The 11th & 12th; United by fear.
The 11th of March. Monica can definitely jump. This morning I saw her leap up onto the high green chair, then the bureau behind it, and this afternoon she came up onto my lap without me having to lift her. Progress!
We had a trip into town this afternoon because Mommy needed to take a load of stuff back to M&S, and I needed some new pyjama bottoms after I discovered last night the ones I've been wearing have a fairly large hole in the crotch. Not a good look. I saw some in the Gap Body range online but they had none of it in the shop, then I found some I liked in Topshop but they only had them in a 12 or 16 which is of no use to me.
I whizzed over to the Topshop in Selfridges, being grateful to the man who held the door open for me because both disabled doors were roped off, but they had no pyjamas at all. I fell in love with some super soft grey Paige jeans, then found out they were £290, so I decided to put them down. I also saw a lovely Easter egg that's ever so chic, sprayed grey, but it's £30, and yes it might be very grown up, but you're still going to eat it and you might as well have bought a Mini Eggs one.
On yes, and Christine's got us tickets to go and see Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart in No Man's Land for her birthday in October! So excited.
The 12th of March.
I'm writing this on Sunday morning because last night I was too unhappy. To start off with the news that the government want to cut PIP to pay for tax breaks, going along with the news about the £30 a week cut to the WRAG ESA people, it's a terrible time to be disabled. Plus I wasted my day waiting to hear from someone to confirm that we were going to hang out, but she never did. Couple that with being stood up earlier in the week, I feel like crap. It's not difficult to start feeling worthless when people treat you like shit all the time, especially when the gremlin of depression is just waiting to spread his arms out across your brain and colour every thought.
I've spent most of my day hiding out in the back room, feeling sad and afraid for my future. PIP has barely been established but they've already decided it isn't working, so people will start being reassessed in January next year. Maybe I'll be deemed sick enough to keep what I get, maybe not, maybe I'll have to appeal. The removal of points for aids they "would expect people to have in their homes already" is baffling - what is expected? Does Justin Tomlinson have a stool that allows him to shower, or a frame around his toilet? Does he live in a body he can't rely on, waiting for the day the germs crawl back up his intestines the wrong way and he's suddenly back in hospital in more pain than can be described with words? The NHS is being dismantled, contracts up for any private company to bid for who are only accountable to their shareholders, not the people dying in their facilities, and the government have some weird logic that the competition between them offers better service. There's no such thing as competition when we have no choice about where we go to try to stay alive. I'm not sure it'll be there when I need it in the future. I shouldn't be worrying about how I'm going to survive. But we all are. That's the "one nation" the Conservatives are driving towards. United by fear.
