Eleven Days

Eleven days ago, when first I posted about being sad, my parents called and asked whether I needed to see a doctor. No, I said. I’m fine. I’m just sad. My mum pointed out that she’d feel a whole lot better if I went to a doctor. No, I’m really fine. It will pass, and I will cope, I said.

Then I removed my parents from the Facebook list I used to talk about stuff I’d only mention around close friends, so they wouldn’t worry when I posted there about the occasional crying jag or frustration with the world. I figured that was easier.

Things did not pass. I did not start coping better.


Yesterday, I burst into tears at work when our office manager tried to have a conversation about taking leave and managing my stress levels. I’d been trying to point out that work was just one of many things stressing me out, and I just…couldn’t. By nine-thirty in the morning, I was hiding out in the toilets, in tears.

By eleven, I was heading home, except I knew home was a bad idea. Home meant sitting alone on my couch, brooding and crying more. So I went to spend some time with my parents, who figured shit was up ’cause I was meant to be at work, and after about two hours of discussing it I agreed to go see their GP.

First, because it would make my mum feel better, not because I expected it to have any real impact. Second, ’cause the number of folks getting in touch to ask if I was okay was starting to worry me. And third, ’cause there are certain friends I listen to when they suggest things, and one of them had just suggested getting shit checked out.


It felt absurd to sit in a doctor’s office because I felt sad. It felt even more absurd to talk about the reasons, particularly the thing that had tipped me over the edge. Then the questions started about when and how long and had I felt like this before. Specific questions about the stuff that was occupying my mind.

We did one of those tests about the last four weeks, where I thought I was giving nice moderate answers that would result in see, nothing really wrong,  and the results were more along the line of well, it’s probably good you are seeing a doctor right now. 

Then we talked through options, short term and long term. And the pros and cons of each, based on whether what was going on proved to be situational or long-term. It was weird. I am not used to doctors taking that long with an issue, particularly one that I thought was pretty minor.

I walked out with the beginnings of a treatment plan while we figure out what’s going on, orders to stay away from work at the end of the week, and a month’s worth of antidepressants.

I am still vaguely pissed that my mum was right. And I am still vaguely pissed that it took me eleven days to acknowledge it.

  7 comments for “Eleven Days

  1. 22/06/2016 at 1:01 PM

    You’re a total epic fucking badass for getting help. So many people never take that step, and all the kudos and praise in the world for stepping up and admitting that there’s a problem. It doesn’t matter how long it took to make that choice, you did it. That’s the important bit.

    Good luck with the antidepressants!

    Also? Your parents are awesome.

  2. hexebart
    22/06/2016 at 1:25 PM

    Good. Now be patient and kind with yourself.

    Also: “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

  3. 22/06/2016 at 3:08 PM

    Amigo — you took the first step, which is the toughest. And in doing so, demonstrated more brains and courage than most people will ever muster.

    Stay in touch while this goes on (and afterwards, of course.) As you’ve discovered, sometimes your friends are more valuable and useful than you might have suspected.

  4. 22/06/2016 at 3:57 PM

    I remember the first time I saw the doctor. I walked in thinking I was fatigued and that I was being a whinger. She knew what was happening as soon as I walked in the door and within three questions I was a blubbering mess.

    This fucking disease means none of your thinking is to be trusted. It wants you to think you’re fine for As long as possible so you get as sick as possible. Bloody insidious fucker.

    Well done my friend. It’s a long journey back to health but you will make it.

  5. 23/06/2016 at 9:52 AM

    Hang in there guy! I know its humiliating to accept help but sometimes our bodies just let us down. And that includes our minds. Please take care and get better so that you can write more stories.

  6. 23/06/2016 at 5:34 PM

    I know it is very frustrating when your mum is always right … and I am very glad you listened to her and your dad. It is a difficult thing to have your own mind and feelings sabotaging you. My heart and thoughts are with you.

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