I had my regular medical yesterday. The usual thing: bloods, weight, blood pressure and of course taking the piss (literally). I appear to be doing better on all counts than I was a year ago but things are relative, I know. Knowing what I now know about the unexpected turns life can take, often in less time than it takes a heart to beat, I take what good news I can get. The one thing that is never checked, not even in passing, is my mental health.
Despite all the fine words from everyone from politicians to even the royal family, in the grand scheme of things mental health care is barely regarded as even an afterthought. We hear all the time on how important it is to talk about one’s feelings, rather than bottling everything up, but it turns out that it’s only words that someone else says.
I rarely, if ever, discuss my feelings, not even with those closest to me. You may find this odd since I am always urging folk to talk and to not bottle up their feelings, but doing it myself? That’s an absolute no-no.
The closest I get to talking about my mental health is writing about it. I am very self-conscious when talking about me in any circumstances whatsoever, unless it’s with a psychotherapist, so I tend to listen to others. If questions come my way, I have become an expert at deflection and distraction. But it would be nice if a member of the local medical profession, say for example, just posed the Holly Willoughby question – “Are you okay?” It would be nice. But they never do.
As ever, life is a struggle. I don’t say that self-pityingly: it’s a simple fact. When you come to read my forthcoming non-awaited memoir (of sorts), there will be much more about that struggle. All I can add is that if mental health was treated on the same basis of physical health, mental people like me would have had far better and more fulfilling lives.
My appointment yesterday was with two young medical professionals whose combined ages would still leave them at least 25 years younger than me and very efficient they were too, asking all the right (usual) questions and performing the procedures. But no one says: “you’re still on antidepressants after all these years. Are you okay?” And why? Because there was no point. I’ve had numerous diagnoses of clinical depression, various anxieties and more lately (too late) ADHD, the latter of which I have been refused medication for. I’ll go back to a relatively recent appointment with a GP at our local health centre.
The GP explained I was on a very high dose of antidepressants, the maximum allowable. I replied that this was because I had severe clinical depression. Without so much as a medical explanation, he reduced my medication by 50% at a stroke. I then explained I had belatedly been diagnosed with ADHD, and not a mild version, either, not to mention the strong possibility of being on the autistic spectrum. There was now another reason why my life had been so hard for me. Here, paraphrased, is what he said:
“You’re an old man. Just enjoy the rest of your life. There’s nothing I can do.” And that was it. I was crestfallen. I had reached the end of the road. The NHS offered no therapy and no drugs beyond the inadequate dose I was already on. If he had said, “Just fuck off, stop feeling sorry for yourself and don’t waste my time” I would not have been any more surprised.
So, another physical health check – for which I remain truly grateful – and the complete absence of hope for the future for the mental health and neurological shit that has hindered my life ever since I was born. Great. Maybe I am full of self-pity, after all? No wonder I am so full of self-loathing.
Still crazy after all these years and certain to stay that way for however long I have left. Situation hopeless, so basically normal. Great.
