One thing I often forget about undergoing treatment for bad mental health is how knackering it is. Yesterday, I found my latest assessment, which lasted over 90 minutes, rendered me so knackered I couldn’t sleep properly. I know that appears to make no sense whatsoever but allow me to explain.
The assessment covered the half century plus that I have been mental. Somehow, I had to condense that half century into 90 minutes and that takes some doing. When I was nearing the end of the assessment, with the questions still coming, I had to admit to the therapist that my concentration was beginning to wane. Where at first I had been relatively bright and alert, my brain was turning to papier-mâché. I was struggling to find the right words, concrete mixer. My brain was still whirring when I went to bed. It didn’t stop.
We rattled through my unhappy childhood followed by an abysmal academic performance followed by a lifetime of mediocrity in the workplace at breakneck speed, interspersed with tales of domestic violence (directed at, not by, me, I hasten to add), the effects of workplace bullying and abuse at the BRITISH RED CROSS and sea of battered and broken relationships, almost always broken by me. Trust me: we barely scratched the surface.
I have no idea what comes next. Apparently, I’ll be offered a small variety of treatments, one of which is Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) which I have tried before and didn’t work and, presumably, something else, which I suppose might. Whatever it is, I’ll take it, but it would be handy if I was offered something in which I had confidence and belief. What I have said I don’t want is yet another counsellor. I want a proper psychotherapist over much longer than the usual six weeks to get to the bottom of stuff because my experience with bog standard counselling is that it doesn’t. I suppose I should look at the future of mental health care with an open mind, but mine closed years ago. Cynicism as a descriptor doesn’t come close. I’m still not convinced this is going to be the bridge between basic talking therapies and being sectioned. But we’ll see.
In the meantime, I’ve been emailed loads of information which I shall read probably half an hour before my next meeting with the therapist. Never do today what you can leave until tomorrow.
At least something is happening. Which is better than nothing, or though last time I tried this malarkey, it actually wasn’t.
