For the Love of a Fish…

When I was young, I begged and begged my parents for a pet. In the end, I got given a gerbil and, because they are better backed up by a mate (aren’t we all?) I got two. Both were females as having any more pattering of tiny feet was verboten.

I truly loved my gerbils. And they were the first creatures ever to give me unconditional love in return. At least, it was a lot closer to love than anything else that was on offer. My gerbils didn’t mind how odd I behaved, provided I let them out for a run now and again and kept their cage clean. Wish humans were as easy as that.

When they died, I buried them. A few years later, I accidentally dug them up again and marvelled at the delicacy of their remains. This was met by horror by my parents and, on the basis it could be flushed down the toilet when it was dead, the next pet I got given was a fish. It wasn’t quite so cuddly as a gerbil, and a run out of his tank meant the bath, but I got to love it nonetheless.

I called my fish Sylvester as he was not a goldfish but a silverfish. Tongue-twisting alliteration was something I enjoyed but nobody else seemed to. For the rest of my family, he was simply “the fish”. Now Sylvester was an incredibly long-lived fish and, when I went away to university, he was still going strong. In fact, it was a delight having him as it meant someone in the house was genuinely pleased to see me when I returned. He didn’t exactly show it but I’m not really into all that hugging business anyway so that was fine.

One of those weekends, I came down to breakfast to find my mother enjoying a slice of toast and a coffee. I nodded an acknowledgement and got on with finding myself something to eat. It was only then did my mother speak to inform me that the fish was dead.

He was too. Lying just in front of where my mother was eating. He’d obviously jumped out of his tank in the night. Maybe he thought he would go find the bath on his own, although I’m not sure he’d have managed the taps.

I asked my mother if she had tried to revive him but she gave a snort as if to say I should count my blessings she wasn’t eating him on her toast. It was then that I performed my miracle.

Peeling Sylvester up from the Formica worktop, and costing him several rows of scales in the process, I held my poor little fish in my hands. Then I took him over to the sink. I filled the basin, and put him in. I wasn’t too sure what you did regarding these resurrection matters so I merely span him around in the water and called on the Almighty to give him his life back. I must have been heard as, a few moments later, Sylvester started swimming around. I lifted him up, dusted him off, and popped him back into his tank. My mother screamed. The old bringing-the-fish-back-from-the-dead thing had clearly got her spooked.

Unfortunately, thereafter my resurrected fish went up in everyone’s estimation and, by the time I next came home, he had been requisitioned by the rest of the household. He now had a different name, a different history, and, most assuredly, had very little to do with me. Sometimes, when everyone else was out of the room, I’d lean over his tank and call “Sylvester”. He used to see me and flip over onto his back. It was our little joke.

Reincarnated or not, Sylvester (under his new nom-de-plume) was not immortal. One weekend I was informed that my beloved fish had definitely and finally gone. Did he have a burial worthy of his miraculous self? Or a cremation to match those of Greek myth? Nope. Flushed down the toilet was his end. But at least I wouldn’t be exhuming the remains.

An Interview with a Psychiatrist. A Vampire Would Have Been Better.

Readers of my last blog will know that I’m officially MAD – that’s the medical condition I’ve apparently got – which is slightly better than being a FRUITCAKE I suppose, but not by much.

As you will have read last time, I had dutifully been dragged to the doctor and been given some happy pills. For a week, I was marginally less suicidal, which has to be counted a success, until they slowly stopped working and I was back to my usual deadbeat self.

Vanessa suggested I saw a psychiatrist, who may be better able to help me than a general practice doctor. I told her, in no uncertain terms that, emphatically, unequivocally, I would not be seeing a psychiatrist. I raised my voice and flapped my arms around to emphasise the point – I always feel that helps. I told her there was categorically nothing in life I would rather do less than see a psychiatrist. If she insisted then it would be my cold and putrefying corpse she’d have to drag there. I was absolutely, totally, and unequivocally not going. Ever. Period. End of discussion. Don’t ever raise the subject again.

The next day we got in the car to travel to my appointment with the psychiatrist.

The clinic looked like a converted lock-up garage, although they had made an effort inside by dimming the lights to provide a relaxed ambiance (or perhaps it was to hide the oil spills). This meant that I couldn’t see properly to fill in the form they gave me but I took a stab at what was required and did my best. Vanessa took it back to the reception and, after a quick query that I really did have a postcode as a first name, we were called in.

Naturally, Vanessa left me the chair against the wall, furthest from the psychiatrist. Slick.

We started by filling out another form. The psychiatrist asked in which hospital I was born. Well, I went in as a foetus and had a bit on my mind when I came out, so I can’t actually remember. He suggested it was probably the Queen Margaret. I bowed to what I assumed was his superior knowledge and agreed. But then I realised that the only Queen Margaret I could think of was the consort of King Henry VI in the fifteenth century. It must have been a hell of an old hospital.

