The Big Day (part two)

As soon as I walk into the room I know it’s a stitch up. Once they trot out a second or even third member of staff, you know you’re wasting your time. As the Centre Manager ushers me into the tiny room, the Learning Support Manager is already waiting, and there are immediate apologies that the lead staff member for Lily’s course couldn’t make it. I haven’t even got my coat off and I know it’s game over.

The Learning Support manager is basically there to make sure they’ve ticked all the legal boxes, so there’s no right to appeal. She runs through our previous emails and the college’s SEN code of practice, pointing out that as an independent training provider they’re not bound to the same SEN rules as other FE institutions.

At this point it doesn’t matter what I say, they’re kicking Lily out. It doesn’t matter that she’s been doing well until now, that it was one incident that got out of control, one lesson that went wrong in over a month of attendance, she’s out. It doesn’t matter that she’s been consistently let down, has never been given the support she needs, she’s out. It doesn’t matter that I’m still fighting to get her the ADHD medication that she needs, or appealing the local authority’s refusal to give her an EHCP, she’s out. It doesn’t matter that there are extenuating circumstances, the stress that we’ve been under as a family due to domestic abuse, she’s out. I may as well stick pencils up my nose and sing the Russian National Anthem, nothing I say is going to make a difference. I point out that I came in the hope of having an open discussion about how to support Lily and move forward from this point and it’s devastating that they have already drawn their conclusion and aren’t prepared to listen. I question their decision process and point out that no one has been asked to advocate for Lily before the decision has been made.

“Well, that’s what you’re doing now,” the centre manager tells me.

“But you’ve already made your decision,” I repeat. “Who advocated for Lily during your ‘investigative process?'”

I get nowhere. The Centre Manager then gives me the bullshit about how they could theoretically take Lily back, but it will only leave us in a worse position as by then the 6 week probation window with other colleges will have closed so transferring her won’t be easy and blah de blah, so this is in everyone’s best interests as he doesn’t want to leave me in a worse position, it’s best if she goes now. One thing I really hate is when they try to pretend they’ve got your child’s best interests at heart while they’re delivering the killer blow. Fuck off, basically.

“Forgive me for being bitter,” I tell him. The fact that we’ve relocated 150 miles for Lily to be able to attend this college doesn’t matter at all to him. They’ve failed to provide the support she needs, because they can’t afford to provide further support. The local authority won’t provide the support that Lily needs. No one will. No one ever has. I don’t understand how Lily can be identified as having a Special Educational Need by the EHCP panel, but then be denied an EHCP. It feels very much like bullshit. When Lily then fails due to this lack of support, she (and I) are blamed and punished. There’s no point in staying any longer and I leave, trying to hold my tears in until I’m out on the street.

In that moment, I hate them. I hate everyone. All the people around me with their petty concerns, who haven’t spent over a decade fighting to get help for their autistic child. All the people who lead nice normal lives, without having to battle domestic abuse, special needs, who don’t know what it’s like to have life knock you over and kick you again and again and again. I feel suicidal. There seems to be absolutely no point in carrying on, I end up at the same place, trying yet again to find the strength to pick myself up off the floor, dust myself down and start over. It’s getting harder and harder to keep on starting over, to keep on fighting for things that don’t seem to affect the majority of the population.

I lock myself into the toilets at the nearby library, and cry. When I’ve got myself together enough to face going back outside, I end up in the nearest Wetherspoons, ordering a vodka-coke and packet of crisps. I don’t care any more. I’ve still got to go home and break the news to Lily, who I know is fully expecting Mum to pull off a magic trick and allow her to stay on the course, no matter how many times I told her that I might not succeed. I have to deal with Ivy, who didn’t want to move away from her home town in the first place, who now has to deal with the frustration of Lily blowing the big opportunity that we moved here for. Meanwhile the planet burns, and politicians quibble about the DeathNote that is Brexit. We’re approaching an election and I want to beg people not to vote Tory, because a decade of Conservative rule is the reason why Lily has never had support. I don’t want to be part of this world any more. What’s happened today isn’t exceptional, it’s a battle I’ve fought many times before. I’m still having to battle Simon in order to get him to stop lying to CMS and pay the child support he legally owes us. I’m still having to battle the health system to give Lily the help she needs. And hell, Lily was first expelled age 5, from kindergarten, so you’d think I’d be used to it by now. But something has tripped inside me, a switch pinging off with this fresh bout of despair. Some crucial part of myself just died. Hope, maybe. Compassion. Duty. Doing the right thing. It’s got us nowhere. The sad reality is that if I’d lied about the EHCP, if I’d claimed that Lily’s college place was still dependent on her being given one, then she probably would have got it. Except then she wouldn’t have been accepted by the college. We can’t win.

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