2 Fiona Leahy - a very nice woman who disappeared slowly but surely

 2 Fiona Leahy - a very nice woman who disappeared slowly but surely

I have been experiencing turbulence with the Irish care and welfare system for the last few years. However, it was not until January 20 that I faced the real, painful collision. That day I found myself back in Kerry with no income and no roof over my head. I searched in vain for help: the homelessness department - bang! The wall; the local social welfare office in Kenmare - bang! Threshold - the tenants' rights association - the same. Desperate, I rang Tara - my delegated social worker, but as usual, I got voicemail. There was no point in leaving a recording, because most of the messages left behind were similar to letters sent out into the world in bottles. I learned from the voicemail recording left on her mobile, that in case of an emergency I should contact Fiona Leahy - I didn't recognize her at first by her name. I called the number provided, and of course I didn't get through - this system always works on the voicemail principle, no matter who I wanted to contact. So I left a message, quite dramatic in content, giving my details and the situation I was in. The woman from the contact Tara gave in the recording, called me back quite quickly. She introduced herself, and reminded me that we knew each other. I had met Fiona a few years earlier during a DBT training in Killarney, she was one of the tutors. During our first conversation in the new circumstances, I told her that I had hit a wall and for the first time in my life I didn’t know what to do. She asked where I was. “In Killarney”, I replied, but I intended to get to Tralee that same day (Miriam the very helpful clerk from the local social welfare office in Kenmare advised me to go there; she gave me two addresses, one of which was the infamous Arlington Lodge – at that stage I had no idea what the name really meant). Totally desperate, despite the rather late hour, I asked if we could meet. Fiona answered that today probably not, but tomorrow definitely. Completely devastated and disoriented, after several phone calls to various institutions, where after a short conversation, each advised me to contact a doctor or immediately go to the hospital for emergency, I finally went to a place in this city that I knew well - I had previously been a patient in the psychiatric ward of the hospital in Tralee twice. Despite a total breakdown, panic attacks and spasms that took over me every now and then, I was not accepted this time. Maybe it was because I had a backpack and a small travel suitcase with me, looking more like a tourist than a person in need of help. Maybe it was because the doctor interviewing me was exceptionally irritating; he asked a lot of questions, to which when I wanted to answer he kept interrupting me, mumbling under his breath: “very good, fantastic, nice” by each anwar I gave after he took notes in his form ... His name was Said, and after another time, when he interrupted me while I was talking about one of my earlier suicide attempts, which he asked about while delving into the subject, muttering under his breath: "fantasitc, very good," I couldn't hold it in anymore and blurted out: "Could you stop it? It is very annoying. Nothing is >fantasitc<, nothing is >very good<. You're driving me mad. You are the worst psychiatrist I ever met in my entire life. Is there any other doctor who I could talk to?" Unfortunately, the result of waiting for this visit for several hours was that he showed me the door. Before doing so, however, he gave me a questionnaire to fill out, the first two questions of which were: "when I am happy", "what makes me happy". I could not quite believe what I was reading. I gave him the form back and told him that “I am sorry for your complete lack of empathy and understanding”. Our conversation could not be described as friendly. As a result, around 11 at night I ended up on the street in Tralee. The drama of this situation was that I really felt that evening as if the ground had fallen from under my feet, and my whole world had completely collapsed. I was seized by such an overwhelming panic, such a terrible fear, that I didn't know what to do, where to go. And in these circumstances, so new to me, I was completely alone; left to my own devices; on the street. In retrospect, I think it was a good thing I wasn't admitted to hospital at the time; they would probably have changed my meds again, drugged me so that I wouldn't have fully understood what was happening to me, and like others I would have simply followed the herd to complete destruction in the hope of something that would never come true. But that time I walked with a small suitcase on wheels and a backpack through empty, dark, cold streets, not knowing where to go. I didn't know any hotels; no place to stay. Returning to Cork was out of the question - at that time public service didn't work. In fact, I didn't even know how to get from the hospital to the city center. I got lost several times, and being in a complete emotional breakdown, I couldn't even read Google Maps properly.

