CRYING IN A SEARCH FOR JUSTICE AT THE BEAUTIFUL AMTSGERICHT-BERLIN-MITTE

One of life's difficult moments, a.k.a. dealing with red tape in your foreign tongue, when mega-stressed

On Tuesday morning in the Infostelle office at the Amtsgericht-Berlin-Mitte (district court) I melted down, actually buried my head in my hands and wept. I would like to say it was the glorious interior architecture which brought me to tears, but no. Though at least I get to say that in the bright light of early afternoon, its transcendent tiers of arcs did indeed uplift me. Yet the reality circa 09:13 a.m. was uncontrollable exudation of eye liquid in front of two public servants, having made an inadvertent misstep in my attempt to scale a route up the mountain of paperwork necessary to reach the summit of availing myself of legal aid. It wasn't them or the process that unleashed the flood, but an accumulation of frustrations - concerning Germany's expensive and inequitable public-private health insurance system; Jobcenter incompetence dating back to 2013 relating to laws upon it; and chronic illness - which that day had been manifesting in me as anxiety dream, insomnia, and exhaustion on top of longstanding debilitation.

One step at a time...

...

...when scaling the heights of bureaucracy

Foundations and facades: I used to be fit and healthy, being so was a strong part of my identity. These days that's simply what I dream to recover. Living in pain twenty four hours a day for almost four and a half years, with chronic fatigue (Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome - ME/CFS) for three and a half of those, and tinnitus for the last two, I usually appear to hold things together pretty well both mentally and emotionally. That state is more or less achieved from a spirit of sheer bloody-minded resolve. For various reasons at the moment, however, there are cracks in the indomitable facade.

All good here on the inside

There are even some chinks hiding in the well-armoured facade of the Amtsgericht-Berlin-Mitte, though these have been deliberately placed. A hope, step and a jump from Alexanderplatz in Littenstraße, in sixteen and a half years living in Berlin, I've never had to breach its imposing frontage before. The maps search engine whips up a photo of the grand but somewhat drab stone exterior - https://structurae.net/structures/landgericht-berlin-amtsgericht-mitte - I've probably seen it numerous times in my peripheral vision walking north up Grunerstraße. Meeting it head on reveals sparse details: a bas-relief of a wolf-creature descending a ladder propped against a mighty tree, escaping from a hangman's noose slung from the tree's sturdy bough; another full of lions; and the dedication to  the street's namesake, 

HANS LITTEN

UNERSCHROCKENER KÄMPFER
FÜR MENSCHLICHKEIT UND FRIEDEN
ANWALT UND VERTEIDIGER

DER UNTERDRÜCKEN

ERMORDET 1938 IN KZLAGER DACHAU
(Dauntless combatant for humanity and peace, lawyer and defender of the downtrodden
Murdered 1938 in Dachau)

Fortifications: I enter the building directly into a shrill, shattering, barrage of drilling that's relentlessly proving exactly how resonant the entrance-chamber's acoustics are. Having nil resilience, I cover my ears, mount the small flight of stairs to deal with the phalanx of two police-dudes and metal detector. It's not so bad, given the spectacular backdrop.

Having unzipped various backpack pockets to reveal computer, documents, and massive red lever-arch ring binder file labelled 'Jobcenter', then zipping them back up again, I'm directed to the information office in the massive foyer's rear corner. The rufous floor tiles wear little crowns. One must tread across them to ascend one's throne for a short reign in the waiting room.

"Reisepass?" 
I hand over my passport. 
Check.

"Drei Monaten Kontoauszuge?" 
Yes, I have got print-outs of my bank accounts for the last 90 days.

"Polizeiliches Anmeldebescheinigung?" 
No. 
The lawyer hadn't told me I needed to bring it. There'd been no answer when I'd telephoned the Amtsgericht office the afternoon before - only, after holding for some while, a final, loop message saying ring back at another time, ring back at another time, ring back...

Usually I carry that tiny, godlike piece of paper which shows a date and my officially registered address in my passport. It must be lying in a drawer at home. Letters from the Jobcenter with my address on them - for which, in order to receive the dole, I'd had to produce the said police registration slip in the past - won't do. I must present the original. I must walk back home to get it and come back. I'm on foot, and even more weary than the standard fatigued state after a shitty, nightmare-disturbed, awake for quite some time afterwards with extra-loud tinnitus until-eventually-getting-back-to-sleep-night, and with the heavy backpack full of necessary paper-trail items I'm in pain. I will miss my impending appointment with the lawyer. Read the situation, and cue the first vein-like tributary streams of the weep.

Streams of iron, galaxies of stars

"Entschuldigung, ich bin sehr müde," (I'm sorry, I'm very tired.)

"Ich auch." (Me too.)

