I bore myself with my repetitive life of repetition. Ups and downs and not really sures and doctors appointments and days in bed and days bouncing about on hypomanic energy.
It’s tedious living it; it’s hard to stop it creeping over me like a sultry void, draining every other aspect of my being. Because I do have other personality traits, I promise. It’s just that the abnormal ones tend to be more prevalent in, well, in all of life really.
I went to see a doctor last week. A normal GP doctor because the ‘special’ mental doctors treat me like a dickhead boyfriend I just can’t let go and never return my calls. I wanted to up the dose of my medication because, although I feel better on it than I ever have on anything, it’s not quite hitting the spot yet.
So off I trot, competent human exterior cleverly concealing the fact that I find doctors appointments triggering as fuck and I can’t breathe and keeling over and dying feels an overwhelming possibility.
Thing is, this doctor presumably forgot Patient Care 101 and gave me a resolute hellz no. This serves to emphasise why cross sector care is so important, without a constant dialogue, everything gets fucked. Although I suppose in his defence, there has been zero dialogue since November leaving him with less than not much to go on. And it was the end of a presumably long day of doctoring. And he was a massive shitweasel.
His failure to ask me why I felt I wanted to increase the dose that I am on led to my failure to divulge that actually mate, I’m feeling pretty enamoured with a bit of the old suicide today, any chance of something to maybe stop me before I start or…?
The omission of that from proceedings meant that he had ample time to pass on nuggets of information like “you’re going to have good days and bad days, that’s bipolar for you” (jazz hands at the end there would have really added something special. He didn’t do jazz hands) and “the thing is, you’re not taking the advice you’ve been given…”
Yeah…that’s when I flounced out.
I’ve never flounced on a doctor before, it felt strangely good. A nice, brisk cathartic exit when I felt like if I stayed any longer my head would explode.
I stood outside the surgery and angrily smoked a fag while thinking of all the brilliant things I should have said.
“I’ve done nothing but take advice since I was fifteen and you assholes have screwed up every element of my diagnosis and care since then and now things are really fucked and that’s half my life dude, y’know? Please I just need someone. Please?”
…is what I didn’t say.
*flicks repeat switch*