Off I went to see my family doctor, armed with my barely legible list of symptoms. I’d written it with my husband and had been as honest as I could, from the crippling anxiety to my plans of suicide. I felt much more calm than I did last week, avoiding a panic attack in the waiting room. This time a week ago I was wrestling Moo back into the pushchair, heart racing, while frantically texting the Samaritans.
I handed over the scrawled note and waited for the questions so I could explain in more depth, but they didn’t really materialise. Was I eating? Was I sleeping? Important points, but a lot less concerning than the plans to kill myself or desperation to be drunk. I was given instructions to return if there was no improvement from my anti depressants and to complete a talking therapies self referral form.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ungrateful. I’m sure those things will help me. I’m sure my GP is following standard procedure. I’m not even sure what I expected or wanted from the experience. But I left feeling a little deflated. Off I go, to join a waiting list of thousands of people who need a listening ear.
I know that the change needs to come from me. Only I can improve my outlook and coping mechanisms. I’m sure that the talking therapy will guide me in the right direction. But until then I just continue not sleeping? Being so anxious that I can’t answer the door or go to work? Sitting vacantly staring while Moo stands in front of the TV?
I don’t know what he could possibly have offered to help with any of those things. I need an immediate miracle cure type thing really. I’m just praying that I’m not waiting too long for therapy. And that the new dosage of anti depressants kicks in pretty soon.