So last week I finally took it upon myself to organise a therapy course. It’s been a real tough year, especially these past few months, and it is time I did something about it instead of wallow in self pity.
Luckily enough, the place I work for has a benefits package that includes free private healthcare with Westfield. I would rather go via the NHS, but because of how badly the government treat our national healthcare system, the waiting times were too long as I am pretty sure I need more immediate attention.
I made the call with an open mind, expecting the same sort of manner of conversation I have received through the NHS. I was so very, very wrong. I have never spoken to a more pious, non-understanding, unempathetic person in my entire life. The call itself was quite hard for me to do, but I felt like I had essentially ruined the person on the other end’s day.
They were abrupt, rude and sounded like they didn’t give a fuck about me. Which, to someone who is greatly affected by how people talk to them, made me like a worthless piece ofshit. I was treated with contempt beyond belief. Two questions really shocked me, however.
The first of which was ‘Depression, anxiety or personality disorder; which one would you like to be put down for?’
‘All three’, i replied. The following retort hit me like a train. ‘You can only choose one’. Well, I am sorry, I didn’t choose to have any of the above. Besides, they aren’t mutually exclusive. My basket is full of eggs that are joined. Essentially, it is full with one huge, rotten egg.
‘fuck’, I replied, a little shocked. ‘Don’t swear or I’ll hang up’, was the response. Nice, way to make me feel worse. I guess I’m honestly not worth your time. But I persevered and picked Personality Disorder so I could try kill three birds with one stone.
The next question just outright made me laugh with anger. ‘How likely are you to commit suicide today?’ This question is just wrong. Suicide is incredibly impulsive and a last ditch effort at resolving a problem. Suicide is something I contemplate daily, either seriously (to my own self-admittance, It’s been a tough few months), or just in general – in a Platonic way, I guess.
I wanted to say ‘After this phone call’ in a sarcastic fit of rage, but held back. I didn’t want to be incarcerated by the people in white coats. I said no, and it was the truth. I don’t want to die. A lot of the time I don’t want to live, but I know I don’t want to die. The difference between private healthcare from the NHS is a distinct lack of empathy. The more you pay, the less the empathy exists. I wish the NHS was a more viable option for me right now, but I’ll grab the opportunity for more a quicker course of action with both hands.
After this call, I arranged a session for Monday 11th. We’ll see how that goes. It’s been a long time coming, and my therapist sounds like a lovely human after our organisational phone call. Let’s see if I can’t at least try and feel better.
Thank you for reading, much love xo