Fuck you. Politely expressed from both sides. Mine as a silent, inner rage. It's like when the Jobcenter-verified doctor wanted to talk about New Zealand instead of symptoms and diagnosis of my illness (while she acknowledged I was in severe pain she inaccurately assessed I was depressed), or when the slacker Gesundheitsamt (health department) psychologist was 25 minutes late for our appointment and then wanted to talk about New Zealand instead of my mental state. Those moments when you need the vital pieces of stamped and signed paper so you patiently shut the "fuck you" up. My painted-red central fingernails are for these moments, reminding me to fight valiantly and persevere; just as the pinkie, ring and index six painted silver remind me to be a star. A little like the pillars of knights upholding the lofty heights of the stellar dome of the Amtsgericht.

The public servant - wearing a navy uniform shirt emblazoned 'Justiz' on the back - produces a checklist of the additional documents required. Now this is interesting in retrospect, because when I do limp home and extract them from various folders, piles and files (2018 tax receipts, to be actioned, regular payments, important documents) and return, he doesn't actually request sight of most of them, though admittedly I do need every single last one for my lawyer on the morrow. I slow him down while I write things (otherwise I may forget, brain-fog is a bastard), ask him to repeat other stuff, apologise for struggling to take in and remember things, and apologise again, as today I'm even having trouble extracting basic German nouns, in explanation I say, "Die fallen aus" (ME/CFS is an exceptional bastard to mental acuity, and sleeplessness and stress exacerbate the beast). There's a pause while I retrieve the often-used word "Bahnkarte" for my much-beloved trains discount card. 

He's softening now. I have to explain my shitty situation/reason/grounds for seeking legal aid. Jobcenter support. Illness. Self-employment. Black hole of pre-existing conditions not covered by health insurance. Declaration of income and costs wrongly assessed and they want over 1700 euros in less than a week. I show him the two letters dated 7 September which arrived in my letterbox September 12th. Three kilometres in five days - classic German efficiency. "They classify a replacement graphic card for an eight-year-old computer as a new purchase, when it's not," he agrees with me. And so on down a list of several points. Yes, a legitimate case.

He leaves me to do another duty. As I start to re-pack all my not-quite-good-enough papers into the hefty file and begin easing it back into the backpack for my shonky body's additional return walk home in the week's last dash of summer heat the tears really start welling over. 

Like waterfalls

The second public servant, a young woman who I assume may be in training (there are numerous pamphlets in the waiting room advertising such positions), and who has been overlooking the whole episode from an adjacent station behind the desk, tenders words of comfort, "Don't worry, you're definitely going to get help". I'm just very tired and in pain today, I answer, thanking her for her care. I don't explain it's not a moment of despair or mortification but more so one of mourning.

I walk back through the doorway in the glass dividing wall to the waiting room, get out my massive cotton handkerchief and sit down to weep proper. If you do this standing up you wail. Remaining seated, I merely sob. Stuff like this rarely even happens at home, so I ride the emotional release till it subsides to an eventual observation, "I've actually buried my head in my hands." I guess that behaviour is reserved - at least by me - for public spaces, to retain a vestige of privacy.

Some things happen behind closed doors

For this welling of grief I blame recent re-exposure to the brave and good work of Jennifer Brea, a fellow ME/CFS sufferer. Plus a miraculous 2015 summary paper by Canadian expert practitioners Dr. Alison C. Bested and Lynn M. Marshall, from which I learned the devastating news that only five percent of adults afflicted get better - which is what happened to me after circa two years of it over 30 years ago between the ages of 19 and 21, I got better. I also learned that if one's not better within five years of onset, that's it for life. Meaning I've got the next 1.5 years in which a second miracle healing may occur. I also blame my friend in poetry, music, and Aotearoan origins, Hinemoana, who's recently facilitated the founding of the Loss and Grief Support Berlin group via the Meetups platform - attending has been a way of prompting myself to acknowledge what's been lurking under my epidermis for so long. That I miss being fit and well, that my frayed and jangling nerve endings may never repair, and hell, that it might even get worse. Ach, Mensch. (Oh, man.) But at least I've got others to blame, and I'm really grateful for that.

Apparently Aotearoan relief in the Amtsgericht in Deutschland

Gathering myself together, I cross a low landing, wash eyes and face in the privy hand-basin, negotiate back past drill-man to the the way out. 

Three hours later I'm on the way back in again; the police are gone (my guess is they're only on duty for morning court sessions); all my paper work is in order; I receive a waiting queue number (004 - licence to kill!) from public servant number three in order to be attended by public servant number four (who will furnish the hallowed legal aid papers to give to my lawyer); subsequently take a rather lengthier spell in the waiting room; look out the window into the sunny garden and sing Shayne P. Carter's lovely song 'Waiting Game' to help fill the time. (You can watch his video clip here https://www.radionz.co.nz/national/programmes/nat-music/audio/201812958/shayne-p-carter-live-at-the-james-cook)

It's the lunchtime hour, the rhythm of the building stills, I reign over the thick-walled chamber, sympathising with the stunted and skeletal rubber tree plant. Placed on a shelf far too far away from the windows, and possibly over-watered in the past, it's lost almost all of its greenery except for the small flourish of thick new leaves valiantly growing from its lowest branch. I'm rooting for it.