This post has a strong language and content warning.

It seems fitting on this ‘Australia Day’ public holiday to address the issue of work in the context (or intersection) of unpaid labour, chronic illness, disability, and the arts.
For many, public holidays like this one are seen as a welcome day off, to be spent relaxing, resting, and recuperating, in readiness for a return to the job.
But what about those who are always – or never – on the so-called ‘job’? Can our culture’s outdated, binary, and ableist view of work accommodate such a progressive shift?
My lived experience of the issue is – no. Not even in 2025.
The last time I was asked if I ‘worked’ was about two weeks ago. The person who asked me was a specialist allied health professional, with an ultrasound machine, a PhD, and a part-time academic role teaching the next generation of therapists. I had gone there for expert advice on my persistent sacroiliac joint pain, which affects my ability to walk. The appointment had held a lot of hope for me.
Ouch.
Are you fucking kidding me, person with two jobs, their own business (that actually pays the bills and puts food on the table) and a perfectly functional body?
I looked at them and they quickly realised their sad mistake, following up with:
“I suppose you spend most of your time going to appointments.”
Yes.
That’s right.
I spend most of my time going to medical and allied health appointments (like this one), attending hospitals, and waiting around at pathology collection centres, and pharmacies.
I also spend a lot of time being in pain, suffering, being debilitated and disabled, trying not to feel guilty for being so unproductive (because I am a self-confessed over-achiever), and thinking about dying.
Into the mix is time spent caring for myself and my cat (who is also chronically ill), shopping for food, feeding us both, washing clothing and linen, and cleaning and repairing our unit. I do this all by myself because I am single, and live alone.
If there is any time left, I manage my affairs, check that my mother is still with us and reasonably well in her retirement villa, and work in my role as creative industries professional.
I started my first home (hobby) business in 2000 for my composition work, later adding visual artist, curator, and writer to my freelance work portfolio. I still have all these businesses and have earnt an income (though frequently meagre) every year since, which adds up to 25 years in the industry. I think this counts for something given I live in Australia, which is not the most conducive place to try to be a working artist of any kind.
I’ve lost count of how many art shows I’ve curated, but I’ve only ever been paid for one, and it was a token gesture (but very much appreciated).
Even other arts professionals expect me to write their catalogue essays for no fee.
Writing, publishing and promoting this blog post counts as work, as I’m a professional writer. In its current format, this blog functions in a myriad of ways: personal trauma therapy; creative output; marketing for my brand (such as it is); and social justice activism, by way of opening up discussion around identity politics and how it plays out in everyday Australians’ lives.
Formerly, my work has included enough community service for about five generous Australians, caring for my two (now-adult) children, and for my extended family.
As a child, my work included weeding the lawn (two for one cent), doing a local paper round (four cents a paper), and collecting rubbish at the Ekka (one dollar per bag).
As an adolescent, I was the ‘Saturday girl’ (receptionist) at my father’s real estate agency, which was next to the knock shop at the top of Brunswick Street in the Valley - I hated going there because I felt so vulnerable, being young, female, and alone. I also played double bass in the church band.
My first full-time, traditional, waged job was in Toowoomba as a secondary school teacher – I was 21 years old when I started.
I kept teaching full-time until I had my first child at 30, after which I went part-time.
During my adult life, I have co-renovated three dwellings, and renovated another three single-handedly. It’s cheaper to do it yourself than to pay someone else; it counts as creative output; and it counts as work. Over the six renovations, I did a lot of the physical work, garden design, garden work, and project-management, myself. It would be fair to say that this has been a previously unacknowledged facet of my long-term creative practice (and I should add it to my resume).
Oh – and I’ve just found out that I’ve probably had inflammatory arthritis since I was about three, which means I’ve been living with a disability (and chronic pain) for 52 years, and nobody noticed. And I’ve been working the whole time.
And I’ve just been given a referral to see an eighth specialist doctor.
And last week my GP and I applied for my first disability parking permit.
And my list of medical problems and diagnoses has reached 94, which surely screams ‘unfit to work’ in anyone’s language. Note that this list does not include the numerous specific acts of violence perpetrated against me, over decades, that gave me my complex-PTSD (which, sadly, is for life, and impacts my ability to work).
No wonder I’m not coping. Nobody could be reasonably expected to cope with 94 health problems, let alone hold down a traditional job - FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
Does that answer your question?
And I’d really rather that people stopped asking.
Haven't we learned from COVID-19 that work can be performed anywhere; in a variety of ways; on a variety of devices, or with none at all; and that housekeeping, parenting and home-schooling are really hard work?
Isn't asking if someone 'works' politically incorrect, like reaching out and touching a pregnant person's belly without permission?
I feel guilty enough about not being able to contribute to society to the degree that I would like, without any inference of laziness, especially from people who should know better.
Though not yet on my death bed, Da Vinci and I have this plaguing worry in common (and no, I’m not comparing my brain or output to his – it’s just that gifteds tend to go way above and beyond and still not think it is enough, which is why they are prone to poor lifestyle choices, such as workaholism, ironically).
Gen Memory
January 2025
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