Yesterday I went to a treatment facility. It’s a place which houses inpatients, day patients and has services for outpatients, like me. I met a therapist in this building which looked a lot like an old Victorian mansion where Lords and Ladies would have spent their time doing nothing but being rich and entertaining themselves. It also wasn’t particularly helpful that they were playing funeral music in the waiting area.
It was strange to be in a place purely dedicated to the treatment of mental illness. Before now I’ve only gone to hospitals and surgeries which treatment both mental and physical illnesses. There though, every patient was there for a broadly similar reason, yet still none of us would meet each other’s eyes or, if we did, it would only be for a brief self-indulgent second. Maybe that’s part of what the stigma around mental illness does to, it makes you internalise a sense of shame for being ill which not even being around other people in similar situations can heal.
I was taken up a grand staircase, trailing this woman that I knew I would have to open up my heart and soul to; a stranger with my life in her hands. The upstairs part of the building looked like a posh English boarding school with it’s cracked brown leather chairs, folders sprawled across the floor, art and books haphazardly covering every wall, a battered wooden desk and regal window frames that were not fit for purpose. It was surreal to be in this messy office and know that this would be the site where I would have to fight tooth and nail for recovery.
I answered the same questions I’ve covered with many, many people before over and over again. Initial mental health assessments all really follow the same formula and there never fails to be not enough time to cover everything you wish you could explain. I think I did the best I could though. I was scared and wanted to burst through the heavy door, run away and never return as soon as I took a seat on the sofa. There’s still a large part of my mind and body that wants to fight against and avoid treatment despite knowing that I need it. I stayed though and answered the questions. Then I accepted an appointment for next Thursday which makes it seem real to me – I really am returning to therapy.
The psychologist I saw also said that she was keen for me to see a psychiatrist and said that she would try and arrange an appointment. It’s difficult to know how to feel about that, considering I told her some things that I never told anyone else before. For now, I guess I’ll leave this here before I bore anyone reading this into having to click off this page! Thank you reading this far through, if you’ve got here.
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Some of my other mental health posts: