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Yet Again, There Is No Help (part infinite)

How many different ways are there to say the same thing, and make the same point?

There just isn't help.

At all.

At.

All.

After a night of no sleep, and a sweaty subconsciousness pricking and intensifying my fear of a Tory majority, I decide to make a GP appointment to get a referral to the Primary Care Liaison Service for mental health. These are supposed to be the experts, unfortunately the GP can't guarantee they will listen. The main reason for this is that Positive Step (see my Stepping Out posts) have been given monopoly over provision.

I fully expect that, as I'm not schizophrenic or psychotic, so they won't be interested.

What is most frustrating is that, the more limited the options, the more disinterested the doctor. They have less to offer and so the less they seem to care. This is a weird and disturbing corollary.

The message here is: depression (aka "low mood") is not a serious issue. The pervasive level of stress in our society has increased such that those like me with what is now deemed a relatively less significant issue can expect no help. Or at best, a cursory service that at best pays lip service to mental help. Not one that gets to the heart of why people have these problems, dealing with issues of isolation, lack of opportunity, and of course struggling to survive in a world where the powerful control the purse strings.

So as this pressure increases, like a rising water level in the bottom of a well, we can only expect this to get worse. Given the nightmare of a prospective Tory majority, this is all the more likely. There is, of course, little chance of unseating the Tories locally. They dominate in this area through the landed gentry and all the 'independent businessmen' (which also explains how UKIP has done so well locally, depressingly).

So there was that, and, when I got back from the GP, a nice brown envelop on the doormat informing me that I have a Work Focussed Interview booked for me on the 8th in the afternoon.

Ain't life great - and I feel I have no control over mine.

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I Fucking Hate the Work Programme

That did not go well.
My legs were wobbly to begin with as I closed in on the church that passes for the office of the employment wing of the Salvation Army. My appointment was 3 to half past. I really did feel sick. Pretty early on, when he asked for the forms he gave me last time to fill in, I knew that what was arranged on the letter (a short interview with me bringing my CV and jobsearch) was actually going to be much longer. I also knew that, come half three when I had to leave to catch my bus back ten minutes later, I was going to have problems. 
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Anybody Out There?

Just so I can be sure this is being read at all and decide whether it's worth continuing, please shout out in the comments. Even if you think I'm talking barmy bollocks, it'd be helpful to know if there are people reading this and not weird bots from phishing sites or Russian hackers or some weird sentient algorithm.

Apologies if you are none of those things, but I'm considering what to do with this blog.

Thanks

ADD

Thursday today (unless time has confused me again!), the day between yesterday's appointment with The Psychologist, and signing on tomorrow. A brief oasis for me to discuss said appointment as it was a test for 'neurodiverse tendencies'. I think that's the best way of putting it; it's all a bit vague really. When I first saw The Psychologist I mentioned that I was in the process of trying to get a diagnosis for Aspergers to which she replied she could do a test that, while not an official diagnosis, could count towards one - or something. Something official anyway, though bizarrely after the test was completed (took a couple of hours) she said she wasn't trained for Aspergers specifically.

The test itself was a kind of Krypton Factor lite (sans exercise course): a mix of recall, pattern recognition, problem solving, and questionnaire. I was asked to arrange coloured blocks into a prescribed pattern, to spot what was missing from a series of pictures, to guess fr…