I think I've already mentioned elsewhere in these pages, Gentle Reader, that I spent three and a half years on welfare. I wasn't completely unemployed but simply not able to get by without assistance. During that time I was doing a little house-cleaning and selling the occasional painting through carefully installed exhibits of my art. I also worked two short-term jobs: interviewing for Statistics Canada, and providing care to a severely disabled young man. The Stats Can job was temporary and they made it abundantly clear that they would not be considering me for future work.. The caregiving position required that I learn the training a lot faster than I was able to.
I ended up on welfare after I ran out of alternatives. I had spent 1989 to 1992 in fulltime ministry with the Christian community I was living in. We were funded by many sources but principally through prayer and faith and we seemed always able to pool resources even though we also experienced some real hardship. As we appeared to be running out of funds I took part time work as a home support worker in 1992. Then I began painting and did rather well for a while on sales of my art. My employers kept refusing to increase my hours beyond twenty a week as they were averse to spending more money on providing me with dental benefits. They of course didn't admit this but you didn't have to be a genius in order to figure it out. So I remained severely underemployed and rather lacking in energy and resources to find another position (I didn't realise at the time that I had PTSD) Our community broke up in 1996 and I had to find an apartment.
I could barely afford the rent on my scant earnings. From time to time I went to welfare for emergency assistance but refused to stay dependent on social assistance so I refused to apply for regular benefits. They still refused to increase my hours at work, bending over backwards with their lame excuses and I was disabled for four months with crippling toothaches. They still wouldn't do a thing to help me with dental coverage. Let's just say that hate would be a very mild word to describe my feelings towards my employer.
In 1997 my mental health began a downward slide and I began to go through a series of breakdowns with no help in sight. I quit my job in the summer and decided to live by faith since the people at welfare were relentless hectoring bullies and I had become quite terrified of them. I managed to hold it together for almost a year and then I was evicted from my apartment for not paying the rent.
In 1998-99 I spent nine and a half months couch surfing while battling symptoms of mental illness. I came perilously close to killing myself. In the spring of 1999 I finally applied for welfare and found a room in a shared apartment for one year, then for two years a room in a shared house. It was not a safe living situation. I wanted to work but like everything else in my life at the time, no matter what I did to improve my situation doors were slammed in my face and I couldn't find a work environment where I felt welcome and comfortable. I also knew I wasn't well enough to work so I spent my days painting, promoting my art, learning Spanish, reading and taking long walks. I wanted to work but besides house cleaning I didn't know where to look and felt really very daunted by the obstacles. I felt paralyzed.
During this time the culture around social assistance was changing rapidly and market interests were dominating and controlling policy. We were seen as people who really did not want to work, even though in most cases this simply was not true, and they decided to punish us for being a burden to society. They applied increasing pressure on us to find employment though in most cases employers could not be persuaded to hire us and in many cases we simply were not well enough to work.
I was assigned for a financial aid worker a miserable sociopathic hectoring bully. I nicknamed her the Brown Cow. I was busting my ass seeking a job, any job. As I was returning from an interview for a home support position in Langley I got from Brown Cow a very nasty message. She told me that since I was not pulling my weight enough to look for a job that she was going to put me in a job-finding club. That was the ultimate. I left on her voice mail two very angry messages, since I knew that most of those job clubs simply forced, pushed and threatened their clients into seeking and accepting any soul-destroying work no matter how unsuitable and how unlikely that they would actually be accepted for employment. I was also coping with aggravated symptoms of PTSD and was becoming increasingly emotional, agitated and anxious.
I fired my FAW. I told her I was no longer working with her. I called her an intimidating bully who took pleasure in grinding our faces in the dirt. I demanded to speak to her supervisor. The following day I got a phone call from Brown Cow's supervisor asking me to come in to talk with her. We spent an hour in her office. I found her incredibly compassionate, concerned and supportive. She apologized profusely for what I had been through, changed my file and reassigned me to a compassionate worker. Because it was likely that I had mental health issues they agreed that I would be under no pressure to seek employment and I was encouraged to try to go on disability. During that time I moved into social housing and took full advantage of this rest period. The spring and summer weather were incredibly lovely and I went through daily long walks in Stanley Park, painted, showed my art. I began seeing a psychiatrist, moved into another social housing building, networked with excellent employment counsellors and eventually found long term employment, where I still work in the mental health field, twelve years later.
Firing Brown Cow, my erstwhile financial aid worker was one of my smartest and most courageous acts and I believe this was every bit as critical in putting me on the road to recovery as were my four years with a competent psychiatrist. I only shudder to imagine what the whole welfare system must be like now, fourteen years later.
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