I’m a carer for my dad, who has depression, anxiety, psychosis and physical health problems. It took a year to appeal the decision – so we ended up at the food bank
- This article is part of a new series, the heat or eat diaries: dispatches from the frontline of Britain’s cost of living emergency
When I first took time out to be my dad’s carer, I thought it would be for a couple of months, a year at most. His mental health was deteriorating to the point where he couldn’t go to work – he was a cellar manager in a pub – he couldn’t do any housework, couldn’t go to the shops. He was depressed, anxious, often psychotic. He was seeing a psychiatrist, he was on medication. I thought it would be sorted out and he’d get better.
At the time, I was the person most free to help him. My dad lives alone – my mum and dad separated years ago. My siblings had husbands, wives, kids, responsibilities. I was in my mid-20s, and at first, I tried to juggle his care with flexible jobs – in a Sports Direct, a bowling alley, a school, a florist, a bar. At one point I was working three jobs. I’m not an idiot, I’m not lazy, but it was impossible. I took jobs where they want you to be “flexible”, but it doesn’t work both ways. I’d arrange all my dad’s appointments around my rota, then my boss would change the rota with 24 hours’ notice. I stopped work so I could go to my dad’s every day, get him to his appointments, get his shopping done, get his benefits sorted, make sure he had his meds, gave him emotional support and encouragement, but his health issues still snowballed.
