It’s always good when people open up on their mental health. God knows how many times I’ve heard that over the years and it’s true. Most of us who have ‘issues’ keep them buried beneath the surface long after they opened up initially on their mental health. I’d urge anyone to open up or come out because only then can you do something about it. Naturally, its beholden upon me to point out that the last sentence must carry a qualification. There is something, but is it enough?
I’ve had my latest mental health assessment and it has revealed that – SURPRISE! SURPRISE – I have severe clinical depression with added anxiety, complicated by ADHD. I knew full well what came next. Have you thought about topping yourself? Would you consider topping yourself? The answers were “No, not recently” and “No, life is better than the alternative”. With that came the offer of short term therapy which I did explore, only to reject it because it’s only ever a sticking plaster for me and six weeks later I’m back to square one again. Generously, I felt, I said limited therapy might be of more benefit to someone else setting out on their – oh God, what am I about to say? – mental health journey. Then it got better. (Spoiler alert: it didn’t.)
Here I paraphrase but not by much. My GP said this: “You’re on the maximum level of antidepressants. You should reduce your medication because taking that level of drugs is bad for you.” I should say that none of this came about by way of a friendly chat in the surgery. Instead, we conversed by way of messaging via the Ask My GP service. Now I like this service, not least because of my high levels of hypochondria, but not in terms of mental health. I had to explain by way of a cold messaging service that I would do whatever my GP recommended and if cutting back on my meds was part of this, then I would do it. Let’s put it this way: I’m bricking it, fearful that my depression will get worse and reach unmanageable levels. Yes, having to reduce my meds was making my anxiety worse. What a fucking mess.
Anyway, I’ve agreed to go along with his advice because he knows more about medicine and all that malarkey than I do. So from Monday I am engaging on a process of reducing my meds, hoping that if I do it slowly and steadily I won’t lose my remaining marbles. My GP, bless him, does offer me a backstop which is that if my mood crashes through the floor he will put me back on the maximum dose again. I replied that I’d give it ago and just hope I’d realise things were going to shit again.
It’s weird timing for me because I’ve finally decided to start going out and seeing people again, something I’ve only done in fits and starts since my mental health collapsed completely during my disastrous period of employment with the bullies of the British Red Cross back in 2017. This week, I went to see Keir Starmer addressing a meeting of the local Labour Party and just last night I attended an event in my local to commemorate the anniversary of the death of a much loved villager. I only lasted a short while at the latter, and one pint, before sneaking out, I hope, unnoticed via the side door but it was definitely progress of a sort. I hope the imminent reduction in my meds does not send me back to square one when I’ve just reached square two. We’ll just have to see.
Finally, let’s end where I started. I am of the view that when famous people reveal their issues with poor mental health, it helps others come to terms with their own problems. It makes us feel we are not alone. But what makes me upset, not I hasten to add angry, is when we read how a famous person explains how they are in therapy. Ben Stokes bravely did so last year, breaking I hope a number of taboos about how a great sportsman, a serial winner with untold wealth, the world as his feet, can still suffer from demons. What the article doesn’t say is that Stokes will be paying for private therapy, something way beyond the financial limitations of ordinary folk who have to reply on what the NHS can offer, which is, unless you are ready for sectioning, nothing at all. I’d see a therapist every week for the rest of my life if I was a rich man.
I’m toying with the idea of watching the village football team today, not least because old friends last night invited me to come along. I haven’t been in ages because, quite frankly, I haven’t been comfortable in social gatherings. I’ve been ill, for fuck’s sake, and it’s still not easy when kindly people ask how you are. The last thing they will want to hear is a lengthy monologue about how mentally buggered I have been. “Fine thanks,” I lie.
The good news is that I’m still here, albeit depressed, anxious and full of self-loathing and ADHD and I’m still fighting the good fight to be better, with it must be said limited effect. And being here beats not being here.
