Today was doing quite nicely till I got a letter telling me I have to do a face to face 'consultation with a medical professional' over my benefits. Ach, I can't gather the sequence of events in my head but it hasn't been an edifying spectacle. If this was a decent society I would have no problem - I have been awarded them for life already, just a top up amount to cover the extra expenses of being mental, but they've changed them with the undeclared but evident intent of chucking people off them. I automatically feel fraudulent, which is not the ideal opening gambit and it all goes to shit.

I spend a fair amount of time these days with a small part of me watching the rest of me carrying on, thinking for fuck's sake woman, this is mental, you can do better than this, surely? I know I need to change the story in me head but I can't seem to heave it around - the metaphor that I see first is always that of an ocean liner changing course - it happens but not quickly and with some resistance. For starters I need to stop hating this house, this street, this village and start telling myself I can make a good life here.

But I am determined to do three gratitudes every day, honestly and publicly, as a means of stopping myself drowning in a lake of self-pity and as a reminder that I am still amongst the privileged, even if it's not a great privilege to be mental. So:

1. We had a fire this evening, soothing in some inexplicably deep way
2. Help is available with preparing for this interview.
3. Although the corruption and devious self-interest in current British politics is nightmarishly unspeakable, there's also good things being said and done by good people. It's not all over yet.

xxx