Blah blah bureaucracy blah

*CSA trigger warning*

Today is one of those days from the undoubtedly popular, but not yet realised tv show 'My day from Hell'...
For breakfast, an early morning job centre appointment, to fulfil my WRAG group requirements, in order to receive the life saving benefits (thank you) unjustly ripped, straight from the hard working hands of 'The Taxpayer' or so the red top newspapers would like you to believe.
Personally I would prefer 'our' countries taxes to go to the poor and vulnerable, rather than to arm the 'state' of Israel with weapons to ethnically cleanse their self-appointed 'chosen' land. I'd also prefer that they didn't go towards paying a politician who claims to be a democratically elected Prime Minister, who says he speaks on 'our' behalf when he supports Israel in their plight, despite thousands protesting on the streets, who would say differently.
But I don't get a say, because I'm a second class citizen as I don't pay taxes and my vote doesn't count because I live in a country that still might never get the right to govern itself because people are so bloody brain washed into believing that we are too reliant on suckling at the teet of the mightier power of Westminster, which despite its frequent visitors, the notoriously incestuous, job swapping swingers, and its ethos of corruption, business bribes for all and cover ups, is still greater than our whole country's heritage and intellect.

The job centre encourage me to do some studying with an organisation with the word 'future' in its title, which is an ironic command, coming from a puppet organisation, driven by a government who would be glad to drive treatment of the poor, vulnerable and mentally deficient, back to Victorian times.
AND I AM THE SICK ONE???

And if that wasn't stressful and invasive enough, for afternoon tea I had a trip to everyone's favourite deity, The Psychiatrist.
I have seen a different one for every appointment over the last 8 months, each one having had no time to look at my file, each one not really knowing what I am there for and so just asking me how the side effects are and how I feel that day.

Most of these Doctors seem to have aborted or lobotomised the empathy and bed side manner part of the brain, for preference of the academic and textbook approach. This results in having to listen to condescending advice such as, 'make sure you are eating regularly' and comments like 'well the anxiety isn't really showing', just because I am not shaking and sweating and breathing into a small brown paper bag. I want to scream at them sometimes, but I am too polite.

I want to say, remember when you were a child and you first saw Jaws or perhaps got scared by stories about monsters?
Remember how hard it was to take a bath after that, or go near the plug hole, or sit on the toilet bowl because SHARKS!!!
Remember that fear of pulling the plug out whilst still being in the bath? of being sucked away and down into the sewers with the rats and mutant sea snakes?
Or holding in a pee for ages for fear of a big giant sea monster coming up the U-bend and biting into your peachy little bottom?
Well that is what is happening in my stomach right now.
A sea monster is going to rise up from my belly and tear my torso and throat in two and burst out of my skull and it will probably eat you alive too before running off down the ward, giggling and roaring!

Oh you didn't think like that as a child? Well. Well... Then my psychological issues run deep don't they. How are going to fix that? Are you a sea snake charmer, hmm Mr Doctor Man???? Hmmmmm???

Instead I am tormented by promises of seeing the almighty, but evasive/ potentially mythical consultant (who never appears) and I get to see a trainee- again who ticks all their boxes but nothing ever changes, no real solutions are given, a lot of hmm-ing and haa-ing and no conclusive or even reassuring answers to anything.
Instead they peddle drugs and remind me that I am not trying to kill myself any more and leave it at that, as I am no longer a danger to myself or others. I know that they have no idea what they are doing really, despite having had the best possible training, but why can't I get paid to not know what I'm doing too? I've had a life of practise!! At least I'd be nice to people, give them a hug and let them have a good natter before I filled them with chemical smarties.

The only thing that could top this day off is a smear test!

The last time I went it was with a nurse I'd never met, as usual, and when she went to click on my notes a big sign flashed up saying 'EXPERIENCED CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE' in nice big bold letters, presumably as a warning to a nurse who may find their patient frigid or reluctant or nervy or on the verge of tears or full of all the other neurosis any normal woman would feel whilst being scraped and poked and prodded by someone who they haven't known for more than 3 minutes, their brief foreplay technique being the slapping on of some cold lubrication onto a cylindrical tube thing or some salad tong type appliance, before diving in with an overgrown ear cotton bud .

As it happens I have the blessing of being able to go numb, to block it out, to transcend, to dissociate when such matters are going on. When it comes to a smear test it serves me well, but in the middle of romantic liaisons its a gosh damn curse.

Regardless, the last thing I need, before you prod my private lady parts and scrape it for pieces of my organic matter to be examined by a stranger in a lab miles away, is a great big feck off sign that reminds me
'this lady has baggage,
her insides are impure,
she was prodded and poked,
before she was sexually mature'
Thanks Dr Cleverface, or the administrator who that this was a great idea!
AND I AM THE CRAZY ONE???

Thankfully no smear for me today!
But it is part of the impersonal, robotic, bureaucratic treatment that these services provide for people who are feeling the exact opposite: the most raw; emotional, heartbroken, displaced, imperfect and human that they will ever feel in their lives.
It is like two opposing magnets chasing each other around a Petri dish along to the Benny Hill music. You wouldn't trust the scientist who didn't have the knowledge and skills to prevent that from happening.
So is it any wonder people come to distrust public services or health care professionals, when they are treated so impersonally, so matter of factly?

I get it, we're all human, we're imperfect, perhaps it takes an academic and logical thinker to become a doctor, perhaps they need to build an igloo around themselves to stop their own hearts from breaking from all the broken people that they see. But really, if its beginning to feel like you work for the government and the health service, instead of the other way round, isn't that a sign of just how twisted the whole system is?

I have never been so grateful to get home and hang the washing out and drink a big glass of water and feel the sun on my skin.
Simplicity.
Perhaps that is the only true cure.
And the space to have a good rant!

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