There seems to be something suitably ironic in the fact that the first appointment that I could get with my GP in order to start the “I think I’ve got a mental health issue” discussion happens to be my birthday. Since it’ll be followed by a birthday dinner with my two best friends, I guess that day will end up being all about balance, though.
It’ll also mean I’ll be able to say “Hell, I lasted 38 years before…”, but there’s already now that analytical part of me ticking away in the back of my head, which is thinking “Maybe that’s not something to be so proud of”. Any of you who know me have probably already seen it in action – it’s the bit where I’m wall flowering: sitting back, taking things in, observing. So there’s a detached observation that’s causing me to wonder how these discussions will go, what the diagnosis (or diagnoses) will be, and what the treatment path will be.
I’m probably not ready to discuss some of those paths that self-analysis part of me are taking, yet. (Though it’s fair to say that given there’s a number of diagnosed manic depressives in my extended family, if there’s any genetic predisposition towards that, well, you get where I’m headed there.) No, I’m not going to walk into a doctor and say, “I think I have <x> syndrome” – it’s one thing to do a bit of diagnosis by Google when there’s an irritating cough that won’t go away, or some other physical malady. But the mind? I’m not going to introduce the risk of a failed diagnosis into the one part of me that I happen to enjoy spending time with most.
But still, while there’ll be part of me that’ll be shaking and practically shitting my pants to sit down and start that discussion with my GP next week, there’ll be that “mini-me”, in the back of my head, watching and listening and trying to predict the direction that conversation, and future ones, will go. Step right up, step right up, place your bets, folks.