On November 14th, in dealing with a company, I was brought to tears because of the way I was dealt with as a person with a disability. They had something I needed, as distinct from wanted, and as such I had to put up with an extraordinary, and unthinkable, amount of frustration. In the final moments, and this is rare for me, I broke down in tears. Joe watched helplessly as this all unfolded over a two hour period that I was on the telephone - mostly on hold. He, like me, couldn't believe what was happening.
I asked the woman if the call had been recorded.
She said that it was.
I told her that I was going to write in and make a serious complaint about the ordeal.
I don't think she cared all that much.
And, here's the thing, I didn't write.
I started to several times but every time I did, every time I realised the length of the story and the depth of my emotional reaction to it I simply pushed away from the computer. I couldn't do it. I let myself off the hook, as I normally chastise myself for not at least writing a complaint, because I felt emotionally traumatised by what had happened.
But today ... I started to think about it again. This time with less emotion as the distance, in time, has allowed me to see that I had every right to be frustrated and that what happened was simply outrageous. Simply. Outrageous. And I'm ready to write that letter.
But, I wonder ... is it now too far way from the event to matter? What is the shelf life of a complaint, a serious complaint? I don't know ...
I thought I'd ask you.