Sorry about the weekend blip. I was going through an existential crisis, but I’m feeling slighter saner now. Let’s blame it on the Prozac, that’s what I tend to do.
Talking about my mental health, I still haven’t told you about that support group (which I bunked off today – with my doctor’s approval).
Well, you might be aware that I was diagnosed with depression in early-mid 2006. After trying to manage the condition through natural means (exercise, self-help, etc) I succumbed to my doctor’s suggestion of Prozac in June 2006. At the time I was going through a lot of aggravation at work, and the Prozac really took the edge of my frustration and unhappiness. It was like nothing could bother me. I felt like myself, but with a thick layer of bubblewrap around my sensitive emotions. It’s not such a dramatic sensation now, as my body has become accustomed to the extra dopamine or seratonin or whatever feel-good chemicals it boosts in my brain.
Anyway, my GP also referred me for counselling. Almost a year later I get contacted by the Primary Care Trust, who decide that I would be suitable for an 8 week depression support group. I was intrigued by the idea of the group, remembering those scenes from television:
“Hello, my name is PJ and I’m an alcoholic/overeater/sex addict…”
But it wasn’t quite like that. I won’t go into specifics, as I can’t break the confidentiality of the group, but the whole thing just drove me crazy. There were 10 people there, all with very different experiences of depression and ways of coping with it. Some people seemed to love the group format and talked endlessly about their experiences, while others (like me) seethed with quiet rage and wondered how this could possibly help. The group was run by two psychotherapists, who seemed nice enough, but were not adept enough to resolve a conflict which arose between a few members during the first session. It did not feel safe enough for me to discuss my issues there. I did attend a couple more times, but each time I experienced the same feeling of anxiety, rage and frustration. I guess the Urban Recluse really should stay away from group therapy…
Apart from that sorry experience, I’ve been feeling all mixed-up. Not knowing what to do next. With hindsight, I can pinpoint certain turning points in my life. I don’t think I’ve been really happy since 2001 (my trip to Japan). I haven’t felt like an adult since March 2003 (when I moved back in with my parents). I haven’t been content in my job since I returned from Jamaica last May (and it shows – I’m like a robot there now). I long for adventure, but I don’t have the means to pursue it right now.
My books reflect my current state of mind, look at them scattered everywhere! They attacked me this evening, perhaps in bookish retaliation at my neglect. Or as a literary wake-up call.
A couple of these shelving units would probably help to maintain order, but not for $450. I could probably ask my dad to make me one.