In my late twenties at the height of my anxieties and depression I dragged myself to my GP. This was at the time you could see the same doctor each time you went and I was fortunate that mine had an excellent attitude to mental health. I didn’t feel like she would need to read up on my notes for every appointment, she noticed my wedding ring on my finger years later after I had got married. Details, people, empathy, consistency.
She immediately got me on Prozac which left me feeling worse initially with awful stomach cramps and taking me further down and trapped with my thoughts. An unfortunate side effect. She referred me to see someone local, not a counsellor, in fact I am not sure what she was but my meeting with her nearly took me over the edge.
All I remember was pouring my heart out to her about my struggles and all I got was “some people are more sensitive than others”. She then arranged for me to join a group of geriatric women for deep breathing exercises.
I lay on a yoga mat in a room that was too small, sobbing and shaking, uncomfortably close to my elderly neighbours. What the actual F***! No disrespect to those taking part but I was a young man losing control of my mind and I had never felt so isolated at that moment. The “flight” part of my “fight or flight” was giving me an absolute beating.
Fortunately I got myself back to the GPs and she shook her head in disbelief when I told her what was happening and what had been said to me. She managed to then get me referred on a short course of CBT which did temporarily help get me on track.
After 6 weeks I was advised I would benefit from more sessions but I would need to pay for it. Debt ticks all my anxiety boxes and so that all stopped and I went to the pub, for quite a while.
One step forward slowly gently 