Hate is a strong word so I won't start this blog stating how much I 'hate' Doctors. After all, they're people too and, I'm sure, some of them have feelings which I certainly wouldn't wish to hurt.... because, I am a nice person.
Instead - I shall start this blog by stating I dislike Doctors intently. Should I stumble across one in the streets, looking for directions, I'd take much glee in sending them in the wrong direction. Perhaps, even, towards an open man-hole.
I didn't always feel this way about Doctors (dentists, on the other hand, are cunts). Truth be told, I never gave Doctors much thought - even when I was sat opposite them with some kind of sickness bug; them, as a human being, didn't cross my mind. They, to me, were simply the ATM's for prescriptions.
"Save your wise words, just give me the drugs," I'd be thinking as I tried not to pass on my 'lergy.
My opinion changed towards Doctors around ten, or so, years ago when I was having some issues with anger and depression. Some times I'd be super high with happiness, buzzing around the place, and the next minute I'd come crashing down with The Black Dog nipping at my tired ankles.
I struggled to keep calm, as I struggled more so to find my place in society, and would often lose my temper. I've thrown things at my mum, ashamedly, dished out more than her fair share of insults and foul language and have frequently made a fool of myself. Indeed, looking back, sometimes my own past reactions to things cause me - once again - to slip into a depression as the shame hits home hard.
I won't go into more of what I've done and all that gubbings. If you're interested in that - you can simply download my book 'im fine' which explains what I used to do, medications I've tried, details appointments with Doctors and CBT specialists and my families reactions etc.
One person, who I once held closely to me, once said - "There's nothing wrong with you, you're just weak."
Since giving up my job to get away from catalysts for anger and moods, I have retired to the comfort of my house to pursue a career in writing. I have over twenty books released, more due, and am slowly gathering in people following my work (and a big thanks to them). I feel good. Occasionally I do still get down and angry but (again, detailed in 'im fine') I don't take medication for them. I don't do drugs (other than the very, very occasional puff of pot and we are talking.... RARE) and I don't drink.
When I feel the moods changing, my new partner knows to back off and give me space. To date, we have NEVER had an argument when I've been down (in contrast to constant arguing in my previous relationship as she struggled to understand the moods despite our many conversations) and my moods are easier to combat because I don't have to leave the peacefulness of my house.
Lonely from time to time, yes, but I honestly do enjoy being a hermit.
Anyway, where's all this going? It's going here:
I went to the Doctors about a fortnight ago to have a chat about this annoying little cough, called Fred, that I couldn't shift. I had tried every over the counter crap you can imagine and nothing shifted it. Sleep was lost and I was getting, obviously, irritable. My brother told me of a medicine you can get by prescription which nuked these coughs so I thought I'd have a crack at getting some.
So, I'm sat there, in the Doctors listening to her yak on and on about this and that (not really listening, just wanted the prescription) and I happened to glance at the monitor for their notes about me... and there it was, flashing there, for all to see - PSYCHOPATHIC PERSONALITY DISORDER.
Now, I know I have issues (bipolar and OCD being batted in my direction) but I never knew I was a psycho. I knew I had an issue with anger and a fondness for violence (as blatantly obvious from my books) but I have never been in trouble with the law and I haven't been in many fights - the majority of my fights being when I was in my late teens and, again, nothing that I'd call 'major'. The odd scuffle somewhere, normally drunk, before it was broken up.
Some what disturbed by what I read, I came home to look up the disorder and read that characters such as Norman Bates (Psycho), Patrick Bateman (American Psycho) and Alex (A Clockwork Orange) were all labelled with this 'illness'. To my knowledge, I have never dressed up as my mum or killed anyone so how I can be labeled the same as these characters is beyond me.
More distressing was the fact I'd been applying for jobs and schemes which required permission to be granted for my Doctors' Notes to be available. I'm pretty sure this disorder would put a stop to anything I was trying to achieve.
That wasn't the worst, for me, though. What was worse was that NO ONE had ever mentioned it to me - knowing in mind I was having CBT and trips to various psychiatrists over six years ago. I even called my old psychiatrist's office to ask them and they said the file, on me, was long since closed and the diagnosis was nothing to do with them.
Now, I'm pretty sure - had I had this disorder - I'd have acted upon a recent dirty little secret I discovered close to home. I wanted to act upon it. I still do. I'd like nothing more than to punish those responsible but I realise that's not the way to act so I took a step back and have cut the cancers from my life. This, by the way, improved my mood. Even when I discovered what I found out - I managed to calm myself pretty fast. An initial reaction where I went around kicking things, throwing, screaming, ranting but - within ten minutes - back to normal (albeit shaking with rage).
It's not the first time Doctors have said something I have disagreed with. One Nut-Doctor said I lacked empathy when, clearly, that's bollocks. When my Chinchilla, Joey, died in my arms - I cried for a weekend. And I mean, proper solid crying. Not sniffling. Wailing.
The same with my cat Wispa when my dad ran her over with his car (not really what happened but he likes to joke that's what he did and, well, ho ho ho.... let's allow the joke to live on).
Quick time-out from this (I guess) rant...
I'm sitting in the lounge. Mum's birthday. Passed her pressies to her. As always, when I used to visit, I'd call for the cat. Mum turned to me, "Yeah, she's not coming... we had her put down...."
Dad simply buried his face in the palm of his hands.
And then the jokes started.
Oh, how I fucking laughed.
I miss that cat.
Nicer than my new one. She's a psycho. MAYBE THAT IS IT!!!! Maybe I read her doctor notes and not mine!!!!! Or not...
Back to it and I'll wrap things up. Can hear some of you yawning...
I wrote the Doctors a calm letter explaining how I could have something like that on my notes without ANYONE ever telling me what was what. If I really were a psycho - how could they just leave me to fend for myself? How could they allow me to work in places they knew fuelled my fire. How could they trust me not to kick off and damage someone - or myself? Proof, if ever it were needed, that despite their qualifications - they don't give a fuck.
Eventually I received a letter from the practice manager inviting me to make a double appointment with a Doctor to discuss the notes. I've done that. August 3rd. 8:40am.
Just need to stop myself from flying into a rant.
Hopefully this is an isolated case (typical that it's with me) but goes to show - you never can really trust what people write about you behind your back.
With regards to answers - at the moment I can't give you any. Like I said, this is part one.
I can answer an older question I was asked once, though.
"How do you think of your book ideas?"
Because I'm a psycho.