That morning I went to the GP to discuss the fact that I have now become completely tolerant to my medication, and am jumping when butterflies float past, and when people dropping little bits of paper, and doors closing, and usual day to day sounds. Such fun.
I got the locum doctor. He told me briskly my recovery would be 25% medication, 25% therapy, 25% friends and family, and the rest my own efforts. As though depression is something you give yourself. As if it weren’t genetic, or chemical. As though depression has never killed anybody. Mr Locum GP, you are probably an arsehole. He told me there was still leeway to increase the dosage of Citalopram to 40mg, but I had already done that on advice from the first GP I saw, who had said to increase the dosage if it felt ineffective. At least Mr Locum agreed to follow the advice of the psychiatrist I’m having to hire at £260.00 an hour, so fine. He wanted me to ask to see him next time, but I probably won’t ask for him.
So, moving on, Nana J was in town, she is B’s mum, but all the kids call her Nana J. We went for Mexican. Nana didn’t like Mexican. She pronounced it as we walked through the door of the restaurant. She didn’t like Mexican, and neither did she believe anybody else could like Mexican. Nana didn’t know what to order. Nana didn’t like rice. Niece asked, ‘what don’t you like about rice, Nana?’
‘What don’t you like about the things that you don’t like?’ Nana answered.
Well at least you can tick this off your bucket list, B said, hoping to cheer things up a little. But Nana couldn’t be cheered. Wouldn’t be cheered. And sat up stiffly, with wine glass in hand, and with a forced half-smile on her face not dissimilar to the papier mache skeleton man’s who was on display in the restaurant. Unfortunately, Nana managed to swallow a jalapeno chilli with her first bite on a nacho. She bore it stoically. She coughed a little, but maintained her rigidity, which saved her from a coughing fit.
To lighten the mood B said, you can knock this off your bucket list now Nana. I don’t think Nana J likes the idea of a Bucket list. I think Nana would rather die first, than have a bucket list. I think Nana is probably right about that, because I find the phrase irritating, and a bit profane, which might say more about me than I care to think about. But, then I thought about it, and there are lots of things that I would like to do. I would like to visit Florence, I would like to learn a language, I would like to write a novel still, I would like to learn a martial art, and I would like to jump out of an aeroplane unaccompanied. (I’m terrified of heights.) I would like to read my way through 1001 books to read before you die. I would like to feel like I’m not being preyed upon by a wolf. I would like to stop jumping out of my skin at any kind of unexpected movement. I would like economic security. I would appreciate the redistribution of wealth, and property, and I would like to see the rule of the proletariat.
Some of these things seem like they might take absolutely ages, and I’m 36 already so I hope I have enough time left.