Finally I came across a fairly long street. I headed towards the denser buildings. After a while I saw an open hotel: Benners. I went inside and through the bar I got to the reception. After a while someone came. I said: “I had just left the hospital and needed a bed for the night”. The receptionist checked the system and said he had a room available for 90 euro. I had no choice but to take it. Luckily I still had about 3000 euro in my account. I went into the room and as usual I fell apart. Despite being extremely tired I couldn't fall asleep. In the morning I fell into a short nap. After a shower I went to the bar beside the hotel for breakfast. Although I was hungry, eating was quite difficult for me.

Only now did I realize that I was in the very center of Tralee, right next to the main church of St. John. After breakfast, on the way back to the hotel from Wild Cafe, I went into the church and, as every day, spent a few dozen minutes immersed in thought. The hotel is located next door, so I didn't have far to collect my luggage: a small backpack and a suitcase. I said goodbye to a nice woman at the reception, and went to the meeting with Fiona that I had arranged the previous day. We met at noon at the Flower Power café in the center of Tralee. When she arrived, as usual, I couldn't take it anymore and, overcome with emotion, I completely fell apart. I expected, I was even sure, that something would be organized that day, that they would provide me with some emergency accommodation. I know, it's funny how disconnected I was from reality. We spent the first day (an hour and a half to be exact) drawing up a plan of action. I told her that I had the last 3000 euro in my account (I had, because I had already spent 90), and this money was untouchable for me in case I found something, an apartment or even a room to rent. Terrified, I said that this was my last hope and if I got rid of the rest of my savings, I would never be able to return to normal. She seemed to understand and said that the most important thing now was to get my disability allowance reinstated. She asked me if I knew why they had suspended my benefit. I replied that I had not, but I can assume that it was because I had no physical address and although I was practically homeless, I was not from the formal point of view. She replied that we had to deal with that too. She called social welfare but found out nothing because, although she introduced herself as a social worker, the official on the other end replied that everything was in the LETTER. Holding the phone to her ear, she asked me in a whisper if I had received the LETTER. I replied that I had not, because I did not have access to the box under the address I had provided - it was de facto a warehouse where I only kept my belongings. She passed that information onto the person on the other end of the line, but she still didn't get anything, because: the most important thing was the LETTER. After a short, comforting conversation, she said: “I have to go now, but we could meet tomorrow at the Kellihers station in the store”. I was very confused: what do you mean by: “I have to go”?, what: “tomorrow”? what about me? What should I do?” She gave me some ideas: "The weather is nice, go to the park. It's just around the corner. Maybe not today, but tomorrow, go to Fenit... have you ever been there? It's beautiful there". I didn't really understand what was happening: with this suitcase and backpack, in January, to the beach? Well, maybe, I don't know... Instead of staying in that cafe and wasting my worthless time, I instinctively went out with her. A fast hug on the street and goodbye, and see you tomorrow. 

Dragging my suitcase, with my backpack on my back, I made my way towards the park. She was right - at least the weather was nice. I entered the greens, after a few dozen meters I noticed an empty bench. I sat down on it and, as usual: fell apart emotionally. I thought then: “So this is rock bottom. You've reached it. I guess you can't go any further”. This place, this bench: by the cut tree, opposite the children's playground, has become my "homelessness bench", that's what I call it and every day, after time spent in church, from there, on a nicer day, I called my mother to check on her condition, talk to her for a while, comfort her somehow after her husband's death. But I didn't want to call her then, I didn't have anything interesting to say, and sharing information about what had happened somehow didn't fit in my head either. I was simply ashamed to admit the situation I found myself in. Especially since I believed in all the assurances, the nonsense I had been fed up with up until that point. I understood how alone I was, left completely to myself. Welcome to the real world!

I checked my phone for accommodation options: Benners, the hotel I was staying at, turned out to be the cheapest. Every other option was over 100 euro per night. I had no choice and went back through the park to the hotel. I asked if they still had the room I had last night. To my delight, I was able to check in right away. Once again, my night, despite the relatively good conditions and relative silence in the room, was not restful - stress was making itself felt and I again had trouble sleeping. 

