My Plague Year: I Went To The Doctor And Guess What She Told Me…

It took five months, six phone calls, twelve e-mails and three letters, to sit under the strip lights of what I can only describe as a cupboard somewhere near Paddington Station. The woman sits there with her notebook patiently nodding, the obligatory oh I’m sorry when I have to tell someone yet again that my father died, that I haven’t been sleeping, that I have no attention and that I’ve put on seven kilos because I can’t even put on my running shoes. Like doesn’t have the same information from the same tired form that’s been filled out over six phone calls, twelve e-mails and three letters.

There was no courage, no breakthrough. My father died at the end of April and two weeks later I sat up in bed in a hotel in the Cotswolds in the middle of the night with palpitations and thought I need therapy.

I imagined an instant, comforting service. I would visit the doctor or call up and I would be introduced to a small group of people sharing in their grief who would give me a cup of tea and a list of books to read. Or a kind therapist in a room with a sofa and a plant, at the very least.

But no. The wait time to see my GP is three weeks. I am directed to an online form. I have to list my happiness from one to five. What bureaucratic simplicity. The last question is always if I’m feeling suicidal, or if I wish to harm myself or other people. As I am made to fill out this form again and again over the coming months, I see it as a simple tick-box exercise in absolving themselves of guilt, should I end up deciding I’ve had enough. But he filled out the form! I imagine them saying. It’s enough to make you want to stay alive out of sheer spite.

The form takes another three weeks to process. In the meantime, I stock up on Valerian Plus sleeping tablets, bubble bath, lavender essential oil, crystals, a rosary, and a dozen useless books on grief, motivation, behaviour and spirituality. The only things that work are chocolate, X-Men comics, a soft toy Koala and Rupaul’s Drag Race.

I finally receive one of many phone calls from the NHS. In the meantime, in early July, my grandmother dies too. The person on the other end is kind, and listens for an hour as I unload all my complicated feelings on her. It helps, and I can see how maybe therapy could help. Except after such a wonderful phone session, I am told that it’s not about to be as simple as someone seeing me next week. There’s a waiting list. I am told I’ll be given a series of CBT exercises via email to get me started. They never arrive. I look up CBT and discard it immediately. All I want to do is talk and have a cup of tea, not spend even more time by myself thinking about why I’m feeling how I’m feeling. I have a pretty good idea.

I try the university well-being service that is continuously paraded around during registration week. It screams we care! By this point I’m cynical. The phone call comes quicker this time, and I spend another hour telling a stranger I’m not suicidal and yes thank you for saying I’m brave and thank you it’s nice to be heard. Once again the service is busy. They can offer a referral to a website called Big White Wall and a link to therapists I can access via video call. Upon browsing, Big White Wall is a complicated social media platform in which you can wallow in misery with people you’ve never met. I also can’t think of anything more impersonal than a video call therapy service. Where do I sit exactly? In the library? Maybe the staff room at work, or my balcony so the neighbours can have a good listen. Besides, as usual…every therapist is busy.

More catch-up phone calls and e-mails, which feel like just checking you’re not dead or thinking about being dead and you no longer need us. Then a letter arrives to inform me I have an appointment with the NHS therapist, and suddenly there’s a rush to make sure I call them as soon as possible. Which brings me to the cupboard with strip lighting, and the promise of half an hour every week with a therapist, a notebook, and a box of tissues. Except she’s more than happy to tell me they mostly focus on CBT, which doesn’t help much with grief (you don’t say) and that of course, she’ll be happy to send me exercises via e-mail. Which at least this time arrive, suggesting I fill out a mind map about how I’m feeling and why, and yes, am I feeling suicidal?

I’m out. I cancel everything. I feel like I’m chasing a grief tail, perpetually answering the question about why I’m feeling sad, my words falling into a chasm of paperwork so someone in an office can say they at least offered me the pleasure of sending me an e-mail.

I decide to try private therapy. It’s hard to find anyone who charges less than 75 pounds an hour, but I’m hoping for at least a sofa, a plant, and a cup of tea. I log into a therapist directory. I’ll admit to being picky. I don’t feel comfortable talking to men. Which doesn’t matter, because every time that is convenient for me is unavailable. It’s not even a case of a nice time, I physically can’t get to these therapists at 3pm on a weekday. Weekends are unavailable. I try a therapist whose practice is close to my house. She e-mails back to say she has no availability until mid-2020.

I’m out. My local gym offers me the chance for a personal trainer, and I take it. It’s the same price as a therapist. If I can’t leave my feelings on a sofa, I can leave them on a treadmill. By this point I’m sleeping better, and not eating so much. Staying busy helps. Maybe the stillness and peace will return one day, maybe when I stop looking for them.

As I write this, Big White Wall sends an email asking how I am. Would I still like a therapist? I’m sure there’ll be a form to fill out. I haven’t told anyone I don’t want to kill myself for a while.