Having been snuffling around in the pigsty of poor mental health for several years now, I’m learning to be more demanding when it comes to getting help.
A recent trip to the doctor’s more resembled a perilous voyage into Mordor than an innocent check up – I was battle-ready and prepared not to leave with just a pill prescription, but rather a more concrete and sustainable plan to wobble my way back to better mental health. Fight the power.
Except that ten minutes after shaking the doctor’s hand, I had a psychotherapy referral underway, a blood test booked and a sincere request from my GP to please come back if I felt in any way overwhelmed over the next few days. It all went so well I didn’t really know what to do with myself.
It’s not my intention to badmouth the NHS, but my experience of GPs is that…
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Does God Destroy