One year older and the chances of my life ever amounting to anything have all but disappeared. It's not like it was before when I started this site. For example I actually have a source of income. But I hate it and I'm too scared to say anything seriously about leaving. I don't even have the hope that I will find something that can stop the constant nagging from my brain "you're crap, no-one likes you, everything you do is worthless, why bother" any more, since without going into too much detail I pretty much did, only to lose it forever.
Anyway two years ago my mum made me go to the doctors about my inability to sleep. This was rubbish. I had no inability to sleep other than an internet connection that only worked at night. Whether or not she realised this as well, and was just using it as a front is irrelevant. The real reason was because I was becoming dangerously miserable. The doctors ended up getting me an appointment with a psychiatrist.
I nearly posted about it here but chickened out at the last minute because, get this, I thought it might hurt my prospects if some future employer were to find out about it. It suddenly struck me the other day just how ridiculous that was. Prospects, haha. It is a funny story about how the world is full of morons and I am a pathetic failure. There is no reason in the world why I shouldn't post it.
We went to Walsgrave Hospital. Already convinced this was going to be a huge embarrassment and waste of time, I had to get my mum to take me, which made it worse. When we got in and the desk nurses got round to us there was an obvious flurry of excitement that someone new was here. Perhaps they thought I could possibly be some kind of psychopath and the rubber suit needed to be prepared.
Eventually I went into a room with this indian guy. I only mention his race because of his impenetrable accent, made even more incomprehensible by his belief that everyone had 200dB gain inputs built into their hearing and talking in a whisper to rival a terminal malignant laryngitis and throat cancer sufferer on his deathbed was a perfectly acceptable way to conduct a sensitive interview. Nevertheless he managed to ask me a whole load of stupid questions, like
- "how old are you"
- "what do you think about your parents"
- "do you have a girlfriend"
- "are you gay"
- "who won the FA cup final in 1963?"
Anyway eventually we went to see the consultant. He was clearly not only way too extroverted for his own good, but he was also apparently "just retired" but on some sort of scheme like an emeritus professorship but for doctors. In psychiatric terms this basically means you still get paid shitloads but you don't have to care any more. So this guy basically
- said "your life is a tragedy, read this book"
- talked about himself. In particular
- when he was at university he hardly got any work done on account of playing first team football and drinking a lot
- flirted with my mum, while I sat there going "who is this supposed to be about, anyway"
In spite of having pretty much all the symptoms listed here I repeatedly insisted "I'm not depressed" because I have serious reservations about taking antidepressants (in particular, what happens when you stop) But anyway, while I've written my depressed rants on here I've had a few people along the line saying things like "you should seek professional help". Well, that's what happened when I did, so fuck it.