Things Fall Apart

This is the next part of my breakdown story, which begins here.

This was originally written in 2010/11, when I was ill.

A thoughtful present from a friend.

I go to my first appointment for counselling filled with the sort of hope you have when you've not dealt with NHS mental health practitioners before. I meet a lovely lady who is sitting behind the desk, an another lady who sits in the corner an doesn't speak. Apparently the lovely lady is leaving soon, so she will do this first assessment, and then the quiet one in the corner will take over.

We talk for a long time. She asks me questions and I answer them. I try to explain about my family, my past bouts of depression, the fact this one seems so horribly different. I cry. She tells me she thinks I would benefit from some counselling, to help me day to day and to work on my self-esteem. She gives me a piece of paper divided into four with a heading in each section: STRENGHTS/WEAKNESSES/OPPORTUNITIES/RISKS. She wants me to have a think and try to put a few points about my life under each heading. I say ok. I leave with a sense of hope; she seems to understand me, she wants to help and she knows how to. I'm saved. This nice lady with a kind smile and long denim skirt can fix me.

When I go back for the next appointment, it's the other lady. The quiet one who sat in the corner and didn't speak last time. I feel very self-conscious that she sat and watched me cry without actually being present or joining the conversation in any way. I think she must be a trainee or something. She's nice and everything; she means well, but she doesn't have a clue. She tries to make me fill in a wheel of what stresses me the most. I don't see the point. I'm at the absolute nadir of my apathy, and this poor woman is trying to get me to do worksheets and timetables for housework. The idea is that you can still function and get the basics done, even when you feel awful. I see no point whatsoever in doing this; yes, I will have clean plates, but I'm not eating any way, and I still want to die. All this counselling seems to want to do is ensure that when I do go, I will leave a clean kitchen behind. And I don't much care about the state of my kitchen.

I continue to go along to my appointments every other week, but for no other reason than the fact I don't want to hurt her feelings by telling her how little effect her diagrams are having on my wellbeing. She means well, but the sort of help she is offering seems to be with the sole aim of turning me into a dribbling automaton who is able to plod through the days with some vague semblance of normality, but without actually resolving any of my underlying problems. Fix them up and ship them out. Without meaning to, she makes me feel like I'm little more than a number to my local Community Mental Health Trust. To be fair though, I probably am just that.

On my last day in the office, I am particularly anxious and panicky. My manager speaks to me in the morning and asks me if perhaps I wouldn't like to take a couple of days off to sort myself out. I say no thank you. I sit at my desk, troubled by an overwhelming feeling that I simply do not want to be here. Nobody wants to be here; this is not the sort of job anyone loves, but I really cannot stand to be around so many people right now. It's like torture to see all these people who are able to fill their days with... with stuff, inane chit-chat and drivel and happiness, while I sit here, incapable of such frivolity.

I really don't want to be sitting at this desk; I can't stand to sit at this desk a second longer. Normally I would go and chat to a friend, but I don't want to talk to anyone. So I get up and go to the toilets. I don't need the toilet. I stand there, tapping my feet and looking at the ceiling, and then realise I've probably been here a little too long. So I go back to my desk and sit there, tapping my foot and flicking between screens on the computer, unable to focus on anything for more than a few minutes, unable to sit still. Then I get that feeling again, that I need to get out, to not be here, to just get away from my desk. And so I go back out to the toilets. 

Throughout the morning I must look like I have some sort of complaint. I wander back and forth, back and forth. At some point, I email my manager, who is in a meeting, saying that actually, yes, if it's ok with him I would ilke to take the next day off to try and compose myself. Then I wander out to the toilets again. 

When I come back, my manager has returned from his meeting. He says to me, don't sit down; come with me. I wonder what I've done wrong. Perhaps I've been found out. I've been coming in for weeks now and producing no work. I've not even been doing the basic daily duties I'm supposed to keep up with. Am I going to get told off? We go into a meeting room. He closes the door, sits down and tells me: I have been a manager for a long time, in a lot of different places. I have worked with a lot of people with mental health problems. I've seen all sorts of things in my time, but I am beginning to worry that I'm going to witness someone having a full-on breakdown at their desk. Please go to the doctor and get yourself signed off. you are in no fit state to work as you are. Your team are worried about you; more than one person has asked me if you are ok. You need to take care of yourself now. Don't worry about work. Collect your things and go to the doctor now.

Looking back, this man most probably saved my life.

This story will be continued...

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