The next day; the next meeting. This time in the shop at Kellihers petrol station in Tralee. Same time - high noon. And again I'm lugging around like an idiot a suitcase and a rucksack, hoping that something will change today. Fiona is punctual, full of empathy she sits down next to me  - on a small sofa. We barely fit, but it's probably better that way - it creates a bond between us. I tell her how the night went - in a storm of thoughts, basically without sleep. Today, according to the plan, “she's going to guide me through the process of ending homelessness”. Maybe I'll finally be able to register in the local system; apparently this is necessary to get any help from the county council. I really want this, because I'm losing 90 euro a day on a hotel, without any income. But, again, the same thing: we call social welfare, to Longford - head office, the story repeats itself: "Can I ask why his benefit have been stopped?" - Fiona talks on my behalf - empowered as a "social worker", she has certain privileges, can much more; besides, I am not cut out for such conversations at the moment - my emotional instability in the long run could annoy people; I am constantly carried away - I cry, moan, sob - no one could stand that, I am aware of that . And again the same: pushing the phone away, she whispers to me on the side, comically exaggerating the words she is saying: "they have sent a LETTER; it's all in the LETTER". Fiona calls another institution for me; the county council and again the same story - I have to have a letter (another one of course) from Threshold confirming the legality of breaking the lease. Next call then: Threshold - "I should have gone through the procedure before I moved out". What kind of procedure? I didn’t have any contract from my landlords, so there was no procedure, but no! I have to provide termination of a non-existing lease agreement. Slowly I am getting irritated: I can't believe what absurdity I've landed in: one thing determines the other, but since it doesn't exist I seem to be suspended in some bureaucratic vacuum. Fiona is full of empathy, tilting her head slightly and nodding in understanding every now and then. She says, sorry: repeats that she "nominated" me for a social house by Saint Vincent de Paul; ensured that it will all definitely end well. I believe her and I see her efforts; a golden woman. We arranged to meet the next day, same place, same time. I take my suitcase and backpack and again I scramble through the whole town to the center, because after checking on the internet Benners is still the cheapest option. Again 90 euro. 

My friends ask me on the phone: what did you manage to arrange? Nothing, but maybe something will change soon.

The next day (the third) I left my luggage at the hotel reception. After a short conversation with the nice receptionist, I asked: “If I had to stay another night, could I extend my booking”. The answer was: “Yes”. At least that much. But I still leave my things at the reception in the hope that something might move forward today.

Nothing moved. The same story as yesterday, the day before yesterday. After an hour and a half of pointless calls I am getting really upset. Irritated, I spit out the words: “This is some kind of joke; this isn't happening. How much longer will this go on?” After the meeting, I go to the local social welfare office, the one in the center. I have to go through the reception - the officer asks me what I'm here for: I answer with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes that I'm homeless, that they've withheld my disability allowance and I don't even know why, that I keep hearing about some magic LETTER that I don't have access to, and no one, neither to me nor my social worker, is able to tell what this letter is about. 

The receptionist gives me a token with a number on it and asks me to wait in the lobby. After a while, I entered a small room - a woman behind the glass. I start telling my story, and again the same thing, after a while: spasms, crying, a panic attack. It literally kills me, and for the people around must be unbearable. Fiona calls me at the same time; I tell the clerk opposite that I have to pick up; because it is my social worker. The officer, seeing me in a terrible state, asked if she could talk to her, so I passed the phone on. Fiona on loudspeaker explains everything and the clerk, who introduces herself as Nora, changes her attitude towards me. She informs me that at the post office, opposite the building, I can get a so-called Address Point, which is accepted as a correspondence address in the case of homelessness. After a short conversation, the two agree that they will keep in touch until the case moves forward. Nora calls Longford, introduces herself and quickly obtains information from the other side that in the LETTER is request for my bank statement from May last year. I also received a form from her to fill out - an application for supplementary welfare allowance as I am not getting any payment that time.

Finally I know something, after 3 days and 180 euros thrown down the drain, I was able to get information about what they expect from me. Straight after that visit I crossed the street and at the main post office in Tralee, thanks to the help of another officer by anPost who saw me in a state of complete emotional breakdown, I got a Post Office address as my correspondence address. I happily return to Nora, but despite the fact that I made a print screen - she is unable to accept it as proof and demands official confirmation from me, at the end she says: ”Tell Fiona, to get it for you”. So I crossed the street to the other side again, to the post office and heard from the same lovely lady that there is no confirmation and the screenshot is the only proof I can get. “That should be enough, because that is what is acceptable”. I want to go back to Social opposite, but the office is already closed. Another night - another 90.

