In which stress takes its toll
Some good news. I’m allowed to carry on renting my cottage from the new owner, despite not being allowed to buy it. But the stress of the past year – not knowing where I would live, not having a safe space, constantly worried about the dogs and the horses – has taken a terrible toll. I find it very hard to leave the house, even to go to a supermarket. I’ve started drinking again: in moderation, and only on Friday and Saturday evenings and during the podcast. I have lost all confidence in myself and my future. And so, finally, I have given in.
Yesterday, I picked up a prescription for citalopram, an anti-anxiety medication. I’ve never taken medication before, as I’ve always been too terrified it would change me, make me feel worse, render me less driven, surviving as I do on adrenaline. I was prescribed the medication over the phone. I told my nice GP that I find it hard to walk the dogs, as I’m convinced something bad will happen: Mini will be run over or I will lose Teddy. And today I’m going to see a psychiatrist, face to face. Even the prospect of driving to the surgery is making my stomach churn.
I get to the clinic. ‘Date of birth?!’ Jeez. I’m forced to take Gracie, as she can’t be left in the house, but the other three collies are fine at home in the warm. The young woman is sympathetic. She removes her mask as I tell her I’m deaf and have to lip read. We start by discussing how I feel. She shows me a list of symptoms on her screen. I have every single bloody one of them: palpitations, panic attacks, OCD, negative thoughts, can’t sleep or eat. I have even started shaking. I tell her my anxiety stops me from enjoying anything. I would laugh, if I could, at the leaflet that advises me to take five minutes of exercise a day. I do way more than that, but it doesn’t help my stress.
I do actually laugh at the leaflet that tells me: ‘don’t aim too high’. And wants me to ‘reconnect with family’; yeah, the bloodsucking leeches.
I tell the psychiatrist that I have lived on adrenaline for 40 years. She suggests I don’t read the papers or listen to the news when I first wake up. I tell her I’m a newspaper woman: that is what I do. I’d have loved, simply adored to miss the article where my Indian ex-husband accused me of being a racist.
She asks if I can think about reducing my workload. To that I give another hollow laugh. What world do these people live in? How would I afford my rent? I’m paid by the word! I don’t have a pension! She says she noticed I’m Columnist of the Year on my emails and says it’s my fear that has doubtless driven me to perform. I can see that she can’t compute 40 years at the top of a cut-throat profession with me telling her I’ve been threatened with eviction. I’m in tears now. I’m always in tears.
She refers me to a website: Improving Access to Psychological Therapies. I can get on a waiting list for cognitive behavioural therapy, face to face. But she insists I must take the medication first, with food. Food? What even is that? I lie, telling her I will try.
She’s kind, and it makes a lovely change to have someone on my side. She says I need to have a more optimistic outlook, take a step back if I feel overwhelmed, but I tell her that bad things do happen to me: I’m not imagining it. That I can’t stand idiots who breeze through life, never worrying, never trying. Who are too comfortable to perform or even turn up to work on time. Who don’t care. I tell her I have been proven right so many times before: I found my horse dead in the stable. I lost my home, and my job, twice! She says I need to think about all the things that have gone right. There aren’t any.
After half an hour, I leave with my leaflets. I need to start thinking differently, I know that. I cannot live like this. I get home, open the door. I’m greeted by a strange smell. There is diarrhoea all over the rugs I had professionally cleaned only a week ago, at a cost of £110. I sink to the floor. I was right, you see. I am always right.
The psychiatrist asks if I can think about reducing my workload. I laugh