Today I asked the world for help.

This meant connecting my very disorganised brain with the allegedly hyper-rational world of bureaucracy.

It begun at the Doctors office as I told my abrigded story (to the tenth health care professional) of how my life fell to bits this years. The African Doctor looked at me perplexed, mildy disinterested and perhaps grappling with his own anxiety when I explained the constant crying at my desk and bouts of heroin use.

I wondered if my existential crisis meant shit to a Doctor who came from a continent ravaged by AIDS.

He said that the drug use "must have really hit my pocket"(I wonder what he would have thought about my sugar daddy) and declined my request for a Centrelink appraisal. He referred me to a psychiatrist. I pleaded with him to write a medical certificate. He declined.

We drove 45 minutes through grey skies and humidity. A billboard sprung up in the middle of nowhere.

"Centrum...do you feel 100%??"

Yeah, 100% shit.

The psychiatrists office in Bundaberg was small with no natural light. A man sat rocking back and forth on his chair. An uptight woman sat with her teenage daughter. The receptionist told me I couldn't get an appointment until the end of January. After that, it would Centrelink another 6 weeks to process my claim. I have $1.52 in my bank account.

We couldn't find the drug rehab clinic I'll be staying at in January. That is, of course, if I pass the detox test to show I've been clean for 4 weeks.

Mum took me back to the GP to plead with him to write me a certificate.

"There's a history of mental illness in our family" she told him.

"I'm on medication, his uncles have schizophrenia, his father has bipolar. His employer has told him he cant work. He is sick and needs money to live on."

He went Awol. He told us we had no right to come in there and tell him what to do. He was "not a prisoner".

"How can u do this to me?" he asked us.

"How can u do this to him?" my Mum spat back.

His eyes popped out of his head. He was more scared that aggressive.

"I reckon he is under investigation for giving dodgy medical certificates" my Mum said as we left.

On the way home my Liberal-voting Mum came to the very anti-Today Tonight conclusion that mentally ill people who didn't have families who could support them would be fucked.

"Yeah, they make-up most of the homeless population" I said.

I then drew references to comments she made about young homeless people "just leaving home to party".

I eventually got an appointment with another Doctor when I got home and rang the psychologist who had called the CAT team on me earlier in the year.

That afternoon I spent in bed. Lying down. Not depressed, not really anxious. Just longing. Something crying out to be fed deep in my stomach. I failed to identify the need. Did I need someone to cuddle? Did I need a partner? Do I need something to eat? Or a cigarette??? There was an ache in my being....I'm not saying I was craving drugs, but if someone had drugs on them at the time I would have taken them to stop ache and lose my thoughts and play around illusions in my own head about being something that I'm probably not.

When I got up A Current Affair was blaring in the lounge room. There was a story about the 'intelligent bra'. Then a story about a little pain relief device. A woman came on saying she couldn't bend her knees until she used this device.

"Now my husband can fuck me doggy style" I interjected, just to get a reaction from my parents...who ignored me.

Still the ache remained. I rang a couple of friends who didn't answer. Took a double dose of zoloft and randomnly found our missing pet Kangaroo in the front yard. My parents thought she was dead. They had been speculating all day about how she died.

My Dad said "I can just imagine her lost in the bush sucking her paws. Then the wild dogs would find her".

"Or the dogs next door" Mum added.

Dogs ripping apart the little female Kangaroo, playing with her, biting her tail, attacking her throat, barely even eating her when they kill her. They would have killed her for fun. Because she couldn't bite back. Because its there nature. Our nature. Just like in my dreams, but somehow not as troubling not as symbolic. As if getting upset about the way the world works will get u nowhere. Why would it trouble us that a Kangaroo would die???

But she's back anyway. Mum and Dad fussed over her when she got back. They fed her jam sandwiches and brought her bed back into the lounger room.

"Hello my darling little girl" where my Dad's exact words when he found her.

She's laying behind me. Nervous. Primal. Not Ok with me to sleep. I wonder of she longs for a partner. For freedom. To live as nature intended bounding through the fields, running from predators. Shitting in the grass. I wonder if she aches but doesn't know why and if it all goes away when she buries her head in a jam sandwich. I wonder if this human life makes her forget what she really misses out on. If only she had an imagination and she began to long for something more then Skippy the bush kangaroo would have her first ever psychological crisis.