Day four - I pack again in the morning and take my luggage to the reception, hoping that something will finally change. I ask the same, nice receptionist if I can get the same room in case, and if she could give me a discount. She smiles, checks the computer and says: "I'll see... 75 euros per night". I breathe a sigh of relief, because since the beginning of my adventure in Tralee I have lost 400 euros already. Before meeting Fiona again: I go for breakfast, then to church. Despite being in this town for the fourth day, I haven't had a chance to get my bearings yet and I'm walking on my very well-trodden paths (which is quite expensive for me). On the way I think to myself that: “If the same place we've been occupying for the last three days is free, it will be a good sign, a good omen”. The table is free; I think: “Something's going to happen today”. Fiona comes punctually, at noon as usual; she sits down next to me; we continue to bond. I pass on the form Nora gave me the day before and ask her to help me fill it in - not because of my language or writing difficulties, I simply can't get through it - I'm in such a state that it seems absolutely beyond me at that stage. It takes her 15 minutes to fill out the application for emergency money. Fiona, as an experienced social worker, has probably completed hundreds of similar forms. All I have to do is sign the last page. Next up: Longford - social welfare headquarters. She calls there on my behalf - it's better that way. After a short conversation and assurances that she is in touch with the local official - Nora, she is given an email address to which I should send my statements. I quickly opened my bank account app and went to my statements. I make a print screen of each page and send the finished copies in the form of images to Fiona's company address, who assures me that she will send these documents to Longford, right after our meeting - “It will be better that way”, I hear again. It's Thursday, and I am completely detached from reality, unaware that a great storm is coming - a cataclysm, Armaggeddon. Fiona says: “Stay in the hotel and don't go out anywhere, it could be dangerous”. I think: "Stay in the hotel? Thursday? There are 4 days until Monday, when we can meet - even after the discount, an additional 300 euros is simply thrown down the drain, and I have no income". I feel a pressure in my stomach, the blood rushing in my skull, I feel a little sick. Okay, I'll sort it out later - now I have to use her presence as much as possible. I ask if we can try again with Threshold, because I still believe in the system and I trust that registering as homeless will help me a lot in this situation. She is calling the number provided on the internet, Randal answers and at first she tries to politely and somewhat dispassionately present my situation again, but the effect is the usual. I ask her to pass me the phone and start to tell him what an absurd situation I have found myself in, that the whole case is straight out of some irrational comedy and maybe everything would be funny if it wasn't for the fact that it is happening in reality and concerns me personally. I am overcome with emotions again, and start sobbing; reaching higher notes, embarrassed, trying to apologize to my interlocutor, explaining that unfortunately since I got stuck in this trap I am not very able to control my emotions and this fact also bothers me a lot. Something changes and for the first time I hear some signs of understanding. Randal asks me for the details of my landlords: name, surname, address. I give him all the details. He tells me to be optimistic and he will try to help me, as it is indeed a rather absurd situation. Fiona leaves me at Kellihers by the petrol station after less than two hours meeting, but It has been finally a very productive day. This time I will not leave the place with her. I have nowhere else to go and I have to sort out other things before the coming storm. I call my last resort - a friend in Midleton. They luckily agree that I can sleep on the sofa in the living room again. It is not an ideal solution, but at least I will be able to save 300 euro. I walk back to the centre and immediately go to the local social welfare. After a short wait I meet Nora and tell her that a print screen from the anPost website is the only confirmation of address I can get. The clerk rings somewhere and after a moment changes my details in the system. I return to the hotel, which is at the junction of the streets, less than 100 metres away. The nice receptionist is still at work; I tell her that I have to go back to Cork because of the coming storm, but I will be returning to Tralee from Monday on again. I ask if the discount could still apply if I pay for two nights in advance - reality has slightly washed me out of my childish optimism and I know that it will take at least a few more days after the weekend, if not longer. After receiving the confirmation, I gather my bags, wish her a pleasant evening and good luck to survive the storm, and hurry to the station to make it by 5pm. The next day: Friday, all train and bus connections are cancelled.

After the weekend I arrive in Tralee. There is money waiting for me at the post office, finally something is moving. I head straight to Benners - the hotel where I stayed last time. I leave my bags in the room which I know quite well, and go to meet Fiona - at the petrol station. She arrives a bit late, 15 minutes. I use this time to write down as many details as possible in my diary. I have been keeping meticulous notes for some time now. This time she does not sit next anymore, but opposite to me. I sense some distance, but maybe I am wrong. On Thursday, before I left, I received a questionnaire from Threshold. I filled it out before leaving town and sent it back, via email, to Randal. Unfortunately, it turns out that he needs my physical signature. I'm sending a copy to Fiona's email. She brought a printout with her, which I signed. She's supposed to scan it and send it to Randal after our meeting. 

