Back to the Farm

As I said yesterday I went back to see my psychiatrist this morning.

The appointment was at 7.30 am (nutsness never sleeps) so once again I was able to get the same bus that I normally get to work. I wrote about this last time, and about how people who were beginning to become familiar might notice when I suddenly got off at a different stop, one that you would only get off at if you were going to St John of Gods. I wrote that this was a touch embarrassing.

But that was back when I had only started catching that bus to work. In the intervening time I have become a regular, and am now on “good morning” terms with the man and woman who are at my stop each morning. We exchange pleasantries (“the service has gone cat, hasn’t it”), utter cliches (“this time two weeks it’ll all be over”) and, since we all get off at the same stop as well, we wish other a good day as we separate. By my standards they’re practically bosom buddies.

Thus it was hard to ignore the looks of surprise, first on Gerry’s face, then downstairs on Bernie’s (yes, I still sit upstairs on the bus, like a kid) when I mumbled “see you tomorrow” as I got off the bus five miles earlier than usual, right in front of Ireland’s best known mental hospital. From short snippets during our morning chats I have deduced that Bernie works in the clinic in the Mater Hospital, and that Gerry is a Judge. From this morning’s short journey they have probably deduced that I’m a loony. Tomorrow morning at the bus-stop should be fun.

And what of my visit? Well, we both agree that I am so much better in so many ways, if it weren’t for the bloody derealisation, which I can best describe as “being living, but not alive” (I’m proud of that, I’m thinking of offering it to my shrink for use in the paper he’s bound to write about me someday). It’s odd, the original depression is pretty well gone (I haven’t had a really bad attack for well over a year now) but the derealisation it left behind just lasts and lasts, like the aftertaste of Marmite. As my shrink says himself it’s known to be notoriously hard to shift, but he has done lots of research. I have now been given another type of medication to try, and I would be beginning to suspect that the Latin name for my condition is doptestus giniiporcus (drug-trial guinea pig) were it not for the fact that these have worked on two of his patients. Both of them, by the way, got the derealisation from using stuff from Head Shops, so the products they sell aren’t just harmless herbs.

Anyway, I’ll try them, and I’m also trying one or two other things. One thing which always helps with any problem, of course, is talking about it to a sympathetic listener, and having this space to talk about being a spacer to all of you has helped enormously. For the hour or so that I’ve been writing this I’ve been fully absorbed, and it’s great to have something in which I feel totally involved.

Thanks once again, guys.


5 thoughts on “Back to the Farm

  1. A Frend

    I’m very pleased to hear you get something so valuable from this blog, because I get an enormous amount out of reading it. Laughter, insight, fellow-feeling (nutcase in good standing) and a sense that it’s worth going on are among the reasons I read your blog and recommend it to other frends.

  2. Tinman Post author

    *(Shucks, goes red, looks embarrassed)*

    See what I mean? I really, really hope you all know just how much help you all are, and how proud I am to think of you all as my friends. I’ve been very lucky with the people who come and read and comment here.

    x to all of you.


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