Are you, like, ok?

No? Well I’m shit out of ideas soz.

Happy mental illness Christmas!

Like most tokenistic days on the calendar, I’m salty about RUOK Day. Firstly I don’t care for the super rad fly spelling to be hip with the jive.

Secondly, where did the mental health care plans that made mental illness almost bearable go? Oh, whoops, they went away because “Covid is over”.

Gather round for story time if you fancy. Deep in lockdowns circa 2020 (I’m not sure when but I had a rather epic brain explosion that made coping not possible) I managed to snag a rare and elusive GP appointment. My regular was on mat leave I think (again I don’t remember). I saw a man we’ll call Dr Dicknose.

Visual description: a meme “wearing your face mask like this…” [illustration of a person wearing a facial mask with their nose poking out] “is like wearing your underwear like this” [illustration of a pair of jocks with a doodle poking out the top] “so please wear your face mask properly”

Dr Dicknose’s real name rhymes with a part of the AFAB anatomy, just like on that episode of Seinfeld. This makes me very cross. The AFAB anatomy is a glorious thing and Dr Dicknose sucks big warty wang.

I told the doc about my intrusive thoughts, inability to cope, and all the things one might say in response to the question “are you ok?” in a medical setting when capable professionals are present. I asked for a referral to a psychiatrist to help a brother out and asked him to please make sure the person he was referring to me was taking patients. It was so hard to access GPs at the time and I couldn’t bear the idea of the referral being a waste.

You’ll NEVER guess what happened next!

I tearfully made a phone call to the number on the referral from my car, sitting out the front of the GP (of course it was raining) and was informed that their books had been closed for twelve months and this was on their website. Cool cool cool cool cool. Called the GP and asked to speak to the practice manager, cry hiccupped a description of events and told them I didn’t feel safe and was put on a waiting list for a phone consult.

After that it’s all a bit of a blur but I remember being put on Seroquel which helped INSTANTLY and also has given me a juicy additional 25 kilos to wiggle with. It keeps me alive so I’m good. I’m still on it, three years later. Someone from the mental health triage called me every few days until they said ok well good luck with that then and stopped calling. A few weeks later I was in strife again and called the Bendigo mental health triage (my local was closed and it was the nearest one) and they asked what was happening. I mentioned it’s been tricky not being able to work and having two kids under five and being terrified all the time, and she asked what work I did. When I told her I was a marriage celebrant she suggested with a chuckle that I should have got into marriage counseling instead as everyone seemed to be getting divorced at the moment and losing their minds. Lol/

Her next line of questioning was something along the lines of “so what would you say your greatest fears are?” in a very bored voice and I asked “to what end would I be detailing that?” and she said oh I guess maybe it might help? We don’t have any beds but you can chat with me for a few minutes.

I hung up and managed to hang on and stay around but it wasn’t a good time. I wasn’t ok. The options available to me were not sustainable or helpful.

Yesterday we got a last minute GP appointment after I exploded my ankle and guess who I got to see?! Like old times we got a clear view of his nose, and I think it could have been the same useless surgical mask from 3 years ago.

When he suggested whacking a cast on my ankle (a half one at the back only) I had a panic attack. He then spoke in increasing volume until I asked my wife to please get me the fuck out of there.

Today’s GP was a lovely young man who didn’t have a mask at all “unless I had a reason for him to wear one” and I had a panic attack when he showed me the X Ray and talked about broken or torn ligaments. I cried and tried not to vomit while I hyperventilated so I think that’s just a thing that happens now when I see a random GP.

Not ideal, I’m not ok, but there has been good news. My ankle is not broken! The clinic loaned me a wheelchair. I’m seeing my lovely physio today at 3. My NDIS support person has a shift today and is doing lots of things that need doing while I lay in the dark and try to remain calm. Elevate my ankle, put frozen peas on it, listen to The Modern by Anna Kate Blair. Queue up other books to listen to.

If anyone asks you if you’re ok today, or a cheerful poster, company email or a cupcake suggests this is a helpful thing to do, feel free to direct your honest answers to the health minister, the PM, your local member or whatever deity you subscribe to.

I recall a scathing Tweet (RIP, bird site) about putting your Prozac out for Father Mental Illness but I can’t find it because Elon broke his new toy.

Wherever you are today and whatever your mental state, I wish you well. I wish you adequate care. I wish you luck to find a good medical professional you trust, a team to help you with what ails you, and the belief that you can stick around long enough to find those people. My brain is broken in all sorts of ways, but I now have a truly excellent psychiatrist, regular GP, and various other therapists I trust and can turn to when needed. It took time and pushing and advocating for adequate care, but it did happen.

I loved Anna Spargo Ryan’s book A Kind of Magic about her life with mental illness. It helped me feel a lot less alone. It’s available as an audiobook which is excellent too.

Big love on this cursed day in the tokenistic awareness calendar. Feel free to join me in my saltiness in the comments, you have my solidarity. Dr Dicknose can get bent though, seriously.

xox