Lately, I’ve been writing a lot about me. Not all of it has appeared on this blog because a lot of it wasn’t very good and some of it was just too raw. You see, I’ve given it all my all in the last year or so to get rid of my demons, to jettison the black dog. I’ve done it largely alone, with the support of my loving family. Today, I am now resigned to a future that looks very much like the past. A clinically depressed brain, with newly added ADHD and goodness knows whatever conditions I haven’t yet had diagnosed. The fight is essentially over. I have nowhere else to go, nothing else to give.
I’ve sort of made the decision today on the basis of what happened yesterday, when I had yet another ‘digital assessment for therapy’. An NHS partner, which is to say a private run-for-profit company, called me to discuss what therapy might be available. I was all but certain this would be a waste of time, given that almost all the therapy and counselling I have ever had has been a waste of time, so I was not too disappointed when I quickly realised I was right.
“I’ll come straight to the point,” I said, as the assessor began his introduction. Six weeks of counselling, where the counsellor says something along the line of “So, what do you want to talk about?” doesn’t cut it for me. I have issues going back to the 1960s which in psychological terms have rarely, if ever, been visited. “I need something more, something deeper and something long term. You haven’t got anything like that to offer, have you? And you’ve certainly got nothing that incorporates my ADHD.” “No.” “Then I think I can save you some time here.” The assessor then went over the suicide questions. Was I about to top myself? Assessors, rightly and understandably, ask this stuff, not least to cover their arses. It’s all recorded, too. My first psychiatric intervention was in 1969. This, I fear, was my last.
As ever, they send you various links to organisations who might be able to help. Doctors do that, too. It’s just amazing that they always refer you to services that cost an arm and a leg. I may have made this up, but I’m sure I saw one company offering a few months therapy if you could let them have a kidney or two in exchange. Or maybe this wasn’t what it actually said, just what it meant. Either way, I just can’t see me going down the private road.
The weird thing is that I am no better shape mentally than I was when I was about to enter puberty and adolescence. Not only that, the diagnosis for my conditions came about due to my own efforts. Only my schoolboy panic attacks and night terrors were addressed by others, in this case my mum. I suppose I should pat myself on the back for persevering with something that ultimately achieved nothing.
To sum up, then, I’m pretty well here:
- There’s nothing that can be done about my depression short of remortgaging the house, other than antidepressants and my GP says I need to cut back on these because the drugs are bad for my physical health
- There is a drug for my ADHD which the company that assessed me recommended I should take, but another GP says I shouldn’t because it would be bad for my blood pressure
- There is no meaningful support for either condition from the NHS unless I lose my remaining marbles and need to be sectioned
- There’s probably no point in trying to get assessed for autism, ARFID and PTSD because even if I have one or any of them, there is fuck all I can do about them
What a state of affairs. I am weary of fighting the good fight and all that’s left is more muddling along. Muddling, my specialist subject.