Next thing: After delivering the bank statements, I ask for a call to check the status of my case. As usual, she calls on my behalf - empowered by her position, she is able to obtain much more information. After a short while, she puts the phone away from her mouth and grotesquely whispers: "They have sent another letter". I ask if she can end this comedy and ask them what could I expect in this letter. At first, the person on the other end does not want to give information, saying that a LETTER will come. I can't stand it and press her to get this information. She briefly explains my story once again, that: I am spending my last money, staying in a hotel for 90 euro per night; I do not know why my benefits have been stopped. The person on the other end finally gives the information: I have to provide bank statements from May 9 to 14 and from July 15 to January 17. In addition, they expect me to provide an itinerary of two airline ticket purchases. I tell her that I do not have these confirmations because I never kept them in my email. She seems very skeptical and distrustful. I see the distance increasing by the minute. 

Despite everything, we set a meeting for the next day - same place, same time. In the afternoon I received information that Threshold has accepted the fact that I am unable to present a legal termination of the contract that never existed - this opens the way for me to register in the county council system. There is still time to send this email to Fiona, who passes it straight away on to the council.

In the morning the next day,  after 10 am Jason from the special county council unit for preventing homelessness, calls me and informs me that I have to be at their office at 11 am. I say that I have already paid for the hotel and I am not able to cancel that booking. I am to show up the next day. During the meeting with Fiona I hear assurances that everything will be fine, that it is only temporary and they will probably put me up in a hotel or B&B in a single room. I feel really happy. Everything has somehow worked out. Fiona asks if I want to stay in Tralee? Maybe Killarney? I tell her that there is MTU here and I hope to start some studies. That I have been thinking about it for a long time (I even applied to UCC twice, but nothing came of it). Now that I'm living here, everything is in place, very accessible, much easier. She asks if I've answered the letter, the first one - "I am writing a reply in which I describe everything". We part in pleasant moods.

The next day, the shock comes. After a visit to the office, "an assessment" and being assigned to a bed in the house of evil, she is driving me to the Healy-Rea "apartment complex" in Tralee. Before meeting the manager, we part ways and make an appointment for the next day. After viewing the "apartment" I called her to ask if the council will indeed cover the deposit and the first two months of rent as they assured me. It turns out that they will not, because the investigation is ongoing. Of course, I can always pay for that place from my own funds, but I will not receive a refund.

After the first night, in the Irish semi-prison, I met Fiona in the same place as usual. We agreed at the usual time, but she comes later, much later. I tell her about how I received the visit to the "apartment complex" - I tell her about my outrage and disgust with the whole thing. About how shocked I was by Michael's greed and how disappointed I was in him. Not because it happened to me personally, but because of his greed and rapacity in general. I end by saying that: "It would have been better if I hadn't seen it, because then I would still think he's an amazing person". I guess I hit the "soft underbelly", because somehow the attitude changes a lot. We're scheduling the next meeting not for the next day - Wednesday, but for Monday of the following week.

My last meeting with Fiona I won’t consider as the best. Again I got another letter from the “deciding officer". After I told her that I was not in the position to provide any confirmation of two bookings made, which he requested, she looked at me and said: "Unfortunately, while the investigation is ongoing, I am unable to help you in any way. The most important thing is to reinstate your allowance. After that, we could proceed. They smell a rat" - and while saying these words she wrinkled her graceful nose in a rather characteristic way. She took her things and in this way, like the cat from "Alice in Wonderland", disappeared completely, leaving only her sweet smile in my memory.

After that I had one more "contact" with my social worker. On Ash Wednesday, when Jason gave me an hour to move; being in a terrible mental state and having no other contact numbers, I called her with a dramatic plea for help. My world was falling apart and my only thought was: "Finish it once and for all". I literally begged for any contact, to Mike - the local psychiatric nurse, to anyone as I was really afraid, I am not going to survive it. She called me back after 25 hours. I didn't pick up that call, I didn't see any sense in it. In fairness, after an hour she sent a text message saying I had to go to the hospital. Well, yes... after all, as she said before, I had moved from South Kerry to Kerry or whatever their nomenclature was, and I no longer fell under "her" region. Job done, ticked off, let's move on.