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I got talking about depression; manic-depresion that is, twice in one day; once innan email, the other with my doctor, when her first words had been “what can i do for you?” My retort had been, “Send me home...” And thankfully, that’s the sort of relationship i have with her. I am able to book a double appointment and lets me ramble and, ramble I do. Now some might call it ‘talking therapy’, while I call it ‘listening therapy’, as all I ask of her is that she let’s me ramble, about every four to six week, or so.
Needless to say, I don’t ask for a prescription or, expect one. I’ve walked a fine line tighttope since I’d reached the age of thirty-six and discovering my own form of self awareness after a much-needed confidence course that helped me find me again, after several failed relationships and, two cheating fiancee’s.
I had my first breakdown at the age of eleven. Back then an exam decided whether you took an academic route, or not. Not being able to deal with the stress of the event I ended up in tears, with my exam before me; then the headmasters office, where ‘they’ decided that as I was borderline, the choice could be mine, while phrasing the question in a loaded manner, “If you goto Wirral Grammar School you’ll be in one of the lower streams. But, if you goto Acre Lane, Secondary School, well you’ll probably end up in one of the higher streams. Well, I feel sure that with the question phrased like that, it’s no surprise I ended up not going to a grammar school.
Then at sixteen, it so happened that my fencing master had also been the head of the catering department, of the college I went to, on the course I was on. And, this fellow had seen ‘potential’, in me and initially had not told me so, just acted on his decision instead. He had called in private assessors, to gauge my potential iq and having tested me, called me into his office. Then, while he had been called away I had briefly turned my eyes to his desk where a report lay, with my name onnit. Now I can read reasonably well upside down, so gleaming what had been written had not been difficult at all and, the answer had been interesting, to say the least.
So with the result being what it was, ‘they’ had decided to pile on the pressure, in the belief that I’d rise to the occasion as it were and, do better than the average I’d been doing, with no effort. But... and, there had been a ‘but’, I’d not been able to deal with the added pressure, at all.
As of a consequence of the way I’d felt after reading that, within twenty minutes or so I’d been sitting in one of two cubicle toilets in the gents toilet. I’d unrolled my set of knives and selected what I thought was ‘the one for the job’. It may have been ‘the one for the job’, but I hadn’t known how to do as I’d intended and, I’d cut across and not down and in. In hindsight, what had happened next is assuming to me, but back that it had annoyed me... because I’d fainted, at the sight of my own blood. Then, when I woke up I’d looked around wondering where I was and, then having made an attempt at a bandage, I’d taken myself home. I’d not stayed at college long after that.
The next time I’d felt like that had been down to a whole situation with the DWP, which in turn led to the beginnings of my hatred for them and ‘the system’.
And then, there’d been the meltdown at the doctor’s... that had happened because I’d been right, when I’d said that an appointment had been mine, yet no-one had believed me and, control had not been mine... and then, afterward... days later, I’d discovered I’d been right, after all.
I’d dealt with being right better than I had being wrong and had even been charitable with my declaration that, “It doesn’t matter, mistakes happen.” I hadn’t meant what I’d said, at all.
Yet, I do need to sound off about ‘my stuff’, every now and then, to someone who wants to listen. And, as it was my doctor who suggested our current practice, then I know she ‘wants to listen’ and, that in itself is very important to me.
Sometimes my thoughts are just too dark and need to be expunged, either through talking, or through my writing: and, sometimes both. Then there was the appointment that had prompted this very piece of writing: we had been speaking, or should I say I had been talking and, as she reminded me finally of the time, my doctor had mentioned something about our disagreeing somewhat on my mental health. I had taken that to mean I should be using meds, to combat the worst excess of mania... but, as stated prior, I’ve walked a fine line tighttope since I’d reached the age of thirty-six and discovering my own form of self awareness.
Granted, there have been times when I’ve not done too well, such as the occasion several staff witnessed at my doctor’s practice, which had led to strange stares, from a couple of staff...