Scary Story II - Going to the Post Office.

Of course it should really be “Going to the doctors”, but these big tasks need to be broken down into manageable pieces. Like attempting to register with a new surgery by post...

A long road to from here to the doctors.

I've needed to see the doctor for about a week now. The cycle of anxiety building to total collapse nears its climax once again, with the sleepless nights and sleepy daze blending into a grim, grey, continuous stream of exactly the same - endless days ganging up into weeks and even months...

I had to dump my last GP

I had to dump my last GP, Dr Lord. She infests the Magdalene Surgery with an equally superior male colleague Dr Jetson. After three years of no social care, two suicide attempts and one dead and one dying parent, the absolute lack of care and concern, and latterly the extreme condescension from Dr Lord, finally broke through my autistic bubble of Saint-Gobain Sully ballistic glass.

He was going to ask me kill him

I'd gone to see her about my dying father, I needed the Learning Disability Partnership to arrange transport to see him, and I was worried that he was going to ask me kill him. You see, he was dying in a very slow and quite horrible way and he wanted out quickly.

He'd already had one go and had only managed to nearly die, although achieved some significant liver damage and some nasty pressure sores to boot.

“And what sort of dogs do you have?” in the Voice

Despite my fraught state, the recollection of the consultation is distressingly acute and came to an end when she asked me “And what sort of dogs do you have?” in the Voice. The one They use for when they're attempting to communicate with dark-skinned foreigners and the mentally incompetent.

Attempting to communicate with dark-skinned foreigners

Anyway, he's finally dead now so we can move on...