Diary of an NDIS Support Worker

 7/11/2024

Dear Diary,

It's a lot like being on a dating app, the font is even the same.

I build my profile, and start swiping. 

Provide social support and help with light housework to Evie in Mornington.

I'm on this NDIS platform because I quit my job last week.

Had no choice really - got told my humour wasn't appreciated and some people in the office didn't like me. Ouch. So I quit. Needed some income quickly. Had zero appetite to demonstrate my skills in anything other than the simplicity of offering social support and some light housework. 

I do a an online training session on 
'Securing Your First Client.' A soulless moment - guided through the platform, no introduction to other workers. Told how we can build our own business as NDIS support workers, and we're off. 

Police check, working with children's check NDIS approved and the rates of pay are ok.

We're encouraged to have a 'meet and greet,' offer that for free, then take it from there.

But J from Bentleigh has had trouble sleeping because of all the medication they are on. They are unsure how to navigate the platform, and need someone to come out and help. They are embarrassed at how far they have let their life slip..

I slip into no judgment mode.   

And try not to let my eyes widen in disbelief.

'What is the best thing I can do for you today.'

J is between tears. She gestures to a painting she did with the last worker. A dapple of purples and oranges, floating there on the table that is so cluttered I can not imagine how they managed to find space to paint.

The cat eats his food, which is balanced between two chairs. His fur is matted and his eyes are watering.

The dishes I propose optimistically. I could do them whilst I'm here. The agreed four hour shift hovers uneasily ahead of me.

I focus on what J is saying, the litany of despair, the workers who have let them down. The shame of how bad she has let the place go.

I focus on what J is saying, suspending my disbelief at the piles of papers and other things,  the dishes higgedly piggeldy scattered across the sink and every surrounding surface close to the sink.

Of course there are rubber gloves. The unopened packet is a beacon of cleanliness in the chaos.

Mould blooms between stacked dishes. Rotten lemons are not to be thrown out. The organic garden awaits them. 

Help with organic garden was partly why I had swiped on this profile. The blinds are closed though. And as I begin to clean the dishes, my hope that this job will be what I expected fades.

As I sort and wash the teetering piles of dishes, J cries intermittently, catalogues her illnesses, medications and abusers. 

I go to the laundry to scrape off a froth of mould from a dish.A load of washing churns.

Been in there three weeks now. Don't have the physical capacity to hang it out, J tells me.

I don't offer.

Four hours later the dishes are washed and put away.

The carpet in the hallway is drenched in cat piss.

I avert my gaze from other parts of the house.

You've been great J says. When can you come again?

Let me take stock I say.

My throat stings from the stench of cat piss. 

 & Trump wins the election.