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.
