31. Desperately Seeking Normal

So you’ll be pleased to hear that I had my psychiatrist’s appointment this week. It went as well as it usually does. I met my new doctor. They change every 6 months because they get moved from one trust to another, I guess it’s done so that they pick up as much experience as they can get. I’m sure this is good for the doctors but I’m not so sure it’s always good for the patients. Personally I feel like I never know what I’m going to get when they change. Some are nice, some can’t make a decision to save their life (or mine) and some are just plain dismissive.

I went in to my appointment wearing jeans and a smart top plus my usual make up and jewellery which was my first mistake. I look far too stable when I do that. The key to getting good NHS care is to act as nutty as you feel. Some of the people I met (and had to step over) in the waiting room had this down to a fine art. They shook, they shouted, they drank red bull after red bull to get their energy levels to peak performance. One guy read my ‘Wellbeing’ magazine over my shoulder, which was fine, personal bubble not excluding, until he started to dribble. Luckily I’m relatively fit because I found the only way to get away from him was to straddle the coffee table and edge myself down the room.

When Dr G called my name he seemed genuinely ok. I shook his hand and he offered me a seat. Polite, friendly smile, this is all going well so far, I think. He started our meeting by asking me how I’ve been. I told him about my new job, how I’d experienced a hypo-manic episode during the first six weeks and how I was now feeling quite depressed most days and was thinking about taking a handful of pills next Friday (to be specific). He wrote these things down as if he was writing a shopping list. Carrots, chicken nuggets, suicidal tendencies.

Then he used the word that no person who DOESN’T have to live with bipolar should EVER be allowed to use on someone who is afflicted with it. He told me that ‘This is all quite NORMAL for bipolar.’ Normal. NOR-MAL. What the f**k does he know about normal and bipolar?! How can that word even apply to the life I lead? NORMAL!!!!! *Starts shrieking at the laptop as she types furiously*

*Deep breaths.*

*Licks an M&M all over like a long desired lover.*

And calm.

Then he asks me if I’ve heard any voices or seen anything strange.
‘Yes, I say,’ thinking back to the last time I heard from Janice. ‘In February.’
‘No,’ he snaps. ‘I mean in the last week.’
Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that when it comes to hearing voices in your head there is a time when it really does become passé for everyone else around you to keep hearing about it! Next time I’ll keep my delusional behaviour current or I’ll keep it to myself.

It’s at this point that I dare to ask whether there is anything the NHS can do to help me through this difficult time. Do they, for example, provide some sort of counselling service for people who are feeling so low they wonder how much vodka they will need to drink before their liver finally gives out? He looks me in the eye and states that the NHS doesn’t offer anything as basic as counselling. The best he could offer was CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) but why don’t we wait until I have my next blood test for lithium levels? I think this must have been the point at which I snapped because I just remember there being a lot of snot and tears from then on. I’m not quite sure how a blood test will help him decide that I’m actually sick enough to warrant some attention here but his next suggestion just floors me.

He states that I seem to get worse when I’m feeling lonely so the other option he can suggest is that he hospitalises me. But he then tells me that I’ll only be even lonelier in a hospital. As if this is supposed to make me feel cared for in some way.

As I try desperately to calm down through the sobs I notice that my right eye has begun to twitch. The way a serial killer’s might.

So my options are, do nothing, let nature and my paring knife find their own way or go into hospital and be strapped to a bed where I’ll suffer endless loneliness and never be allowed out because my condition only ever seems to deteriorate. Brilliant. Psychiatry at its best.

Anyway, I just had to get all that off my chest. Please feel free to let me know your experiences, NHS based or otherwise. Personally I’m starting to understand why so many turn to drink and drugs.