Space cadets

Dad in the coffee shop asked me if I'd been clubbed in the head this morning, "you look like a zombie".

I was a zombie in my mental health meeting yesterday. I don't remember too much about it, only she asked me if I wanted a care worker. A care worker? A cleaner perhaps but oh where would they start?

No, I said.

Flip it would be nice to have someone take care of me for I just want to give up. Give up for a little while anyway. A week or two, perhaps more while I just sit there or lie there. I'm not sure I could even be bothered to open my mouth for someone to shove a grape in it, that's how giving up I feel.

Stiggers is writing this, not me.

The occupational therapist talking to me yesterday suggested I try not to think about housing and instead create space for myself by volunteering for the community research teams again.

Don't you understand I can't be bothered?

"I don't think you understand the kind of crisis I'm in," I said instead. "I'm about to lose my home, my son is my priority, his education, his, his his...life. Why does nobody get it??"

She went out to photocopy some information about something and while she did so I fell asleep on the chair.

She's going to refer me for more CBT.

Can't
Be
Treated

I can be actually

Council
Bid
Triumphant

Fly me to the moon, I want to give up.