This essay will discuss rights, empowerment and advocacy.

Not much to report. Good mood, despite a bit of a cold, and I’m making headway with my uni work. I’m trying to commit to a post every night, even a wee tiny one, as I think it’ll be useful to have a picture of my moods to eventually show my new psychiatrist or CPN. I’ve heard nothing back from the doctors yet but I do have another appointment with occupational health at uni.

On the rocky road to health I have submitted myself to be poked, prodded and observed by the various members of the medical profession. I’ll forever be labelled a mental, even if I’m not experiencing mental illness, and have to live my life with that sticker on my file. While I can do a lot to help myself, I’m quite at the mercy of the rubber stamp and realise how vulnerable I am – one false step or, more likely, a typo, and I’m toast. No more career; no more driving license; no more rights. Granted I’m confident, articulate and relatively well supported, so I probably have little to worry about. Everything could go tits up and I could end up in crisis but I reckon there’d still be someone to come get me. Then I stop and think about all those people without a voice in society, without family or friends, or who can’t speak, who are disabled, who’ve been abused, or need someone to stick up for them, for whatever reason. I hope that one day they’re as lucky as me. Better yet, I hope I’ll one day be qualified enough to support them in their own arse-kicking and we can get shit done.

But the doctor has to say I can first.

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