Elena Filipczyk
The life-changing call came from a sunshine-voiced woman.
"Just calling to let you know that your application has been approved, so you are now a participant of the NDIS," the woman said in her voicemail.
I didn't hear anything she said after that. Sitting beside me, my friend Sam screamed with excitement as I sat silently in shock.
"Elena, you're finally going to get the help you deserve!" Sam cheered.
After the shock, relief flooded through me as the realisation hit.
My therapies related to my autism and other disabilities might be covered. There's my psychosexual therapy, for example, which is slowly helping me to have healthy, safe relationships. Then there's the physiotherapy, which is healing my traumatised body.
I might even be able to get a hearing aid for my deaf left ear.
But the overwhelming relief soon turned to the guilty ache of injustice.
Almost a year on since submitting my application to access the NDIS, the approval call had come the morning after I'd published an article about the NDIS.
In it, I'd explained how the NDIA had rejected my twin sister's application, despite her being autistic, bipolar, and having a permanent toileting disability. I'd also mentioned my pending application.
The timing couldn't be a coincidence. I needed answers.
Outraged, I wrote to Bill Shorten, who was, at the time, the Minister for the NDIS. His office never replied, but instead referred the matter to the NDIA - the very organisation I was complaining about.
Eventually, the NDIA wrote back to me.
"We are committed to improving how we serve people applying to the NDIS," the email said.
"An NDIS officer will be assigned to your case to investigate your concerns."
Two months on, I've heard nothing since that first generic email.
Met with radio silence from the NDIA about my concerns about media favouritism, and with my own NDIS planning meeting scheduled for next week, there's an unsettling thought I keep coming back to.
Did I get onto the NDIS just because I'm a squeaky wheel who went to the media?
I know I'm "lucky". I know how to write and have the education, ability, and means to advocate for myself and my sister, filling in dozens of forms, making endless appointments, and writing publicly about my experiences. But what about those who can't?