Amid all the debris that has been my 2025, a litany of death and misery, from a dear family member to best friends and even musical heroes, I somehow haven’t shed a single tear. Being a mental case rather than psychiatrist, I do not know why this is, given the monumentally depressing year this has become. I’m obviously depressed, which is nothing new since, to some extent or other, I always am but where is the emotion? Where is the pressure valve that might be eased? All that’s happened is I have retreated into my little world, emerging only occasionally for things I want, and sadly have, to do.
Things were so different just eight years ago when I was the subject to bullying and abuse at the Bristol offices of the British Red Cross (see Eclectic Blue blogs passim). I seemed to be crying all the time, including when I was actually in the Warmley offices, and also when managers tried to ease me out of the charity by dumping me in an old dark and dismal stationery office in Easton. Now that was emotion, raw and visceral, the worst employer imaginable managed by the worst managers imaginable. This time, subconsciously, it would seem, I have managed the ongoing crisis in two ways: by simultaneously facing it head on and locking myself away.
Wallowing in self-pity, as some might say, I write numerous memos to my local health centre in general and the only doctor I knew by sight, explaining my situation in tiresome detail. In short, I wasn’t doing very well with my depression with added ADHD (diagnosed at a time in my life where I might be waiting for God which, given he isn’t there, might just be a long wait indeed). Dr X literally did not reply to any of my requests for help, not even to offer some advice that I might want to seek help from Samaritans, but then they never came back to ask whether I might be suicidal (I wasn’t but it’s been a close thing at times). One online message I sent accompanied a repeat prescription request for an asthma inhaler, the content about my declining mental state and many of the reasons for it have been completely ignored, everything except the inhaler prescription.
I am somehow, so far, what might be referred to as a survivor. My demons have not been as bad as those of some other people who have taken matters into their own hands by way of self-harm and even, tragically, suicide, so maybe my health centre has done a risk assessment. “Look, that old fucker has been as mad as a box of frogs since the late 1960s, he’s still here so he’s probably not going to top himself. Perhaps he is making it all up, attention grabber that he is.” That was not far from the reaction when, so late in life, my ADHD diagnosis had been made. “Look, you’re an old fucker, you can’t have even more drugs than the ones you are on now. Just go away and stop wasting my time. I’ve got younger people than you who really need help even though there isn’t any.” Those were not the actual words, of course, but it’s definitely what I heard.
Actually, I don’t think the near absence of help for people with neurological issues and/or depression is entirely an age-related matter, but I do know things are much worse than they used to be. Back in the 1990s when I had one of my severe ‘episodes’, I ended up seeing a ‘Mister’, an actual consultant, at Southmead Hospital. I am not saying he saved my life but at least he did stuff, by way of therapy and drugs, that dealt with the immediate crisis. I suspect today someone like me might not have the option of that potential life-saver.
There is no real end to this blog because there is no end to what’s happening and the complete lack of options available to every man and woman who has issues, but no options beyond carrying on. As ever, mental health isn’t regarded as important as physical health, people are just left to it and, to all intents and purposes, left to rot. That’s how I feel.
Next to no one will read this. I am not linking it to Facebook because I am sick to the back teeth of the exhibitionism, narcissism and the relentless ‘my life is better than yours’ shit that it has become.
Don’t worry about me because as things stand, I’ll still be here for at least a short while. I’m staying in for a while, emerging only for the things I want to do and have to do. Maybe things can get better but I somehow doubt it. They never have before, at least not for long. Whatever you do, don’t become mentally ill. And don’t, whatever you do, give the Red Cross any money. They nearly killed me. I wish them nothing but ill.
