I went to see my GP again today. I’m 3 weeks on Citalopram for depression and feeling as bad as ever. Decided that it was finally time to voice my suspicion that I have bipolar disorder. This suspicion is well-founded, but I won’t go into the evidence here, and it will take an experienced psychiatrist to decide … if I’m ever allowed to see one … Her response, “Oh well, I see that you’re suffering from depression but I don’t see any evidence that you have manic-depression.” Me: “Uh, well you have only met me three times for 10 minutes a pop, and each time I’ve been bawling my eyes out, so yeah, I can see what gave you that impression, but I assure you, this is a longstanding pattern that I cannot live with any more. I know that my uncle who has manic depression lives in an institution and thinks that he’s Jesus, and I know that I’m not that bad, but something is really wrong here and I think I ought to consult a specialist.” She: “Oh no, you don’t need to see a psychiatrist. But if you come back in another three weeks, we might think about raising your dose a little …” Me: :cry: I KNOW WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN, BECAUSE IT ALWAYS HAPPENS LIKE THIS: Step 1. After a while (which will seem like a tortured eternity), I will feel less depressed. I will go to this same GP and say, “Gosh, your happy pills must really have done the trick, I feel so much better now.” She will smile and look wise. I will go away with a spring in my step, Step 2. Up, up and away. I will find my euphoria again. I’ll think that everything’s fine. Better than fine, in fact, I’ll be invincible! Who needs sleep? The normal rules don’t apply to me! I can do anything I want! But it always comes at a price. What will I lose this time? Will I randomly change career again? Will I neglect my work to start some new and crazy project? Will I alienate my friends and family? Will I make new and unsavoury friends who don't necessarily wish me well? Will I get more debt? Who knows, but it’s bound to be fun … Step 3. … for a while. But then my RAGE will kick in … Step 4. … and then my depression. I’ll hide myself away from the world and cut myself and fantasise about ending it all. And I will go to back to that same GP and say, oh, I seem to be depressed. And she’ll blink at me owlishly from behind her spectacles and say, “O rly? Have some SSRIs and come back in six weeks. No psychiatrist for you, they’re only there for real nutjobs. Perhaps if you were to slash your wrists a bit deeper ..?” If somebody was in this much pain physically, they would send them to a specialist, surely? Why should mental anguish be so different? Half-a-dozen times I’ve been through this same shit with the NHS. I am so TIRED. This is no life. I wish that I didn’t exist. The things that are stopping me from killing myself seem less and less important every day. I just want it to be over.