I drove to Portishead today, mainly to try and do something different. Because in recent weeks, my depression has deprived me of the energy and enthusiasm to do anything at all. But why Portishead? Was it because my mum went to live there and eventually died there or because my dad’s ashes were scattered there after his death 11 years ago? Or that the angels on the big church on Nore Road were built by someone in my family hundreds of years ago, or the site of the Mustad nail factory which brought my grandad and his family to the UK from Norway too open it? Perhaps, if only subconsciously because I have absolutely no feelings for the place other than I quite like parts of it (Redcliffe Bay, the lake grounds, the High Street) but not others (the Marina, the grotesque new estates that have grown alongside it). In the end, it was just somewhere different to go and I left feeling I had wasted my time.
In the event, I didn’t go near any of the places of my ancestors, just a little stroll around the lake. Unlike much of the area, the lake grounds are largely unchanged for better or for worse. I am undecided as to which. Either way, there were no ghosts because, of course, there are no ghosts and anyway I see nothing about my past worth dwelling on.
I’ve been promising myself for weeks I would compile a list of things to do to try and break the cycle of depression and anxiety and I still haven’t done it. And even when I do get the motivation to stretch out, it’s not long before I am making my way back to my comfort zone.
My latest GP has been trying to help me, which is great. Of course, you can never speak to a GP around here – it’s all by Ask My GP messages and phone calls these days – and having made further contact this morning, the health centre has promised my GP will ring me back on Friday afternoon. Well, I did tick the box that says ‘not urgent’ I’ve had this shit since 1969 and I’m still here, so it can’t be urgent, can it?
Anyway, he referred me for some on-line assessments and the results have come back. I still have depression (severe) and anxiety (severe) and both the on-line diagnoses gave important numbers I might need, such as 999 and the Samaritans. Think that’s bad? Well, it is and it isn’t. They’re the same diagnoses I’ve been getting forever, including the half a century before this blog was even created, except that before then I kept it all to myself. I needed to work, I didn’t want people to know I was a mental case; all I had to do was smile and no one would know. And it worked, sort of. I don’t need to hide it or pretend to be well anymore.
The GP is going to tell me what comes next following these unremarkable diagnoses, which will be fun. I can’t have any more drugs, CBT didn’t work for me, bog standard counselling is, and has always been, a complete waste of time for me. Still, he seems a good sort and I’ll be more than open to any suggestions he can come up with.
What didn’t go quite so well was his attempt to direct me to a place that gave ADHD, autism and PTSD assessments. That went swimmingly well, at least until I opened the link and found I was too old to get an assessment. Also, he referred me to the local ADHD support group. Even though I haven’t had a formal assessment, he said, the fact that GPs and therapists thought it very likely I had something so give it a shot. That gave me a lift so I followed the link and…nothing. The Bristol group closed down when Covid came along and it has never reopened.
So, where am I? Here I shall quote the great bard Jake Burns, front man of the popular beat combo outfit Stiff Little Fingers, who sang, “Here we are nowhere, nowhere left to go.” That’s where I am. And when I’m driving and I’m thinking, what would happen if I drove in front of that big truck, or if I am on a railway platform and I wonder how it would feel if I walked in front of a speeding express, I’ll have to rely on the fact that thinking about this stuff is as far as it’s gone. I don’t think I am going to do anything that destructive because a) I don’t want to put my loved ones through it and b) on balance staying alive still beats the alternative. And that I can still think that way means I’m not quite ready for the funny farm just yet.
Once again, I’m not wanting “Sorry to hear that” type stuff because that would make me feel like I was being very needy and I know just how irritating when people beg for pity. I don’t want any of that. But I am a bit broken, as I have always been, and I am running out of hope that anyone can put me back together again, if I was ever together at all.