He asked if I did drugs. I thought that was sweet as I was feeling particularly tense but decided it was probably inappropriate in the clinic so declined.

He asked about the psychiatric history of my blood family. I said they were madder than a pack of loons in a wet sack. He pressed me for details of any medication they took. I said I didn’t know as they were usually confined to the funny farm when they were at their worst.

The psychiatrist nodded sagely and suggested I had a predisposition to depression as an inheritance from my barking mad family. “It’s in your genes”, he said. Naturally, I looked down at my jeans and concluded that this psychiatrist must be of the Freudian school.

He then asked if I had suicidal thoughts. I was going to say that it was the only thing that kept me sane but decided it wasn’t the best argument I could come up with.

He then asked me what I was looking for from him. I replied, honestly, that I had no wish to see him and had been dragged there, under protest, by Vanessa who thought he might be able to help. I was told afterwards that the slightly startled expression on his face was indeed a slightly startled expression.

He asked about the tablets I was on and, at their best, how they made me feel. He suggested, as doctors always do, that I use a scale of one to ten. I wanted to say 4.72 but decided it might be best to round it up to five. He then asked if I had ever felt anxious before getting depressed, particularly with my Aspergers. Only every day I’ve ever lived.

He then asked if I had a good social group. Er, not exactly. Friends? Er, well…. He asked when was the last time I saw people socially. ‘About 5…’, I said. He wrote it down. ‘Years’, I added. And there was that startled look again.

The upshot was that he gave me a shed-load more tablets. I am now on four different types of anti-depressant. I’m not sure what the record is but that must be pretty close. I asked when I might be able to come off them. He was tactful but the inference was: when I’m dead.

The last thing the psychiatrist said as we left the lock-up garage was that he eventually wants to get me anxiety free. Yeah, Doc, I’d like to see an elephant fly. But I don’t think either’s going to happen any time soon.

Going MAD, Quietly

Attentive readers will notice that it’s now July and my last post was at Christmas. I would like to say this is because I’ve been snowed under with all the fun things that I am told life can hold but, sadly, that would not be true. The fact is, I’ve been going slowly (and now entirely officially) MAD.

I won’t bore you with all the stressful events the last 18 months or so have brought. If nothing else, I’d then have very little to write about for the rest of the year. But, gradually and inexorably, they have taken their toll on my sanity and wellbeing, which, let’s be honest, wasn’t particularly peachy to begin with.

It started with a general feeling that life was not altogether as rosy as it could be and ended with a realisation that only a box of matches and several gallons of high-octane fuel could really sort out the mess that life had become.

I started to pay more attention to those adverts placed by emotional support groups. But when I saw a headline that said: “Feeling Suicidal – Get Help Now” I honestly expected to read the details of a rope-maker, or at the very least the address of a gun shop. But all it suggested was a chat on the telephone. Now, I don’t do telephones and I don’t do chats, so I did the next best thing and hoped it would all go away*.

It didn’t. It got worse. Eventually, and the deciding factor for me to call in the cavalry, was insomnia. I now entirely understand why sleep deprivation is a method of torture. It is not pretty. All those hours and all those thoughts. It was time to whistle up the 9^th.

I told Vanessa enough was enough and that she had to call one of those chat lines and get me some help. Instead, she decided to contact a doctor.

I vacillated about going for a while until, after one particularly sleepless night, I could take it no more. Vanessa made all the necessary arrangements – which included a lengthy and very frank discussion with the doctor of my myriad idiosyncrasies and quoibles – and we were off. The receptionist asked how long we wanted the appointment to be. I said 10 minutes. We were in there an hour.

I needed startlingly little prompting as I recalled the horror of the last year and a half. The doctor listened attentively with a few sympathetic interjections here and there. Somewhat surprisingly, she was still dry-eyed when I finished. Actually, she was positively elated as she told me I had a textbook case of Mixed Anxiety and Depression. That’s apparently a good thing. But I will leave you to work out the acronym of my latest condition.

So, I’m now on these great little pills that are supposed to make me happy. Sort of. They’re also designed to help me sleep. Sort of. But, best of all, they come with two pages of closely-typed side-effects, the worst of which seems to lead to instant death. Hell, if the anxiety doesn’t get me, maybe the tablets will.

Nevertheless, I am now the proud owner of two conditions that are mentioned in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (at least, in Edition IV they were). I believe that earns me a mauve rosette.

As for my new, and not entirely welcome, state you might wonder how I feel about it. In all truthfulness, I’m not exactly mad about it.

* I’m not advocating anyone else suffers in silence – far from it. If anything rings a bell in this piece, see a doctor or, if you’re braver than I’ll ever be, call the Samaritans helpline. It’s 08457 90 90 90 in the UK. I’ve since found out that even silent calls are fine, if they help.