“It isn’t here, you must have dreamed you put it there. Are you suggesting that this is a knife I hold in my hand? Have you gone mad, my husband?” ~ Paula Alquist Anton, Gaslight, (1944)
For the first time since I started blogging this week I was organised enough to have worked out a blogging schedule. But then a boat load of crazy happened and everything went to pot. I hope to get everything back on track next week.
Everything has gone to pot because the popular national charity that I’m trying to extricate myself from working for has decided that they don’t recognise my illness as being a thing. They’ve also decided that they’ve never seen any of the sick notes I’ve submitted, and that this fiction entitles them not to pay me.
This is at the same time as asserting that they have done everything possible to help me to manage my disability.
The plan basically seems to be to stress out the person with the serious mental health problem to the point where she has to give up on trying to get them behave fairly in order to preserve the vestiges of her own sanity.
This time last week I was feeling so hopeless about this that I didn’t think that I had any options save jumping off the roof. This week they’ve gone so far that I’m actually livid.
Either way I need these charlatans out of my life.
This matter was supposed to be resolved before Christmas.