My Week

So what has my week been like? Strange, surreal, frustrating. A week of banging my head against a solid wall of bureaucracy until it bled. On Monday morning I went to see the 'eating disorder' specialist. What a waste of time that was. As you can guess I was not the good little girl who sat in the corner. And, as you can imagine, this probably will not go in my favour. She concluded the meeting by saying she would recommend Zyprexa. More meds then. Later the afternoon I grew so tired of Little Miss Pyromaniac's crashing and banging that I marched down to the council office to demand an explanation. The reception I got was hostile to say the least. My own ex-boyfriend (who works there as a housing advisor would not even speak to me. So much for loyalty.) The officious little man stood over me and told me that if I had any suspicions I should go to the police. I said, surely that should be your job. Then I was ushered into another part of the building where a woman uttered words of pseudo-sympathy and took notes. The odd thing is they (the 'authorities') are behaving as if the whole thing is my fault - the 'blame the victim syndrome' rears its hideous head once again. What is one supposed to do to be heard around here? Oh, I know, set fire to one's flat. Aggression and bullying pay, right?

Okay, if that's the way they want to play it....
Meanwhile, Bertha Mason is still living above me. A terrifying thought as she managed to burn the Rochester family seat to the ground.