I don't like those two words juxtaposed. I think there's a stigma attached to anything related to mental health, whether that's a bout of depression or full-blown paranoid schizophrenia. Mental health issues can affect anyone at any time - some of them are hereditary conditions, some are developed as a result of a life event, and some are temporary blips caused by a brief crisis. I've suffered on and off from varying degrees of depression since my early 20s, and every event I've had has been directly caused by a life crisis. Stress, basically. So to find myself in the offices of a dedicated NHS department for the purposes of dealing with my mental health and providing 'support' felt incongruous and uncomfortable to me today. I have to say I was quite rude and resistant to the whole scenario, and directly told the nurses I didn't need them, didn't want to be there, felt there was a massive stigma attached to even entering the building, and didn't believe they could help in any way.
They largely agreed with me and discharged me back to my doctor, who I will be seeing tomorrow morning.
I told them the suicide mission was directly caused by the citalopram I was taking - citalopram is KNOWN for causing suicide attempts - so much for it being an anti-depressant! I told them I didn't have any current suicidal urges, but couldn't possibly say for certain that I wouldn't ever again (who can?) and that no, I don't know what I'm going to do, I don't know how long my support network will hold out (friends and even close family soon get bored with going over the same ground day after day - I realise that pretty soon I'll have no-one left who wants to listen), and when it all collapses, maybe I'll give them a call and ask to be taken back on. In the meantime, I don't need strangers meddling in my life thank you very much.
I suppose I should feel grateful that the service is even provided, but right now, everything just makes me angry. Just over a week ago, my life was chugging along nicely - or so I thought. And now, it's in a thousand tiny little pieces. I can barely put one foot in front of the other, let alone make long-term, major, sensible decisions for myself or on behalf of anyone else.
My happiness book is helping me to feel less out of control - at least that's something - but I can barely look my son in the eye. I had to leave the room when he came downstairs earlier. He's acting like nothing happened. So is my husband. I feel like the only sane person in a mad house, and yet I'm the one with the 'mental health' problems.
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