That Time Again

All it takes is one snap of the letterbox, a single envelope glides onto the carpet, and there it is...that time again.

I knew what it was even before I picked it up. I could tell by the shape and size of the letter, even the amount of creasing at the corners. Another ESA form to fill in; the precursor to another WCA.

How I've gotten this far I don't know, but I really don't fancy my chances this time.

The machine never sleeps. There is no respite.

I have a month to fill it in and return it and then who knows how long before the second letter appears telling me to attend at their pleasure. Whatever the time, whatever the day or month. That's how it works. You have absolutely no say in the matter, you don't have any voice in how this process is carried out. That's the level of intrinsic distrust that operates in this society. Why should we accommodate your needs, they say, we think you're taking the piss. 

And then after that ordeal, the gnawing tension of waiting, waiting, waiting, (not least of all within their waiting room), the final letter. The decision. Maybe I'll get lucky one more time, but I suspect not; in which case you're cut adrift and expected to find your own way forward. No support exists, and nobody gives a damn.

They expect this because that's how they live. Only it isn't; the ruling class have all sorts of unique social safety nets. They exist as a community, the old school tie network, the binding of privilege. If they need help there's always those who can help out. Our class are atomised and impoverished. That letter will be an epitaph, all that remains then is to haunt your own life. I don't really see a future there.

Still that's not going to happen in the next few weeks. Maybe there's a, slim admittedly, chance that this new social enterprise might be able to help. Maybe these will finally be the crew that really understand this process and can offer real help - unlike everyone else, including the medical profession, who back away like scared rabbits when faced with a patient dealing with the WCA and ESA.

But that's the likely reality. Organisations like to pretend they care, like to pretend they have help to offer, but in truth, when confronted with the reality of this nightmare system and it's Orwellian assumptions, they run screaming. Not our problem.

It's going to take me a month just to fill in this form. I can't face doing it all at once, even though, thanks to the intransigence of the medical profession, it will not be overflowing with medical information. All I can do is say that I suffer from what is rapidly becoming dismissed as 'low mood' (see my discussions about Positive Step earlier). That's not good enough for the Tories and their DWP boot boys.

So somehow I'll be thrown to the wolves of the labour market with just the shirt on my back, figuratively speaking. Luckily I've kept a few quid in the bank for just this occasion, but who am I kidding? That amount won't last long these days. The price of living is dear and only getting dearer. The bus fare alone, to do my weekly shopping, is extreme.

All these issues come flooding into though like an angry wave. What else is there now? This will consume my thought from the moment I post out the form, through the daily wait for the appointment letter to arrive, to the final decision arriving. I already have dysfunctional thinking, that's what 'low mood' (lol!) is! Do you think this helps?

Of course not. This isn't about helping people at all. It's about using poverty against people. It's about one class weaponising it and using that as a cudgel. It's not even as subtle as social engineering. It's simply about beating people down and maintaining control of a system they cling to with a tenacity that would make Charlton Heston question his love of firearms.