A Pothole On The Writing Road.

Here it is, the early hours of a Thursday morning and I cannot sleep.  Any semblance of focused writing has been tested to the extreme with a series of negative influences that threaten my desire to maintain a healthy, fulfilling balance in my life.

Workplace bullying, physical, financial and psychological, cost me my house, my life savings, my marriage.  So traumatised was I that I nearly drank myself to death.  And now the past I have been trying to make sense of, to try to move on from, is being dredged back up by a heartless government who wants to test me to determine if they consider me capable of going back to work.

We are hearing the horror stories.  People too ill to work are having their incapacity benefits removed, placed on jobseeker's allowance and are expected to go and find jobs that don't exist.  It's a cynical ploy by the British government to cuts the benefits of the vulnerable in half.

I never asked to become ill.  I wanted to be a contributing member of society.  Yet, I did get ill.  An unrelenting negative environment virtually destroyed the remaining fragments of my dignity.  I did a lot of volunteer work within the mental health field until I could take no more when a certain mental health charity reinforced my mental health issues.  And thus, I started staying at home, reclusive and finding a therapy by writing.

I do my best to turn what seems as negatives into positives.  However, I am really struggling with this.  I have a daunting questionnaire to fill in that is causing much anxiety.  I have the ongoing nightmare of anti-social neighbours who have left me no choice but to give up a house I treasured and a garden that was created out of love and hope.

I'm trying to not let negative speculation drive me to another breakdown.  Maybe all will be okay.  I will do my utmost to make it so.  What I do know is that I thought that my writing was starting to get better and that my dream of being a published author, complete with the fancy book cover, would come to fruition.  Right now, it all hangs in the balance.  If I am forced back to work in a job market where no jobs exist, it will destroy me.  And if did get another job, I would live in fear of further bullying.

Trying to look at this as a pothole on the writing road.  Must pick myself up, desperately cling onto the motivation that drove me me this far.  Yes, I'm sick, I'm scared and waves of panic, shivers of anxiety are keeping me awake.  With trembling hand, I click on publish....