The disability benefits system takes your dignity in exchange for money

It's not pleasant to have to ask for help. The cuts to the Independent Living Fund - delivered in a court room that wasn’t accessible to wheelchairs - are a stark reminder of the reality of life as a disabled person in Britain.

I haven’t been well enough to work much recently. I feel I should say that, though it’s none of anyone’s business. It doesn’t feel good. The fatigue, the pain, whatever. Yes. But the confession of it. Stripping off your privacy in front of strangers. Admitting that you are not doing the things you’re supposed to be able to.

No one should have to do that. No one should have to invite anyone into the most personal aspects of their lives. No one should have to present their incapability and sit with the shame that comes along for the ride.

But, as a society, we force people to do that constantly – that is, after all, how a benefit system works. We take people’s dignity in exchange for money and judge them for needing it.

We could pretend we don’t - or perhaps, increasingly, admit we do and term it the "right choice for difficult times". It does sound uncomfortable when you start to acknowledge it. It begins to feel like the sort of thing that good people shouldn’t talk about. As time goes on, and progression looks more like regression in this country, good people are the ones who start talking very loud.

The disabled, the chronically sick, have always had to lay themselves bare to be deserving. That’s just how these things (apparently) work. There’s a dominant group, and the needy are judged to see if they meet the standards the former in order to get help. Lately, as the welfare system shrivels and shrinks, and our collective empathy seemingly with it, we’ve been judging people for even asking. We’ve been getting very good at that.

It isn’t pleasant to need help. Perhaps, on a pile of falsities and illusions that keep this whole thing going, that’s the central myth that needs to be destroyed. The idea that there is something easy or enjoyable in asking for someone to help you meet basic needs, and that this is such a common, logical trait to being human that swathes of people do it daily.

It is not pleasant to need someone to help you. It is not enviable to have to ask, to admit that you – person, adult – are not able to take care of yourself. That feeling will only ever increase when who you’re having to ask for help makes it clear they’ve really no desire to give it to you. Perhaps they talk badly about you; they might even have nicknames they use behind your back. They might feel so confident that others share their opinion that they say it to your face. Maybe they give you the help but do it begrudgingly, deceiving and demeaning whilst expecting you to be grateful.

And what do you do? You take it. There is no avoiding that. When meals consist of sandwiches and biscuits because you can’t cook hot meals or you’re incontinent but can’t afford the toiletries to clean yourself, there is no avoiding any of it.

That’s the moment of vulnerability; the state that well-meaning supporters often find themselves referring to. It’s a myth that it comes earlier; that a group of people, by virtue of sickness or disability, are simply ‘the most vulnerable’. As if it’s a fixed, natural position, unaffected by how others act. Vulnerability is potential; the risk that one day, on the whim of political pandering the support system crumbles, and you will be lost. Vulnerability is the wait. When you know the fabric of your life is at the mercy of others, the threat is more than enough.

In Britain, that threat has become real. The Independent Living Fund, which has been cut or abandoned to local authorities, is the latest loss to respect and dignity. This particular benefit gives, by definition, life and independence to 20,000 severely disabled people. Although it is a number on a spreadsheet to some, to others it is the personal assistant who comes to help you to the toilet in your own home. A handful of disabled people took the Government to the High Court over it but today lost their case. The news was delivered in a court room that wasn’t accessible for wheelchairs, reminding the excluded and the isolated of their place.

There will probably be talk of the consequences over the next few days. Perhaps stories of how the fund helps recipients get washed each day, or avoid sitting in adult nappies in their home, or being put in residential care. No one should have to say those things but at this point there is little choice.

The system has always demanded that you parade your pain and now the fight against it demands the same. Dignity is donated to the cause. The cause is protecting as much dignity as you can.

A mobility scooter. Photo: Getty

Frances Ryan is a journalist and political researcher. She writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman, and others on disability, feminism, and most areas of equality you throw at her. She has a doctorate in inequality in education. Her website is here.

Photo: Getty Images
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Autumn Statement 2015: George Osborne abandons his target

How will George Osborne close the deficit after his U-Turns? Answer: he won't, of course. 

“Good governments U-Turn, and U-Turn frequently.” That’s Andrew Adonis’ maxim, and George Osborne borrowed heavily from him today, delivering two big U-Turns, on tax credits and on police funding. There will be no cuts to tax credits or to the police.

The Office for Budget Responsibility estimates that, in total, the government gave away £6.2 billion next year, more than half of which is the reverse to tax credits.

Osborne claims that he will still deliver his planned £12bn reduction in welfare. But, as I’ve written before, without cutting tax credits, it’s difficult to see how you can get £12bn out of the welfare bill. Here’s the OBR’s chart of welfare spending:

The government has already promised to protect child benefit and pension spending – in fact, it actually increased pensioner spending today. So all that’s left is tax credits. If the government is not going to cut them, where’s the £12bn come from?

A bit of clever accounting today got Osborne out of his hole. The Universal Credit, once it comes in in full, will replace tax credits anyway, allowing him to describe his U-Turn as a delay, not a full retreat. But the reality – as the Treasury has admitted privately for some time – is that the Universal Credit will never be wholly implemented. The pilot schemes – one of which, in Hammersmith, I have visited myself – are little more than Potemkin set-ups. Iain Duncan Smith’s Universal Credit will never be rolled out in full. The savings from switching from tax credits to Universal Credit will never materialise.

The £12bn is smaller, too, than it was this time last week. Instead of cutting £12bn from the welfare budget by 2017-8, the government will instead cut £12bn by the end of the parliament – a much smaller task.

That’s not to say that the cuts to departmental spending and welfare will be painless – far from it. Employment Support Allowance – what used to be called incapacity benefit and severe disablement benefit – will be cut down to the level of Jobseekers’ Allowance, while the government will erect further hurdles to claimants. Cuts to departmental spending will mean a further reduction in the numbers of public sector workers.  But it will be some way short of the reductions in welfare spending required to hit Osborne’s deficit reduction timetable.

So, where’s the money coming from? The answer is nowhere. What we'll instead get is five more years of the same: increasing household debt, austerity largely concentrated on the poorest, and yet more borrowing. As the last five years proved, the Conservatives don’t need to close the deficit to be re-elected. In fact, it may be that having the need to “finish the job” as a stick to beat Labour with actually helped the Tories in May. They have neither an economic imperative nor a political one to close the deficit. 

Stephen Bush is editor of the Staggers, the New Statesman’s political blog.