I went to see my doctor today as, honestly, I’ve not been feeling particularly peachy on the emotional front these past few months. After I terminated my therapy around Easter last year I’ve been deteriorating more and more, lost to my internal nastiness.

Somehow, I forgot my doctor was a cunt when it comes to emotions. And I use that extremely strong word for a VERY good reason, as you’ll read below.

So I got to the surgery, went in, told the receptionist who I was and that I had an appointment. After she confirmed me I went and poised myself on the old, murky-red chair-sofa things in the waiting area. It wasn’t long before my doctor came out to see the receptionist for his next appointment. When he saw my name, he looked up straight at me. I caught his eye but, feeling embarrassed, looked outside through the large, square window dominating the seating area.

He called my name. I followed him in and sat down, feeling equally as nervous as any time I’ve been to see a doctor. He pulled up my file on his computer and then sat back in his large swivel chair, asking me what was wrong.

I started to blather about knees and my eyes and, most importantly, the case notes he should’ve received from the counsellor I saw a few weeks ago who only did short-term work so had to shoo me away. As far as I know, they specified that I was in some high-risk band. Something to do with my frequent suicidal ideation and because I had means available to me. It requested that I be referred to a long-term treatment NHS psychotherapist.

I could tell that he wasn’t going to understand before we even started. I could tell it was going to be an uphill battle I would eventually lose. I forgot he doesn’t “do” non-factual talk from people who are doggedly reserved about their real, nightmarish emotions.

Below are extracts from the 30-minute, mostly 1-sided ‘conversation’ we had:

Him: You’re just one of the masses.

–

Him: You have to accept that people just don’t care about you.

–

Him: And… and… and and… and I think you’re having a spiritual crisis, not an emotional one. Wouldn’t you agree?

–

Him: I don’t think you need psychotherapy.

–

Him: What I can see of you, you don’t seem all that distressed.

Me: I wear a mask all the time to hide my true emotions.

Him: Okay. Well that would make you a great actor. It reminds me of Catcher in the Rye.

–

Him: I think you should have these… /hands pamphlets and cards on mindfulness/ It’s from Buddhism.

Me: Oh yeah, I know about that.

Him: Oh really? (In a tone that says, “Why is it that you’re bothering me with your obvious lies of poor mental health when you can fix yourself without wasting MY time?”)

–

Me: I need an emotional outlet. I find it hard to express my emotions to people… I think a lot of my friends aren’t ready for my emotional intensity.

Him: What type of outlet do you need?

Me: Someone whom I can talk to without feeling judged and someone who I know will just listen and not try to give advice.

Him: Have you tried praying?

Me: I… uhh… I’m not… I don’t…

Him: Because you know if you want someone to listen prayer can help get what you need to say off your chest. Or have you tried writing how you feel down?

Me: Yeah, I’ve tried journaling and keeping a diary but I just can’t keep up with it. My hand doesn’t go fast enough.

Him: But you write it as it comes and when you feel like it.

Me: (*inner eye roll*)

–

Him: Okay well everyone is look for that. You see, how the human condition works is that we’re all searching for meaning. We all have very fragile egos.

Me: (mentally: So you’re going to dismiss the fact that I’m in an extremely-high suicide risk-band because you assume my ego is “hurt” rather than I actually need some help?)

–

Me: I want someone who can be there for me when I have bad days and good days… when I just can’t deal with all the shit anymore.

Him: You think you’ve had a bad day? You don’t even know what a bad day is yet. A bad day is like being told you have cancer. Or that your best friend has cancer. You have no idea what it’s like to have a bad day.

… and then later…

Him: I’m not trying to sweep away your problems.

Me: (*inner eye roll* + *want to cry right now but can’t because this doctor is a bully*)

I’ve been referred to a psychiatrist, not a psychotherapist. I’ve taken medication (fluoextine (‘prozac’) and carbamazepine) before and abused them whem my mood shifted; which is dangerous, as SSRIs themselves have been shown to increase the likelihood of suicide in teenagers.

Frankly, I’m absolutely appalled by my doctor. He treated me with such little regard for my well-being, and instead rambling on about english literature, shakespeare and Hamlet, that I’m considering scheduling another appointment to get a second opinion.

Unacceptable has reached a new height. And the worst part?

I might have to see the psychiatrist I had before. And at their offices is the BATSHITCRAZY ‘adult mental health specialist’ who is more interested in politics than mental health.

Hold me.