Tuesday, 2 February 2010

Yelling at my support worker.

I'm wound up, wound up like a fecking spring.

"We all alright for next Tuesday then?" says support worker down the phone.

"You know, I don't know why you're coming, this is supposed to be a three way meeting not a four."

He tells me he's been asked to come to find out what the Tory wants because he's my support worker.

"No, you've been asked to come to be the eyes and ears of all your managers."

To add fuel to my already RAGING fire, he tells me the Tory councillor "does not have any power." When I say that I'll ask the Tory if I can meet his leader he says "yeah, ask him that. That'll be interesting." And suddenly, everything becomes clear....

"Your managers are the ones who have the power to help us," I spit. "Your managers are the ones sitting in their comfy chairs, earning good money, living in nice places, who can house me and my son once and for all but instead are happy to see us exist in this shit situation. Happy that people drink, take drugs... they don't care, they care only that they are the ones who have the power, they like to feel important........

"That's right isn't it? You've been asked to come so you can report back to all your little managers so they can then feel important that they have more power than him. "

It's not good to lose one's rag. The support worker didn't have much to say other than "well, er, I'll talk to [pathmead's manager]

"Why? What's the point?"


But I've just heard an idea in my scream. I'm going to email the Tory.

I don't know what I'm going to say yet but fuck, I'm so fucking mad. Do I just think fuck it and invite a journalist around? He or she won't be on my side either and may only want the story if I scowl for their camera.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.


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