I got my referral for ‘talking therapies’ through so hopefully the NHS will provide me with more than 16 sessions of largely ineffectual CBT. Though the NHS being the NHS I have to wait a few weeks before they will phone up up for a phone consultation to decide what therapy will be best and then put me on another waiting list.
I want to get my medication sorted, the venlafaxine is just making me feel so numb, flat and beige (not black, black has something about it, beige is just ‘meh’) and it’s not doing much for the depression seeing as I’m currently having one of the worst episodes in years; but trying to get anyone even vaugely interested in this is a chore, especially those people in charge of my medication. I am also worried as I had a new psychiatrist last time and he bore a spooky resemblance to Moss from the IT Crowd, but middle aged and with a bow-tie. It is worrying when your psychiatrist looks like he’s crazier than you are. I am all for eccentric dress sense but I’m just not sure if it gives the right image for a mental health professional.
I have also started to notice that the fish in the waiting room have changed, the little glowy ones have gone. I liked them. I fear the worst, it perhaps reflects my morbid moods that I wonder how often the fish die in that place. I hope they at least flush them with dignity.
As I am at a pretty low ebb and am rather incapable of full time work my Mum has decided I should tackle the hell of the DLA form. My Mum is far more optimistic about these things, coming at it from the logical position that as far as the DWP’s own defintions of ‘disabled’ go I am disabled so I should get it; I however have had too many experiences of DWP doctors to know that I could actually be dead and still deemed capable of work (‘has not decomposed yet, so can still work’) . My friend calls the people who do the benefit medicals ‘Davros’ and it’s a definition I agree with.