Again

I've started a new blog; The Pole Affair II.

You can click through to it from my profile. In the wake of the current court case, I'm going to leave the original offline for a while.

Job Centre

After four months of unemployment, I go to sign on for the last time. The woman who calls me to her desk is new and full of bright, apologetic smiles that try to convey in the brief five-minute time slot her empathy and that I am a person in this system designed to shame me back to work. I let her go through the motions of checking my job search record book and asking about my Jobseekers' Agreement but when she pauses, I tell her I have been offered and have accepted a job. Her enthusiasm is embarrassing as she tells me what wonderful news that is and I squirm, but it's when she asks me if I'm looking forward to it that I have to fight back the tears because there's no place here for me to confess my terror of returning to work, or to admit how useless I feel and how worried I am that I will not cope. That's what unemployment and an infantilising system does for you. She goes off to ask a colleague about some aspect of the process that follows my news and I am left in the busy job centre, staring at the ceiling, trying to compose myself. I get a picture of myself and how ridiculous I must look. People rush about, in and out, processing the jobless, trying to remain positive in the face of their inertia, ineptitude and, as in my case, hopelessness. I've played the game and the system has supported me in that. I'm grateful - grateful for the benefits and grateful I won't have to go there again. But I still leave with a heavy heart.

Lifting

After two days of steel skies so heavy with relentless rain, I awake to sunshine. At first, I can't quite believe it or shake off the dark, compressed mood that settled, bedded in and held my head down. Driving under the bright blue sky, past a carnival of autumn foliage, I still can't bring myself to feel anything but crushing sadness and disappointment at the path life has taken. Eventually, the hot sun fills the car and I open the windows am forced to breathe in fresh air laced with sunshine and hope in the midst of this kaleidoscope of decay. My chest expands and lets in air and light. I sing along to the music on the radio and cry painful tears, tears of loss and tears of fear. And when I arrive, park, and step out of the car I realise, for the first time in many days, that I am aware of the world around me. My skin registers the warm sun, my lungs register the fresh air, the breeze caresses and I feel pleasure, my stiff muscles ask to be stretched and smile at the long strides I take. The enervating greyness gone, sunshine lifts me and I understand why the birds sing.

Homecoming

My little yellow car comes home. A man with a round belly in a tight, red polo shirt and a puffing smile lowers her from the back of a large truck, a grumbling but good-natured commentary his soundtrack. As he hands over the keys he asks me if I've broken a window recently. 'No.' I reply, puzzled. He thinks for a moment and then asks me if I use a lot of glitter. What can I answer but 'yes'? Giggling, I tell him he should see my bath, and go on to explain that I'm a performer. He looks pleased that the mystery has been solved, hands me paperwork and climbs back in the truck. I'm still laughing.

Moody Cow

The house is so quiet I can hear my heart beat. It's the dead of night. Insomnia and the maelstrom in my head rage on and I stare into the darkness, unseeing, numb. How can I explain the pain, the guilt, the confusion and the despair of this illness? How can someone ever truly understand? How can I be anything but alone with this affliction? I am angry with him for judging me. I am angry with him for refusing to open his mind. I am angry with him for telling me what is and isn't part of this horrible disease and that the rest is an excuse, a self-indulgent failure to take responsibility and choose to be well, choose to behave in a manner he finds acceptable. It feels so unjust and so futile.

The headache reminds me of its presence, sticking knitting needles into my eye sockets. I am cold amidst the tumbling words the jumbled thoughts, the wasted sentences I want to write to him but won't send because he's already told me he won't read them. I need to sleep. But I can't. I need to eat. But I can't. I need to connect. But I can't. The prison walls are up again and locked in the cell of my sickness I can only endure. Alone.

Redux

The route to and from the doctor's surgery is familiar 'though less-travelled these days. As I walk along familiar pavements I consider his words; 'If there's one thing I've noticed about you in the moths I've been seeing you, it's that you're one hell of a fighter. I have no doubt you'll sort this out.' He was referring to my recent redundancy but it is not that which I think of as I walk home. The doctor is a good man. He has kind eyes, a kind voice and has been a kind and steady presence in my recovery from the cruel depression that swallowed me last year. I am grateful, and I am flattered by his words; that such a good man thinks well of me is heartening indeed. I vow to lend truth to his words and leap the hurdles ahead.

Recognition

I unpack my basket of shopping at the checkout and just as I finish, a man queues behind me with a lemon, a bottle of white wine and a bag from the fish counter. Looking at his three items, I ask him if he would like to go in front of me. He accepts, surprised and pleased at my thoughtfulness. Looking at him square in the face, I realise we've met before, but I can't place him. As he completes his transaction, I know we've met, and I have a bad feeling it wasn't pleasant - an argument of some sort, I think. He pays, then turns to me and thanks me again, leaving the supermarket with a bounce in his step, but I'm discombobulated. Over the next few hours, I puzzle away and eventually it dawns on me; it's him.