2004
Are you happy with your life?
Are you happy with your life?
Ask’s my psychiatrist. Just a pretty Indian woman, small, slim with a calm smile. She wears small silver earings, with shoulder length dark hair.
I look to the side while I think about my response. You see, talking to some one who picks apart your every word is a tricky business.
I draw breath.
“That’s a tricky one to answer.” I put my fingers to my lips, then remember that I the woman asking the questions will also be trained in reading body language. I look her in the eye, raise a small smile and place my hands on my lap.
“I think ‘happy’ is a rather strong assessment of the situation.” I pull a frown, and play with my fingers a little. “I was 18 when I got ill, it changed my life hugely. I went from a very happy, bubbely, and excitable person to, well, this?” .. I think again, it really is a tricky question, how to get my point across with out looking like I might have mental health problems.
The Dr switches her crossed legs and I look at her feet, she wears flat shoes. A bit old fationed for her I think. But then I wonder if she might be on call, you know, running about a lot. My thoughts are interrupted by her looking up from her notes and tipping her head, as if to say, ‘well, carry on’.
“well, I don’t know what I am now? Am I ill? Or disabled? Or is this in my head, am I making this all up? I don’t really know how im supposed to live now? I don’t know what my life should be. I mean, do I try and live ignoring this, or am I aloud to be disabled?”
I look at her, hoping that may be she might come up with an answer for me. May be she might actually tell me what I should be doing. She doesn’t.
“I desided, when this all first came about, that there were two ways I could deal with this. I coud stop living, stop doing anything other than worry or have a negative attitude. My other option would be to live at the best of my ability. Enjoy what I can and take each day as it comes.”
I look right at her and move forward in my wheel chair, my coccyx, that was injured years ago, always hurts when I sit for long periods of time. I wince and try to settle in to the new position.
“I chose the second option, good or bad. I decided that what ever this was I would try to carry on living. So I do go out, and I do swim, and I do enjoy a lot of things in life. If it was all made up of the good bits, I’d be happy!”
I smile, I’m thinking of the things I do enjoy. I sit back a little.
“But its not realistic. I spend a lot of time in pain, or doing things that hurt. Realizing there are things I cant do any more and learning a new method of how to do things. Its frustrating.” Another deep breath. “No, I don’t think I am happy. Not really. I’m happy about some things in my life, im not depressed. But yes, some things im not happy about.”
I think over my answer while she scribbles things down on her paper. Situations like this are stressful you’ll understand. You see, giving the impression that your depressed or low might look like your making your self ill through unresolved emotional issues. If your happy being ill then your enjoying medical attention. It’s a mine field of rights and wrongs, treading on egg shells and closely monotering there every look.
She looks up at me, and with her reassuring smile she tilts her head to one side. She places her pen on her clip board and unfolds her legs. She places her hands together with her pen in between them. She sits forward and looks at me, right in the eye.
“its my opinion that you do not have any of the conditions mentioned in this report. I don’t think your seeking out medical treatment and my view would be that you do not require any follow up treatment.”
My smile grew as the words came from her mouth, I felt my chest rise and sink a little faster and my tummy did a little turn and she spoke the words ‘no follow up treatment’.
by Joey
