I’m on benefits but that doesn’t mean I should be poor… I still splash out on Veuve Clicquot and cashmere jumpers

IT’S 3pm on a Wednesday at a fancy restaurant in rural Cheshire and I’m just about to pay £75 for a bottle of Veuve Clicquot for two, while many people in the UK are at their desks working hard. 

We’re celebrating a birthday today and I’m dressed head to toe in M&S gear and wearing my signature perfume, Agent Provocateur. 

Erica Crompton/Supplied

Erica Crompton

But I’m not the heir to a family fortune, nor have I won the lottery – our lunch bill will come out of my benefits.

My main source of income to pay for the champers is disability benefits – Universal Credit and Personal Independent Payment.

I’m joined by Paul, my tetraplegic boyfriend, and I’m a person with a serious mental illness called Schizo-Affectiver Disorder and psychosis. We’re both able to visit the bistro off-peak so we do as it’s more comfortable for us when it’s quiet. 

SMALL BENEFIT

I get £1100 a month combined on these two benefits and top-up my earnings by around £300 a month with a little sponsored magazine I make and with writing assignments like this one. 

Some months I make nothing, other months my earnings cancel out next month’s Universal Credit payment. 

I couldn’t survive on these benefits unless I lived somewhere affordable, like here in Stoke-on-Trent, or if I had children.

For most of my 20s I worked two jobs, and ended up on a psychiatric ward with the stress of it all. 

I wasn’t granted leave from work to attend therapy in office hours and keep on top of ordering prescriptions. 

When I did manage to get my prescription, the antipsychotic medication made me late for work more often than not. 

Though this didn’t stop my productivity, my colleagues begrudged me.

I’d hear whispered remarks when I got to my desk and audible tuts when I was late. 

This only fuelled my paranoia, even though I always stayed late at work to make up for my tardiness.

Even the labelled milk bottles in the staff kitchen were enough to give me needless bouts of anxiety.

Erica Crompton

Erica Crompton

So by the time I reached my 30s I decided to take my psychiatrist’s advice to ‘take it easy and put your feet up’ in a bid to reduce stress and avoid a psychotic relapse.

A SIMPLER LIFE

Now, age 43, I am still doing just that and most weekdays you’ll find me lounging on my sofa in my pink Next dressing gown gone 11am.

I live on the fringe of a council estate near Keele University, called Parksite in a town suburb. 

I part-own this from a time I had a full-time income some years ago and was able to save. It’s a lovely spot and I feel extremely lucky to be able to claim Universal Credit to pay the local council for the rental element of if (recently rent increased to £380 a month). 

It backs on to woodlands and has a drive to the front for parking my little yellow Fiat Panda.

Occasionally, I’ll look at jobs but find they don’t pay any more than my mix of benefits and part-time work which makes no sense. 

I don’t believe benefits like mine are overly generous – I scrimp and save apart from the odd treat for a birthday or anniversary. 

But wages are too low and business owners take too much salary. There’s a reason why there’s a ‘one per cent’ of millionaires and I’m guessing they’re not on benefits. 

HERE COME THE TROLLS

But it’s not all champers and M&S clobber – there’s a very real stigma attached to being in my position. 

I’ve been branded “benefits scrounger” “parasite” “benefits cheat” “lazy” “layabout” by total strangers and it hurts. 

I’ve also lost friends who have found it too embarrassing to be seen hanging around with a benefits claimant. 

Boyfriends have called me a “loser” and also been embarrassed by my employment status. 

But I deeply feel that I’m too unwell to work and that benefits are a respectable option for people who can’t work due to ill-health. 

My illness is exacerbated by stress. I often get incredibly anxious working away from home even just one day a week, let alone five and believe me I’ve tried.

For a day-a-week after lockdown, over half a year, I worked as a carer for £130 a month but the stress saw me suffer from crippling anxiety for seven days a week. 

That anxiety didn’t go until my psychiatrist suggested I quit. I did just that and my anxiety went. 

A little further back, I worked remotely as a comment moderator for a good stint but was made redundant as the operation went in-house. 

Given my condition my employer sent me to an Occupational Health specialist who concluded it would be unwise to take on a job in an office in London or New York. 

TREATING MYSELF

So it was back to benefits for me… in Stoke-on-Trent where jobs are scarce.

And now I hear their are more plans to slash benefits like mine – when are these ‘sponge avengers’ not out in force?

This weekend it was Rishi Sunak’s turn with his sick-note speech. It always seems ironic that if someone with psychosis is forced back to work they’ll end up back on the psychiatric ward within a few months which will cost taxpayers more in the long run.

Relationships will be runied, homes will be lost. And what does Sunak know about disability and living on £16K a year?

He’s a billionaire PM whose party has corrupted politics and now he’s trying to blame the sick and their carers for the problems the Tories have created in their 14 years of power.

Severe mental illness isn’t my fault and neither is claiming benefits I’m entitled too. 

A bottle of Moet here, a short retreat in Scotland once a year – why shouldn’t I be able to treat myself when life is so hard on most of us? 

Especially living with a condition like psychosis where we lose touch with reality and are often fighting suicide stats everyday– I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. 

My special crush on cashmere jumpers, and a Chanel lipstick are just a little treat and I let myself indulge in them from time to time because I’m a human, just like you.

Erica Crompton

Erica Crompton