Silence has reigned while I wait anxiously first for a date, now for the appointment itself for my disability insurance assessment. Again I'm faced with the spectre of everything I can't do, only this time I have to hope that the extent of the damage is clear.
It worries me that the system seems geared towards people who've lost limbs in a combine harvester, fingers in an industrial press, or some other gory spectacle. My own rather mundane brain damage, and ever-increasing appearance of being my old self belies the difficulties I still have.
I find myself wondering if I could be trying harder, or better to return to being productive. The truth is that I can't think of of any job I have done where I would be hired now, or even capable of the work I used to do. It's pretty crushing being so useless and even more so that I have to be demonstrably useless next Thursday, 18 months to the day since I had the stroke.
It worries me that the system seems geared towards people who've lost limbs in a combine harvester, fingers in an industrial press, or some other gory spectacle. My own rather mundane brain damage, and ever-increasing appearance of being my old self belies the difficulties I still have.
I find myself wondering if I could be trying harder, or better to return to being productive. The truth is that I can't think of of any job I have done where I would be hired now, or even capable of the work I used to do. It's pretty crushing being so useless and even more so that I have to be demonstrably useless next Thursday, 18 months to the day since I had the stroke.
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