Panic not, fans of Jacob (both of you!): I am not about to try and regurgitate some Freudian-rooted “hand-me-down” of a Doctor Doctor joke…
Yesterday, I found myself in my doctor’s surgery – and I don’t mean a divine being appeared to me either, I merely felt a need to address a couple of issues with my GP. I explained that I was concerned, as I was slowly creeping up in taking sleep medication and was now self-administering what my doctor (let’s call him Graham, because he may be a doctor but that doesn’t make him any better or worse than me) called “very high doses” which can, at certain levels become a stimulant rather than a relaxant.
Graham, asked me if I wanted to see a psychotherapist.
Now to be fair to Graham he probably has hundreds, if not thousands, of patients and he cannot possibly know with great detail the history of all his patients.
So I explained to Graham, as succinctly as I could, that I have over the course of the last 20 years, been through almost all (if not all) types of “talking” therapy and none have worked. I explained with candour (and a few expletives!) that there isn’t a day that passes where I don’t think about suicide.
I continued, stating that the only thing I felt that kept me alive in the last three years or thereabouts, was a desire to write my autobiography. So that one day if anyone wanted to know the real truth (instead of the distorted stories of a bent lawyer, a bunch of bitter and twisted lazy, bloodsucking, fat layabouts, and a criminally unjust judge) then the facts were there as best I could recall.
Having this goal in mind and the determination to publish this account, meant that I had a reason to carry on breathing. En route to this goal I rediscovered my passion for music and a new passion: writing poetry.
And so the series “The Ramblings of my Madness” by “Jacob” was born. Currently published up to Volume Five with Volume Six and Seven being edited as I write. Volume Ten will see the end of this series.
So where next for Jacob? Maybe this will be the end of the line?
Having explained this to Graham and him seeming perplexed, a conversation thus ensued where I had the struggle of explaining in enough detail, but not too much detail, that the only thing keeping me alive now is the fact that I have stumbled on this ability to write. (I am not saying how well – good, bad, awful or anything about the standard because as a writer I am not qualified to objectively critique my own work).
I mentioned with a considerable sense of self incredulity that I had just completed – of all things – a Self Help book for people with depression-related challenges.
Graham was unilaterally focused it seemed, on opening the doors to talking therapy. Ironically, the fact is that I would be delighted to talk with people about how they might approach the challenges that this epidemic of disease; although this was not, I think, what Graham was angling toward.
So, ever mindful of the pressures that General Practitioners in the NHS endure, I concluded my conversation with Graham, thanked him and bid him farewell.
Thus, the title of this blog – A man walked into the doctor’s (me) and said, “Doctor, I think there’s something wrong with my head.” The Doctor replied, “I think you’re right!”
But think of it this way: no-one’s perfect – though I have met a few people who think they are!
The NHS in the United Kingdom is, in my opinion, one of the most amazing organisations I know of. Tens of thousands of people working selflessly and giving so generously of themselves that I am often humbled by how lucky we are that Nye Bevan conceived of the idea in around 1946 and which came into being in July 1948.
Personally, I just want to say thank you to Mr Bevan and to all the folks who work within this brilliant, though sadly much maligned organisation. Keep our NHS Public.
With love peace and hope,