Now that my birthday has gone

My birthday week is over and I am starting to live again. I’ve not written about this before but I might as well be honest: for as long as I can remember, I have hated my birthday and the days, even weeks, leading up to it. This year has been no exception. Obviously, it’s down in large part to my mental health.

My loyal reader may recall that 2019 represented the ‘celebration’ of 50 years of poor mental health. What started in childhood as night terrors and panic attacks evolved into more general depression and anxiety and, despite the best efforts of countless therapists and counsellors, it has never gone away. So, when a birthday comes along, the black dog is let off the leash, casting a huge shadow over everything I do.

At the same time as dwelling upon a litany of failure, I am getting countless kind messages, including an enormous number through social networks, wishing me a happy birthday. I was genuinely moved by them, whilst at the same time wanting to disappear into a darkened room until the birthday week ended. All I really wanted was today, the day after my birthday, when I could get on with life as normal, whatever normal is. And then, as I seem to do from time to time, I think about what can I do to make things better. The answer is nothing.

The NHS will only be there for me if I have a complete meltdown and require sectioning. There are types of talking therapies available but I have done them over and over again and I still come back to the same place. I have been told often enough that my depression is unlikely to be ‘cured’ and that what I will need to do is manage it. Which is what I try to do anyway, with varying degrees of success.

The option of private therapy is there and, if push came to shove, I could probably afford it. But here’s the thing: I know that if I was directly paying for treatment, I would get very anxious about whether I was getting value for money. In my case, anxiety often leads to depression, in which case the effect of paying for treatment could end up making me more ill. All I can do now is carry on.

Now that my birthday has gone, I can see a brighter day. Spring is just over a month away and the long, grim winter nights will slowly get shorter. Perhaps, things can only get better? After last week, they could hardly get worse.