Revisiting Eleanor

It’s a temporary snag, but this blog is playing catch-up while I document events since the 14^th January. Don’t blame me, the dice could have ordered me to upload it and start on day 1, but they didn’t. Nevertheless, it is a blog, which means it has to be uploaded at some point, otherwise, it would be called ‘random, unpublished witterings in my laptop’ and not a blog.

My session with Eleanor on January 21^st couldn’t have been more different. It was immediately obvious that I’d had a week of feeling perkier and neither of us needed my PHQ-9 score to know I was no longer the glum, near stuporose pessimist she had met a week ago. 

Whatever complex of factors explains how I’ve been feeling, the main one I am aware of is the near-complete loss of my ability to write the research and reports that have largely comprised my career – such as it is – over the past 25 years.  The prospect of writing about drug policy for the work I am contracted to complete induces a paralysis in me. It’s quite illogical, but then that is the nature of lots of mental illness. And as the approaching deadline ratchets up my anxiety and depression, irrational thoughts start to flood my brain:

“You’ve got early dementia. The next few years will see your brain shed memories like an onion until you no longer know how to shit or piss in a toilet.”

“You’ve boiled your brain with too many orgies of serotonin on dance floors you fucking idiot. Now you don’t look so clever, do you?”

It must be a bit tricky for Eleanor. As a psychiatric nurse, I used basic CBT myself, so am one of those annoying, arrogant, know-it-all patients; partly daring the therapist to teach me something I don’t already know. Despite some effort to engage with her correctly, evidence-based sessions, it hasn’t really worked for me so far, but this week’s session felt like much better use of our time. 

I explained that I am now a ‘Dice Man’. She really liked the story. Then I said, ‘What I’d really like to do today is discuss how to use the dice therapeutically’.  As it is CBT driven, Eleanor obviously had a handout for such occasions and, sure enough, she printed one out. Write a ‘Rainy day letter to yourself’.  I can kind of see the point, but among other things it doesn’t take account of the fact that I’m one of those  people who forgets why he just came in the kitchen, so no way will I find any such letter when I need it. I might, however, remember to look at my blog, so I plan to include a few ‘Letters to myself’ here along with assorted ‘Bollockings for being in a state again’ and some personalised variations on ‘Scorn for fuckwits’. Maybe it’s because I need tough love. Probably it’s because of an allergy to excessive, virtuous naval-gazing.27^th January, 2014 (entry 2)