I learned yesterday that the waiting list for ‘talking therapies’ in my area is between six and fourteen months. That is to say if you are suffering from depression, anxiety or some other mental illness, you’re going to have to wait a very long line for treatment. How can this be right?
We are still in a time and place that does not seem to recognise that poor mental health is actually an illness and that to cure an illness you need to get professional treatment. You cannot magic yourself better, you cannot recover from mental illness by employing, say, a motivational speaker. That would be as silly as employing a motivational speaker to cure you of cancer. Whilst mental illness is very different from physical mental illness, it’s still a horribly debilitating illness.
I waited 14 months for my last treatment, the top end of the NHS waiting list. It was, at times, a pretty desperate wait because I knew I would not feel better without therapy. My GP could, and did, double my medication. Those little pills would merely deaden the pain, so to speak, rather than get rid of it. 14 months felt like a very long time.
The prime minister, Theresa May, made the point recently that she was committed to treating mental and physical illness on equal terms. Even someone as stupid as her had managed to work out that just telling someone to ‘snap out of it and pull yourself together’ might not have the desired result. However, Mrs May is a politician, and a very poor one at that. It turned out she didn’t mean it and, in any event, she was determined to concentrate on the only thing that mattered to her: the worst possible deal in order to leave Europe. Mental health, and to be fair, everything else, has taken a back seat to Brexit.
It occurred to me that perhaps May was serious about equalising mental and physical treatment in a different way, by presiding over such a shambles and running down the NHS, physical health treatment might be made as bad as mental health treatment. Well, she didn’t actually say in some many words her aim was to make one form as good as the other: just the same.
I spoke to a friend earlier today, via the messenger service on Facebook. They had just signed up to the waiting list and were resigned to waiting, quite possibly, to May of next year to get treatment. Now that really put things into perspective for me. May next year will represent the end of next season’s football season. We will be in the run up to the European Football Championships. It feels like a lifetime away. If you are suffering from clinical depression, it might as well be a lifetime away. I think it’s a disgrace.
The reality is that the mental health side of the NHS is primarily an A&E for the head. If you were going through a major crisis, it is likely you will get help, even if it means being sectioned. If you have a bit of money, you might be lucky to check into a Priory type place. If you are a regular Joe or Josephine, then you just have to wait. Many doctors think that prescribing a few pills will do the trick. They won’t forever.
I’m in a better place at the moment, for reasons I don’t entirely understand. For all I know, tomorrow I could be in a dark place again, who knows? Certainly not me. I do worry that when and if I start going downhill again, the best the NHS can do is fill me up with pills again. The only consolation is if I get really bad and then they can lock me up for my own safety. I’ve been lucky enough to avoid that situation so far. I am just hoping my luck holds. Waiting around just makes things so much worse.
