I could barely string a sentence together today. I can barely remember anything we talked about. I suppose that’s because we barely spoke about anything. So instead, here’s some rambling, not-even-close-to-one-one-hundredth-baked philosophy.
You’ns who regularly read this blog may have noticed there wasn’t an entry last week. That’s because I went to Suffolk to build my grandmother a new PC. She paid me. I won’t pretend I did it out of the goodness of my own heart. As we all know, I’m a piece of shit.
Anyway, I was a combination of away (0.5%), busy (0.5%) and lazy (99%). That’s why there was nowt. Luckily for you, I made notes of what happened in last week’s session. So today I present a double, back to back special of… you get the idea. It’s two posts in one. It’s 300-ish words extra. Quit while you’re ahead. This is going to get dark and probably tedious.
Completely useless and pointless today. Carvery started off by asking me how I thought therapy was going so far. I said that as each session approached, a sense of dread started to take hold. Obviously he asked me why. So I’ll tell you.
I’ve been sitting on this post for a few days. There’s something about it that seems mean spirited and petty. But on reflection, I realise these are things that have contributed to me and my depression in someway. Just like everything I’ve spoken about in my previous posts. Examined individually, they’re relatively minor incidents. But everything I’ve written about so far and everything I’ll write about in the future are parts of a larger picture.
I know there are people out there whose childhoods make mine look like a hedonist’s wet dream. People who suffered physical and sexual abuse. Who never had the privileges I had. But that knowledge doesn’t suddenly make me all better. Their suffering doesn’t cancel out my own. And acknowledging that I have problems doesn’t mean I don’t feel sympathy for them. If you’re in a similar position, you should try to remember that.
I hate writing “my therapist”. So from now on at the beginning of each entry I shall be picking a new, probably silly-to-the-anglo-saxon-ear name for him.
Today my therapist will be known as: Klug
Stupid stupid stupid. This isn’t going to be very long, because my session was well over 100 hours ago and I can barely remember a thing. Maybe it’ll come back as I write. But I shall not make such a stupid mistake again. I shall not.
If you think that you’re about to kill yourself in the next few minutes or hours. If you’re about to do that. You’re probably not well. Apparently, healthy people don’t do that kind of thing. I know, right?
You are completely allowed to call an ambulance. There are people at A&E/the ER who go through loads of training to help people like us who know we’re pieces of shit. It doesn’t matter if you don’t deserve it. They’ll help you anyway. The suckers. 999 or 911. Do it.
If you can’t face an ambulance and you’re in the UK, call The Samaritans: 0845 790 9090
If you can’t face an ambulance and you’re in the USA, call The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
And if you can’t do any of those things. It’s okay. I wouldn’t. But it might help you. Try and tell someone. You can always wait a bit and kill yourself tomorrow.
I’ve been sent a number of messages from people who told me they’d been struggling with mental health problems, or the crushing hopelessness that is life, and either felt let down by the help they’d been offered and received. Or hadn’t tried to get help for fear of not being believed. I’ve fallen into both of those categories. I’m by no means an expert, but I have experienced them. I know it’s piss.
I also have experience navigating the workings of the NHS and the private medical sector because I’ve worked in both of them. My NHS job was literally helping people navigate it so they could get the best care as quickly as possible. Just to be clear, I’m not a clinician or a therapist. But I know how this shit works. And even though my experience is entirely in the UK, the steps are more-or-less the same worldwide.
I won’t pretend to know why you feel bad about yourself or what kind of bad you feel or don’t feel. My experiences have differed from others I’ve read or heard about. I’m sure there are similarities with someone, somewhere. Probably. I’m not special. You’re not either.