The Sensitive Claims Service offers support, treatment and compensation for survivors of sexual abuse or assault. This is one such case.

First, the “injury” event happens.

For me, it was once in 1969, then multiple times between 1974 and 1980. Another in 1982.

Then, if you’re lucky, or stubborn, or both, you “recover”. You build a life. A successful one: career, family, friends, achievements. You get so good at surviving you can almost believe the injury doesn’t affect you any more. You’ve buried it. You outwork it. Pretend that it happened to someone else. In another life.

In 1994, the main perpetrator re-appears. I go to therapy. I lodge an ACC Sensitive Claim. It becomes too hard and too expensive getting support while waiting for ACC to cover the costs. I stop going. I put my energy into being someone (not broken or damaged). I keep working, achieving, striving. I become someone who doesn’t look like a victim.

Fast forward to early 2024. Out of the blue, I’m made redundant from a 30-year career because of sweeping government cuts. And the safety harness I didn’t realise I’d been relying on is suddenly gone. I’m exposed. Unsafe. Too shattered to protect myself. People find other roles; pick themselves up. I should too because I’m supposed to be a strong, resilient woman. But I’m a mess and I fall apart – nightmares, fear of going out, panic attacks almost daily. Crying all the time.

Day 1 

My best friend who works as an ACC therapist says: “This has triggered your past trauma. You need to go back to therapy.”
I ignore her. Eat my feelings. Get worse.

Day 60

She tries again. She says: “ACC will pay for it.”
I say: “The waiting list is long.”
She says: “I’ll tap into my contacts.”

Day 110

She finds someone who can see me in about six weeks. 

Day 147

First session with the ACC therapist (who had a space open up).

Things I’m sceptical/worried about: how to “prove” the abuse? Am I really “that bad”? Do I really want to revisit all of that shit? (No of course not!)

We fill out the forms for an Early Support Plan and sign the ACC6300 form – an authority to collect all my medical records. She is kind and doesn’t rush me. But she also can’t promise anything. ACC has to approve the claim first. Until then, I am entitled to six sessions only: two to get started and then four to complete an Early Planning report which needs to be submitted and approved.

We talk about what recovery might look like, but everything feels tentative. I might have to start all over again if ACC says no. I wonder if the “no” will be because they won’t believe me or because the rules have changed and my situation is outside the scope.

Day 148

Missed call. There’s a message from ACC. Then a follow up email with contact details for me to get in touch. I call the number and speak to someone who explains that ACC has re-opened my earlier claim and that she has been assigned as my Recovery Partner (RP), the title given by ACC to the person who is going to be my dedicated, long-term support and liaison contact at ACC. She explains the system and process although I take in very little. She tells me I must get my doctor to complete a medical certificate. My RP is kind and patient too but, after the call, I can’t stop the tears. My friend says this is a good sign.

Day 182 

Certified unfit to work.

With my husband, I visit my GP and ask her to complete an ACC18 form. My GP is reluctant. We ring my Recovery Partner (RP) while in the consulting rooms. My RP talks the GP through the steps of the form. The GP asks me: is it worth going through this? It’s clearly upsetting? Why put yourself through the stress?’ My husband says: what’s the alternative? Staying like this?

It’s the last time I see that GP. I change medical centres.

Day 196

I complete a WHODAS (World Health Organisation Disability Assessment Schedule) and a PWI (Personal Wellbeing Index) which is a quality of life outcome measure and assesses subjective wellbeing. I remember doing one when I was in sixth form. I was suspicious of it then and am just as suspicious this time. Akin to asking someone “Are you still crazy?”

The therapist is gentle and affirming.

The nightmares have returned: of me trying to find a safe place in a house; of trying to get to my children; of the feeling of his presence.

Day 207

I sit through a three-hour assessment with the ACC-appointed clinical psychologist. It is intense. I am crying before I even get to the psychologist’s office. 

I’m worried that she will see through me. 

She will think that I’m just being a drama queen. 

That I’m not as bad as I’ve been making myself out to be. 

Compared with others in my family, I was doing OK in life. I’d confessed to my friend that I was very good at masking. Putting on a brave face. How do I let my guard down so that they can really see me.

My friend said: just be yourself.
Trouble is, I’m not certain who that is any more. 

The psychologist listens. She takes notes. She asks hard questions. She tells me her tentative diagnosis: Complex PTSD. Major Depressive Disorder. Possibly ADHD. Chronic complex pain. 

Then she asks: “How would you feel if I said you didn’t need to think about employment for the next three years?”
I say: “That would lift a huge burden.”
She says: “That’s what you need.”

Afterwards, I go home and cry until I can’t. Then I sleep. For hours.

Day 251

Weeks pass. I wait. Then the draft report arrives.

My therapist reads it to me. It is hard to hear the sorry, sad state of my life from the mouth of another. We make notes and corrections. It’s just like a story arc. A melodrama good for a weepy Wednesday midweek film. I think, sounds good enough to be the fictional story of a made up character, not the traumatic life l’ve lived through. This feeling toward my history and current state is an example of me disassociating – something I realise I’ve done my entire life when speaking about my childhood. 

We send the approved draft report back to the clinical psychologist.

