Elementary, my dear Watson

I went.  I did it.  I managed to make it to the cunting doctor and it was absolutely fucking fine and now I wonder why I was so absurdly frightened of it.

I didn't go into too much depth, because I didn't want to overwhelm Watson with my staggering amount of maladies.  I didn't even mention the skin cancer, although it's going to have to come up eventually, being as it's still latched to my back like a deadly limpet and I am starting to get shooting pains like it is burrowing into my spine.  So we stuck to general anxiety and depression, and I even managed to restrain myself from weeping, which is a considerable feat for me under far more minor circumstances.

One of the prescribed narcotics is a month's worth of propranolol, which she said should keep my heartrate beneath an explosive level and with luck reduce the inordinate amount of panic attacks.  At least it should help me get through a day at work without having to curl up in the bathroom and hug the toilet roll until I've summoned up the strength the face the children.  Once the month is up, I'm to go back and let her know how I'm getting on with them.  She also suggested looking into this mindfulness shenanigans, which seems to keep cropping up but I know little about it.  I believe I may have acquired a copy of it though, as I recall my sister sent it over after receiving it during some medical trial she was participating in.  Unfortunately, it resides upon my old laptop, which has voided half its screen.  But there is definitely something on there called 'ulness,' and I can't think what else might precede that apart from 'mindf,' unless it was 'balefulness' or 'frightfulness,' both of which I suppose I might be apt to say even if I can't think for the life of me why I would have saved a document as that on Microsoft Word...

After receiving the prescription I immediately went to sample the goods, and immediately after that I made the somewhat poor decision to sample the side-effects.  I had queried Watson about them and she had mentioned the usual; nausea, headaches, dizziness particularly, but on perusing the propranolol pamphlet I noted a number of exceedingly disturbing symptoms that she had failed to alert me to.  Namely, rectal bleeding, scaly skin, and complete stoppage of the heart.  As it is, a number of hours have passed since taking them, and while my heart still beats, I am burdened by the constant knowledge that each next beat could be my last.

That, however, is not an uncommon fear and I am growing quite used to the notion of my own mortality.  As long as I do not linger on it for too long it no longer overwhelms me with incomprehensible terror at the idea of an eternity in darkness.  Now it merely gives me a sudden surge of horror that is roundly quashed by that delightful part of my psyche that tries so hard to keep me sane.

I suppose they can't be all that bad.  They're pink and they end in 'lol.'

The rectal bleeding has yet to put in an appearance.

He's back

In a fit of moral devastation at my abhorrent cowardice the other day, I marched myself round to the doctors' surgery this afternoon to reschedule the appointment I had previously cried off.  I thought about phoning but I get nervous and tongue-tied on the phone sometimes, and it gives me too much opportunity to slam it back onto the receiver and once again achieve fuck all.  Besides, their 'hold' music is absolutely, utterly diabolical.  It puts one in mind of a violin and a kitten stitched inside the stomach of a still-living man who's just been thrown off a cliff.  And is on fire.  And everything in his stomach is on fire.  It's quite poor music, essentially.

So I arrived at the doctors' and apart from the receptionist sporting a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp, all was well.  The only slight blip in the conversation was when she asked for my name.

'Cecil,' I said.  'Cav-'
'Oh yes.'  She widened her eyes and tapped something out on her keyboard.  'Cecil.'

I can't imagine what she was typing, but the more anxious part of my brain - and that would've been about 90 per cent, at that particular moment - told me it was probably a covert and denigrating message to Dr Watson to alert her of my reemergence.

'He's back.  What's he got this time?  Probably a terminal case of housemaid's knee.'

Perhaps I should be flattered that I have reached such a level of notoriety at the doctors' that I no longer have need of my surname.  A bit like Elvis.  Or Madonna.  Or Jesus.  Unfortunately I believe that may primarily be due to the fact that there are very few other Cecils in the area, as the name is considered unfashionable and shit.  Would that my parents had had the same consideration.

