Sandy: that’s me. I’m quite down in the dumps, despite it being Tuesday and the day before my psych appointment. Contrary to my usual upbeat self, a depression is descending, unexpected, unanticipated. I have a need to find some higher ground.
The lowness is probably explained by a decision to stop taking my meds. It is a considered position, taken only after sitting in the park for hours, every day, debating the options.
As I sit on the bench, Kookaburras are laughing in some nearby trees, a mob of sparrows squabble over somebody’s forgotten sandwich and the nearby bed of roses is intoxicating. Even the warm sunshine, challenging the dark, threatening clouds in the west, are all on my side. Yep, everything is looking up.
On top of it all, my Centrelink schedules are going well. There aren’t any ‘incidents’ to report, no run-ins with the law, Mrs O’Flarerty, my landlady, is happy. I reckon she likes me; probably my new beard.
I keep my room tidy, although there isn’t enough cupboard space to unpack my duffle. Funny, but I did notice a little jam jar of petunias in my room the other day. I’ll tell her not to come in, that’s an invasion of privacy. I mean, she might spring me doing sumpin’.
Caufield, my Centrelink go-to man, me Case Manager, is optimistic too, happy at the way I handle the fortnightly interview, happy with the paperwork, the verbal updates I give him. But I notice he raises an eyebrow when I suggest we go outside for a toke. He concludes the session with the advice that my payments will be continuing, albeit with a slight reduction to reflect my unauthorised purchase of ‘weed’ last week.
I feel quite distracted when I leave his office, wondering how the hell they know out about the little pouch of ‘relaxant’ I scored. Was somebody spying on me, was the dealer a bloody stooge? I betcha it is that dude in the red shirt, standing at the bar of the pub – I notice the way he was looking at me, as I palm the deal?
I hear about Centrelink’s electronic robots. Can they smell it in my room, maybe it is still on me breath, from the steadier I had toked in the street, outside their offices? Ya gotta be careful, they’re always looking.
They could be bastards, sometimes. Not so much Caufield, but others handled the system like the cash was coming from their own fucking accounts! I betcha it is that bloke at the pub, that fucking arsehole. Jees, he needs to mind his own fuckin’ business. It’s me own money, it is just a hundred grams. Fuck it. I decide to pop in there and give him a bit of what’o! That’ll teach him to mind his own fuckin’ business.
But I forget which pub. I pause and roll a small zephyr. Where is that bloody pub? Bugger the lot of ‘em! The pricks! How dare they