On Psychology

I called in sick to work today. I really didn't want, nor did I mean to. I woke up fine and dandy at 6am, giving me ample time to get ready, but I then fell back to sleep and didn't wake up until there was five minutes to go before my shift started. My sleeping patterns have been horrendously varied recently, and I don't like that. I called into work telling them I'd be around an hour late, but on reflection decided I couldn't really do a day's work in the mind-frame I was in, so I called back - this time getting through to my Manager- and told him that due to food poisoning I would fail to make an appearance.

I called the doctors' as soon as I'd put the phone down on my Manager. I don't know why it dawned on me today, but I decided that enough was enough. The lady on the reception at the doctors' kept me on hold for 12 minutes before telling me that in order to book an appointment for tomorrow or Wednesday (my days off this week) I'd need to call up on the same day to book an appointment. I hung up. Being prepared for tomorrow or Wednesday was fine, but going to this appointment was a big deal for me, and I didn't think I'd be fully ready today. Instead I went into town.

I had no agenda in town whatsoever; I had no need nor reason to be there, and meandered aimlessly, hitting McDonald's for lunch I can't really afford, and then various banks for personal loans (money worries - I have now reached the stage where I'm in a new house without having paid the deposit or first rent payment), and then the bus back. It was on the way, or maybe beforehand, I can't remember, that I decided that - fuck it - I was going to go to the doctors'.

I went in and made the appointment 45 minutes in advance. I went to the churchyard that had seated my behind on many occasions during my friendship with [Insert Friend Name X], and sat there and smoked and sent various messages to Sarah. I went back in to wait for my appointment and waited for what seemed like an hour. It was more like 8 minutes, but I was as nervous as hell.

For those of you who know me, or have talked to me at length, you'll know that my personality flickers between "alright" and "utter hopeless." I get really intense downers that leave me drained and thoroughly unhappy, and I've been a self harmer for around six years, which is when I can remember and attribute the badness starting. This has generally been your common or garden cutting of the flesh, which has been based mainly on my left forearm, and my right and left shoulders. Recently, however, I have been scraping my hands on walls to draw blood, and have, in the past, burned myself on matches. I actually went to hospital last week on fear of a broken metacarpal when I punched the wall in frustration. I'd merely bruised it, but my middle right knuckle is still a lot larger and squishier than I would like it to be.

Upon my mother's recommendation (she is a sufferer of depression) I went to see a doctor back in 2004, who most helpfully told me to get out more and make new friends. This, of course, made me feel worse. But anyway, it was that first doctor who first put me off seeing medical practitioners at all. Subsequent trips about various other ills have proved just as fruitless, and the medical practitioners in question equally as - in my humble opinion of course - incompetent.

I don't know why now, but I went for it anyway. The doctor asked me questions about how I was feeling, and based on the results I apparently rank quite highly in the depressive stakes. She diagnosed me with depression and recommended both chemical and cognitive therapy. I sit at my computer now with a box of citalopram at my side, and an order to go back when they're done to discuss counselling, which they're to give me for free.

I'm not sure where I stand on either result. The pills... I'm really rather wary of them, despite my readiness to purchase them at £7.10. The side effects are slightly horrifying, and the fact that they will, without doubt, change my neurochemistry and as such myself as a person does put me off a little. The counselling I'm simply not a fan of. I'm sure it helps some people, but I can't see it helping me. I'm a private individual, despite the blog here, and talking face to face to someone about my inner workings sounds like neither fun nor games. I'm really not sure what to do.

You know, I thought that once I'd been told it was definite, that I actually suffered from clinical depression after years of assumption and speculation, that I would actually feel something, like relief or sadness or resignation or something. I don't feel anything. Now, however, I have a choice.