Unbelievable. Astounded.

I have just returned from a meeting with a new care-coordinator, and my previous one. They informed me my dispute against the decision to refuse me psychotherapy was dismissed, again by a team that has no idea who I am. They have never seen my face. They have never ever talked to me on the telephone. They just decided against helping me live my life like a life instead of a cycle of anxiety and nightmare-filed sleep times.

I don’t normally use this argument, but I do now ask the question of why I pay national insurance contributions. If the Hippocratic Oath means nothing to them, surely the legislative Good Medical Practice Guide means something? Obviously not. The box of tissues I was passed in the meeting this afternoon held more symbolic meaning than normal, because I could see the front-line soldiers knew I am f’ed up, but sadly those in the safe and warm MOD head quarters cannot see the wood for the trees.

I am severely under the impression that these people cannot organise a piss up in a brewery. It has reached the point of this treatment being past a ridicule of my integrity. I am filled with rage but the disappointment and utter disbelief are firing louder. I am scared for the future for the simple reason that this was my last window of opportunity for a very long time.

I’ve even had to return to work now until 6pm after that meeting. Sickened, I cannot work unless there is a sherry involved.

PISS. TAKE.

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