Eclectic Blue

One Day A Year

Comments Off on One Day A Year 09 October 2017

One Day A Year

The excitement is beginning to build for the big day tomorrow, 10th October 2017. Trailed for, ooh, no time at all, it’s only World Mental Health Day!

I shall be celebrating in the time-honoured manner by being sick from work with depression and anxiety, which is a bit of a shame since I will undoubtedly be missing out on a wide range of activities that are surely going to happen. Or not, as the case will almost certainly be.

I do see the point of these occasions. World Mental Health Day, National Hemorrhoids Week, European Earwax Month – they all draw attention to certain conditions, even though I may have made up some of the events. Rarely do they penetrate the national debate, though, which will doubtless still be dominated by the news that Jamie Redknapp has separated from his wife. There might be an item later in News At Ten, just before the “and finally” bog snorkelling championship/three legged cat saved in house fire story. Most people will either be replenishing their wine glasses by this stage of the show. I know I will be.

My intention tomorrow, as I am not well enough to carry out my job, is to visit a branch of the MIND charity shops and purchase something, anything; hopefully a badge for The Big Day which no one will recognise or be interested enough to ask me what it’s for. If not, I’ll buy a second hand book or CD I don’t really want and hope that the proceeds end up with someone in a far worse state than I am.

I met with a number of medical folk last week, unaware that this major event was approaching. I don’t recall any of them mentioning it, but then I was preoccupied with trying to keep track of what they were saying and what I was saying in reply, none of which made sense. All of them asked the important question – which is “how are you?” and unlike with those little chats at work or meetings in the wine aisle at Asda, my reply wasn’t “Fine!” or any such similar outright lie. I said something along the lines that I am seeing the world through a thick fog, my words are getting slightly muddled concrete mixer, I am so tired I can’t sleep but when I do sleep my dreams are all anxiety nightmares so I wake up even more tired. I can’t see an NHS psychiatrist so I am muddling along, spending far too much time with people who don’t have the first idea how to treat a basket case like me. Things were, as Mark Lawrenson might say “most definitely” not fine. The GP was wonderfully sympathetic. “You are not fit for work.” I mumbled something in reply about not being fit for anything. I don’t whether she agreed with that, but I did.

So I am going to enjoy every second of the misery tomorrow is going to bring. I shall be up with the lark to revel in my hopelessness and inadequacies, to dwell on all the things I can’t do and have never achieved, I shall raise a glass to my inability to be good at anything and to thank my lucky stars I am still here, even though I am not too clear as to why.

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