I was unemployed. Heck, I still am. But back then I had all of my money tied up in the bricks and mortar house I lived in. I couldn't afford to put food on the table. I couldn't afford to pay my company's tax debt. So, I went off to Centrelink with my hat in my hands and my heart in my shoes, feeling a deep sense of worthlessness for not being able to fend for myself.
After my divorce, I was a mess. It was on the tail end of a 2 year long struggle with major depression. My confidence was shot. I was just starting on the journey of self-discovery, finding out what depression and bipolar meant to me, and how I could put all the broken pieces back together again...
I went to see them at Centrelink, being open and honest. They asked me how able I was to work, and I told them what I wanted to be able to do, instead of telling them what I actually could do. I over-estimated what I was capable of. Centrelink took me at my word, and it was a long while until I could get them to recognise my mental health issues, and assign me to a Disability Employment Service provider instead of the normal Employment Service Provider...
The hoops I had to jump through at Centrelink weren't particularly difficult. Except when you've got mental health issues and you need help. Then those hoops are impossible.
When I was forced to sell my house and converted my bricks and mortar into dollars in a bank account again, the problem of Centrelink went away. I have been funding my own unemployment since. I feel for the people who are forced to deal with Centrelink all the time.
I can appreciate that the workers at Centrelink have to put up with a lot, and they are understaffed and underfunded. I feel for them too. The whole system is terrible.
This poem was a way of venting my frustrations, and of describing my Centrelink experiences. It certainly isn't the most positive or happy thing I've ever written...
Sorry for the at times "colourful" language... I've bleeped it all out...
Centrelink
I am so sorry for everyone in the same leaky boat,
Desperately trying just to stay afloat.
Their petty little red tape games
May be just an inconvenience for the average person,
But for us they can be truly soul and life destroying.
I would give anything to have our Prime Minister
(and in fact every single politician in parliament)
Walk in our shoes for a week or two,
So that they can experience some small part
Of the consequences of their heartless policies
That look so good on the budget balance sheets.
See you in the queue at my local ‘Link, Tony.
Wait to give ‘em your number not your name.
Sit with me and wait for hours,
Because obviously my time ain’t worth sh*t.
Get immersed in the funk of desperation and depression that is everywhere.
Marinate in it as you wait
For your worthless name to be called out.
Leaf through all the pretty glossy pamphlets
That tell fairy tales of how good and easy it is.
Then take a good look around at the reality.
Fiddle with your phone (if you’re lucky enough to have one),
Seek your dots and dot your coms,
Look for my career,
Log on to that nifty little Centrelink app
That tells you what to do when,
When to jump and how high.
Don’t f**k up, be forgetful or let life drag you down…
Your payments could stop.
Then you’d really be in the sh*t or on the streets,
And Centrelink take rather a dim view
Of people with no fixed abode.
Get distracted by the spell of the smiling well dressed actors
On the TV screens, sharing their Centrelink success stories,
Then compare that to your own sorry ass,
Sitting in a red seat waiting to have a soulectomy.
Finally!
Your name is called,
And you walk passively behind the fast, efficient consultant,
Wondering whether they will be nice or a ****.
“Watch your knees as you sit down”.
“Thanks” you say, still not knowing if they’re nice or a ****.
Bang your knees as you sit down.
Ow.
Answer their formulaic questions like a good little robot,
Show them the evidence that you have been doing
Everything that they tell you to do
In your Employment Pathway Plan.
“Why haven’t you got a job yet?”
Hold back the answer that you want to give:
“Because there f**king aren’t any.
There’s thousands upon thousands
Of younger and abler people,
Sitting in the same sh*tty red chairs,
Waiting for you to ask that sh*t.
How the f**k do you expect a useless ****
Like me to compete?”
Instead, smile sadly and tell ‘em
You’re doing everything in your power.
“Well, I’m afraid that isn’t good enough.
You’ve been unemployed for over a year now.”
Don’t you think I would change that if I could?
I would open a vein just to shovel sh*t,
But someone else already took that job.
Agree to come back to Centrelink next week,
Same sh*t, same shovel,
Same stink.
Thanks Centrelink.
