure a tenancy for my son?"
Support worker's an open guy. He feels bad, he says, because I have waited so long to get housed and he has "exhausted every avenue", the "managers won't budge."
"I feel bad for you," I say, "because they won't listen to you. You are my point of contact. You are the one who sees me, knows me and they won't listen to you."
He says he'll swing by next week to see if we can up my medical points. The question is: Do I bother tidying up? If I do, I'm "coping". Such is the catch 22.
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