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 9th.
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.
