nunoncastors

I’m sure you’re all intrigued as to how my trip to visit the Doctors went; some may even be concerned for my wellbeing and, provided there’s nothing morbid about your curiosity or insincere about your concern, this is appreciated.

Now, let me tell you a tale.

I have an innate dislike of the sort of sterile medical environment you find in hospitals and doctor’s surgeries. There’s something about the smell and the faceless banality of the way you’re treated that bothers me. I realise that there is a need for efficiency and that the staff themselves are overworked and underappreciated, but I hate feeling like a cog in a machine, just another statistic.

Obviously this is largely unavoidable these days; we’ve been reduced to nothing more than a set of demographics for the convenience of the government and big business. If we don’t fit into column A, we probably fit into column B, which means that we like Pepsi, shop at ASDA and are more likely to vote Labour.

You may not realise it, but we’re all followed around by a host of invisible tags that attempt to file us away into neat little boxes, where nothing is surprising and where marketing machines can target us for the benefit of industry. We’ve been made manageable. Store loyalty cards, for example, while beneficial to you in the guise of little discounts, also enable the tracking of shopping trends and therefore, targeted marketing. I hate this. I hate the idea that my habits and actions are in some way measurable or predictable. I hate seeing human beings reduced to numbers, it’s abhorrent. No one’s illness should enable a faceless politician to crow about improved waiting times.

It is for this reason that I always lie outrageously whenever I’m canvassed by market researchers. I am Carlos Esperanza, mine owner.

The unease and mild distaste aside, I rather liked the Doctor I went to visit the other day. He was pleasant, smiling and above all, failed to patronise me in any way whatsoever. I appreciated the latter more than the former. Those seeking help and advice should not be subjected to condescension simply because they require aid, and I wasn’t.

So I sat and I talked to the pleasant Doctor. I explained about my past history of psychological issues, the somewhat unfortunate occasions where everything has become rather too much, and the dangers of wandering off somewhere remote with a razorblade and distinctly negative intent. He asked pertinent questions, reasonable questions, and at no point claimed to understand. This made me rather happy. Not the questioning, you understand, but the admission that he’d no idea what it must be like. He’s only the second healthcare professional I’ve seen that’s had the sense to admit that reading textbooks and attending university are not the same as experiencing a desire to end it all. Clever chap.

We moved on from the past to the present, to why I felt the need to see a Doctor. It turns out that this is actually quite hard to explain. Simply stating that you’re angry seems somewhat hollow and meaningless, everyone gets angry after all. As a result, my explanation took a while and, as I seem to be going all out here and telling all, covered rather more than I intended it to. It was also surprisingly difficult to make myself speak the whole truth, which I found odd. You would have thought that, having had to explain years ago, why I’d slashed my wrists, nothing else would really pose that much of a challenge. I realise that sounds glib, but I honestly expected that the next statement to give me pause before uttering would be, “I love you.” And I say that only because I can’t seem to say it without meaning it. A rarity these days, I’m sure.

It turns out however, that discussing my feelings with anyone other than myself or the perceived anonymity of the internet reduces me to a hesitant, inarticulate, wreck. I pause and fumble and grub about as though lost in a vast cave with nothing but a guttering candle to guide me. It was painful, surprisingly so.

Still, for someone who used to self harm, what’s a little pain if not an old friend?

As I said, my explanation took a while, it meandered much as this text does, but it covered everything. I made myself talk about how disproportionate my rage is, how it simmers constantly in the background and flares like a nova without reason or warning. I stressed that I’m not actually violent, ever, but that the desire is there, that it has to be quashed by an effort of will. I told him that it bothers me that this battle goes on inside my head, that there’s no outward sign of it and that I’m worried that eventually I’ll lose and something will snap.

I cannot imagine this ever happening, not really. I’ve become so adept at concealing my emotions that it is almost second nature.

I talked about how that concerns me as well. And about how I never really let anyone get that close to me, as though there’s a door somewhere that is forever locked and keyless. I talked about my lack of emotion when my grandparents died and how I worry that I’m not as stable as other people. I spoke about how, sometimes, old demons raise their heads and have to be driven out by nothing more than bloody-minded desire, about how it isn’t just anger that has to be restrained at times.

I confessed that I suspect I am a bad person, based on knowing what I think rather than what I say, and that some thoughts I think unnerve me, that I’m sure they’re altogether mine.

I aired my demons and released all of my skeletons from their closets. For the first time that I can remember I told someone else everything I think and feel and worry about. And do you know what they told me?

You’ll like this.

They told me that they’re not really sure what’s wrong. There’s clearly something, they just don’t want to make the wrong diagnosis. It would seem that I apparently don’t tick sufficient boxes to be granted any particular label, something I find curiously pleasing.

Because of this I’m being referred to a specialist of some sort – a reassuring thought - and asked to try a few mental exercises along the lines of deep breathing and counting to ten.

I imagine I’ll be posting more on this subject as the drama unfolds. Prior to that however, I’m off to Cambridge for the weekend to visit my lovely friends and have a jolly old time.

I hope there’ll be Pimm’s.