In which I feel I can’t go on
Now that I’m in the mental health ‘system’, on its ‘at risk’ radar, the NHS keeps phoning me. I call back. ‘I never answer the phone if the number is withheld or I don’t recognise it,’ I bark into the answerphone. ‘I’m coming to you to make me less anxious, not more. And I asked for it to be put on my records that I’m deaf, consequently I don’t really do phone calls. It’s better to text or email. Thank you.’
And so, on Monday, having duly received an email, I set off for my first face to face with the cognitive behavioural therapist, Gracie riding shotgun. I tell the receptionist she is my emotional support dog. By some miracle, she allows her to accompany me, making it clear that next time she will need some sort of official tabard. The therapist is very kind, and asks me lots of questions: how much do I drink? Have I ever taken drugs? Well, no, not unless you believe the troll on Mumsnet who said she saw me snorting cocaine.
I tell her I go almost blind with stress.
‘How often does that happen?’ ‘Almost every day. I might get an email with bad news, or someone posts something untrue on Twitter.’ I tell her that Thursday afternoon was a particularly bad day, when I’d had a meltdown.
I’d just been asked to travel to Wales the next day for a story for the Daily Mail, returning after lunch on Monday. It would have been a huge fee and been a very high-profile and possibly award-winning story. I’d have killed to have done it, but I had to turn it down for a number of reasons. (The assignment being last-minute was not one of them, given that I once went to Glastonbury the very same afternoon I was asked, with no ticket, and not being in possession of a tent.) This time, Storm Otto meant the bridge to Wales was closed, and there were no trains.
I summoned Nic, my assistant, to my kitchen. I was hysterical. ‘I’m not lazy! I want to go! I need the money! It’s right up my street!
They will never ask me again!’
My self-doubt, self-loathing, imposter syndrome – whatever you want to call it – surfaced and I catastrophised. I employ someone full-time precisely to enable me to ditch everything at the drop of a hat, and me turning down an assignment kept me awake for two nights. Any other writer, high-profile and successful, would have just said, ‘Sod it.
I’m going out for lunch.’ Not me. I worried all weekend about who had been sent in my place.
Unfortunately, my new therapist tells me, there’s no quick fix. I’m to join an online six-week CBT course before she can recommend another session. I’m near tears when she says it. I tell her I cannot go on like this; that I haven’t been able to move on from the cataclysmic events of 2007/8*, despite all the copious self-help books I’ve consumed, which tell me I can be anything I want to be. I can’t.
I admit my fear of life in general has led to so many of my financial difficulties (buying people things/not reading contracts/not opening envelopes), but I think I’m facing up to reality now and learning to stand up for myself. Last week, I did a test with the lovely Lynne from Octopus Energy, rather than just ignoring her. For 24 hours, I had no heating upstairs, no heated towel rail, downstairs set only at 16 degrees in the evening, one dishwasher and laundry cycle (both eco), no bath, no lights on (I used a Diptyque candle) and a roaring log fire. I still clocked up £25 in just one day; bear in mind I live in a teeny two-up, two-down. I felt sick about this, and self-medicated with four series of Virgin River on Netflix**. But at least now I know where I stand.
On the way home from the clinic, I stopped off in Lidl. I haven’t been inside a Lidl for years. No decent dog food, but I discovered a bottle of Crémant de Loire is £7.99. That’s fantastic! I immediately cheered up, saw some light at the end of the tunnel. I know the only thing that will help me is financial stability. And a dose of good luck. Something, anything, needs to go my way.
*There’s a memoir
**I use my assistant’s login details
Turning down an assignment kept me awake for two nights