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It is bloody ridiculous that I feel so anxious about going to the GP (doctor) but I do.

I’m going to ask for anti-depressants, something that I’ve thought of, off and on, for a long time but never asked for. I did discuss it once but at the time I didn’t really feel they would do me any good and wasn’t really asking for them. My GP then said that she would prescribe them if I wanted but didn’t really feel they would do any good.

So what’s changed?

I made the appointment a month ago (necessary to get the one GP in the practice who actually listens, and she only works part-time) when 2son had stopped going to CATE or to CAMHS. I really struggled for a fortnight to get out of bed every morning. If I didn’t have the other two boys to get off to school I don’t think I would have. What’s the point was my waking thought. I’m going to spend the day chasing 2son to get up and he’s not going to. Or he is going to get out of bed, but no more than that. I’m going to expend energy and emotion and it’s all going down the pan, unused and unwanted. It’s depressing.

The sad and pathetic truth is also that I was  brought up that pills and medicine were for softies (and southerners, but don’t let’s start on that), for weak people who didn’t have the strength to get better by themselves, mind over matter. Yes I know how ridiculous that sounds. But I see anti-depressants as an admission of failure to cope with life and anything less than 100% success is, according to my father, total failure. I somehow feel that I’m coping better if I don’t label myself as depressed because that puts me a step above those who are, on the ladder of life. I’m doing better than people who have that label.

And yet, maybe if I admitted that yes I am depressed, I might get some help that would be, well, helpful. Although there are moments when I slump so low I will honestly say that right now I am depressed, for the most part I won’t. Is that because I’m not depressed for 90% of the time or just because I won’t admit it? I really don’t know.

But I am worried for my sanity, and that of my children. And I’m worried that I decreasingly have the capacity to deal with any of them when there are problems or arguments. The amount of time I think “sod off, sort it out yourself, I don’t care and haven’t the patience” is increasing and that worries me.

I feel guilty and embarrassed to ask for medical assistance here. I still hear my father’s words that I ought somehow to have just got over all this. I know that attitude’s wrong but nevertheless it’s still sunk in.

I shall struggle to say it tomorrow, but I will say it.