Day 255

All my energy is going into “functioning”: attending appointments, replying to emails, following up, trying to be OK. Therapy feels like another obligation.

I message my therapist to tell her I am overwhelmed. I tell her I just don’t have the reserves. I need those for basic things: showering, eating, staying upright. I write: “Please don’t close the book on me, but do allow me to just take a break. I’m not avoiding. I’m evaluating what I need at this time.”

She warns, I understand that it is a lot to go through at once and you have to prioritise your health. I will unfortunately not be able to keep the spot indefinitely but you are welcome to check back in when you feel ready and see if I have space available. From my side, I will have to complete a closure notice for ACC to inform them that you are taking a break for now. You can reopen the file anytime you feel ready again, as a claim is valid for life. 

I don’t want that to happen so I manage to make my way back after a two-week break.

Day 261

ACC has received the report

My Recovery Partner writes: Once I review this I will forward to our ACC clinical team to confirm eligibility for weekly compensation, if all goes well and approval is met then your application is transferred to our payments team who complete calculations and rates. This could take another month or more. Due to our lengthy process with financials, we would advise our clients to seek assistance with Work and Income NZ while we investigate eligibility.

I am not eligible for financial assistance via Work and Income NZ.

More waiting.

Day 274

I email my Recovery Partner at ACC to check on progress. I get polite replies but no updates. I am still in limbo.

Day 286

“ACC has reviewed the Specialist Cover Assessment. I can confirm that ACC has accepted Complex PTSD as a result of a Schedule 3 event. The next few sessions are for yourself and [your therapist] to create a long-term Wellbeing Plan for up to 24 months. We now require approval from two more departments. It could be another month.”

Finally, some progress. But even with the diagnosis accepted, I’m still not receiving weekly compensation.

Day 314

During a therapy session, we ring ACC. My therapist says: “Her recovery is being hindered by this uncertainty. She’s stuck.”

My Recovery Partner says she’s tried to have my claim marked as urgent, but someone else keeps demoting it. 

I check out the ACC website to see if there is anything I can do. My friend says: “You might want to complain.”

So I do.

No response. I resend it. Again. And again. Finally, I get a reply saying the person who is looking after my complaint is on leave. 

Day 315

Another medical certificate required.

Back to the GP – my new one. We complete it there – a 30-minute consult.

Day 322

I receive an email to say that my weekly compensation has been approved. Backdated to a week after I stopped working. 

But I’m not done. ACC’s finance department needs to see details about the income and hours worked from my other past income streams. I spend the next week going through bank statements, invoices, contracts which is fine to do and makes sense but it takes ages and then I’m worried that all the extra bits I’ve earned are going to count against me. Thankfully “passive income is not liable for abatement”.

Day 326

I don’t know exactly how much I will get and when, but I do know it will be approximately 80% of what I received when I was working for the government and will be backdated to a week after I left. Looking forward, I will have six months of grace to stabilise, rest and figure out next steps without having to reapply.

Day 332

Money turns up in my account.

I cry and keep checking it’s real. It is.

I pay off some debts. Send some money to my mum and sister.

Day 335

My first weekly payment arrives in my bank account. I don’t know the reason for the amount, what it’s based on, whether it’s taxed, but I am incredibly, incredibly grateful for those who have helped me get to this point: my friend, my therapist, my recovery partner, ACC.

It’s now been a year since I stopped work. Here are my final thoughts.

I am literate, resourced and supported. I’m persistent, and I have people advocating for me. And even then, this process has been a lesson in grit and determination.  ACC’s claims system doesn’t feel trauma-informed. It covers a whole range of “injuries” and is a series of separate departments, lots of different forms to fill out, queues of hurt people, waiting, and unknown gatekeepers who want to help but maybe want to make sure the taxpayer isn’t being fleeced. 

The Sensitive Claim route demands you retell your worst moments, and then wait. And wait.

Up until the email saying I was also going to get payments, I was certain I would get nothing because the system doesn’t feel fair. The system isn’t built for the tired and the wounded. The system feels (to my CPTSD brain) just like the adults who were supposed to keep me safe and didn’t, and dangerous like the perpetrator was to child me. I can’t trust the system. 

If you’re reading this and you’re somewhere in the process, hang in there. And, if you feel like you can’t, there are people who will help you. I’m trying not to compare myself to others, like those who were in state and faith based care who are waiting; or another family member injured by the same person who hurt me. She doesn’t have the same tools I do. She says: “I wonder what my life would have been if he’d not done that to me.” I wonder that too – for both of us.

I’m glad we have it, this sensitive claims provision because, if you know how, there is support in all manner of things which will help you heal: dietician, physio, mirimiri, transport, occupational therapy, speech language therapy, social work, counselling… And, thankfully, within the system are real people on the frontline doing their very best to hear the stories and bring about healing.

I am one of thousands who have been or are going through the process. And this is a “success story”, but many give up long before they get here. Some never start. It shouldn’t be this hard. It shouldn’t require this level of literacy, stamina and luck. You shouldn’t have to be this strong to be believed – or have to go through it all in the first place.

But that’s a whole other raru ki te tai*.

*A serious problem not easily solved.