My best impression of a nutcase

I am beginning to doubt my mental health.  Today I went to see my doctor, to have him fill in a medical form that will hopefully get my disability pension renewed.  Last night I was so anxious I could barely sleep.  Today, so fearful I could barely eat.  Even now that the ordeal is over – I think the form will satisfy Centrelink – I am only calming down very, very slowly. 

You know, I still hadn’t recovered from the last Centrelink drama.  I was still waking up in pain every morning.  I was mentally and physically exhausted. 

Who gets this anxious?  This just doesn’t seem normal.  And I’ve been trying everything I know to calm down, and nothing really worked.  I even got some channelled advice… it didn’t work either.  Perhaps the problem is in my brain and not in my mind. 

Enough theorising.  For now I just want to vent.  It was terrifying.  Dealing with Centrelink is so disempowering.  The symptoms of my disability are basically chronic pain and fatigue.  Not things you can measure.  Not things your doctor would ever bother to ask about.  Not things you tell your family or friends the details of.  So basically, the only person who really knows how sick I am is me.

So who does Centrelink ask about your illness and resulting inability to work?  Your doctor.  Exclusively.  Oh, and they also want to know what your specialist thinks.  Even though the last time you saw him was for fifteen minutes, two years ago when you were still well enough to work. 

So, what does the doctor do when presented with a six-page Treating Doctor’s Report form?  Why, he brings up the last one someone wrote three years ago and copies it, without even asking whether the details are still correct, or in fact ever were accurate.  He asks a few questions about what surgery you’ve had since then, and then forgets to write half of it in anyway.  And all this time, he doesn’t respond to a single thing you say.  He just writes.  You don’t know if he thinks you’re a sensible human being he’s taking seriously, or a screaming hypochondriac nutcase. 

Maybe the situation wouldn’t bother a sane, normal person on a sane, normal day.  But work yourself into a state of utter fear-for-your-life panic, and you know you probably look a little loopy anyway. 

I don’t even know who to ask about it.  Not the doctor, obviously… I’m terrified of him!