The appointment is booked for next-next Tuesday, which is an early finish at work and thereby gives me some time to summon up the sad, tattered rags of my courage before I force myself out of the house and begin the slow march on.  I haven't bothered to write it on the calendar this time, gargantuanly-nibbed pen aside, because it did fuck all last time and this time it feels more like it's inscribed into my very psyche.  If I fail again, the disappointment will be frighteningly severe.

So I'd better just suck it up and go.  Maybe after a whiskey.  Or two.

Or three.

I bet he never got housemaid's knee.

Testing, testing

I have made a gross error in judgement.  I was supposed to be going to see the doctor after work today, to finally start sorting all this tiresome shit about medication or therapy or whatever the fuck is going on, which I have continually put off since diagnosis but thought I had eventually summoned up the courage to face.  I rang today to cancel it because I'm 'covering a lesson in the afternoon.'

But I'm not covering a lesson in the afternoon.  That is a bare-faced, bare-arsed fucking lie.  I don't have anything in the afternoon except an appointment with a whiskey and a withering sense of self-loathing.  I got scared.  I didn't want to go and I haven't even bothered rearranging, I've just said I'll contact them soon.

What I'm scared of, I've no idea.  Dr Watson is perfectly pleasant and I don't anticipate her being anything other than the pinnacle of professionalism she has been thus far.  She isn't going to make me whip of my undies and perform the cough test or whisk me away for sectioning.  This was supposed to be to start making this better, and for reasons unbeknownst I am epically scuppering that.

Unfortunately, the abject disappointment in myself too often manifests itself in over-consumption of alcohol and an inevitable spiral into further despair.  And while I think that shows a remarkable level of self-awareness, it's hardly of help when I'm not doing anything to prevent it.  But I do want to prevent it, and in that vein, I'm going to do a little test, to prove my resolve.  I'm putting this piece up now, and I'm going to come back in a few hours, and if I'm not drunk by then then something's gone right.  I'm going to see if I can stop myself.

So it's all good fun.

- - -

Later

It could've gone better, the whole 'not drinking' thing.  It could've gone better but it was fucked from the start really, I knew I was going to the pub even before I finished the fucking first bit, I don't know why I even bothered.

It was one of those moods, one of those manic moods when I feel like laughing or crying or screaming and I don't know which one but none of them would really be appropriate so I just don't say anything and I get a beer at the pub and sit on my own in the empty garden and look at the foxes passing outside the gate.  I felt happy earlier, for a bit, but whenever I feel that happy without good reason it always turns into this.  It makes me scared to be happy.  I wish I hadn't gone but if I keep drinking and I keep smoking then I don't have to think about laughing or crying or screaming.  I can wait to calm down.  I'm still waiting.

If I didn't have work in the morning I could just drink until I fell asleep, but I'll regret that even more than I regret this.  I don't know what the fuck I'm doing right now.  I might just carry on but I know I'm only making it worse for later.  I don't know what I'm doing.

It'll be funny later.  Tomorrow, maybe.

Booze blues

For the past eighteen months or so, I have begun to be overcome by the sneaking suspicion that I drink too much alcohol.

I wouldn't call myself an alcoholic, not just because the term terrifies me with its severity, but also because it's not affecting me to an extent that seems to warrant it.  I can happily go through a day at work without a drink and on some evenings, when I am otherwise occupied, I might not even think about it.  I never drink on mornings - except once, but that was because I'd spent a night being refused sex in the Most Terrifying House in England, which was home to a Whomping Willow and was almost certainly rented by Slenderman, and I was then forced to have a single glass of Shiraz to steady my nerves.

But I do drink most weeknights and it occasionally leaves me feeling a little more than grotty when I get up for work the next morning.  On weekends I go a bit more hardcore, and while it's somehow acceptable on weekends I do inevitably feel like a heap of decaying shit for the better part of the following day, until I perk up in the evening and the whole sorry thing begins again.  As of now, it's nearly eight pm and I'm only on the second G&T of the evening, which isn't so bad, but I am alone and I'm not really enjoying it.  It's not an issue that is significantly affecting the quality of my life, such as it is, but on many of these long, lonely nights I don't even particularly want to drink, and I regret it even while I do it.  But nevertheless, here we are again, with glass in hand and growing sense of sorrow.  Essentially, I do want to stop, but am so far epically failing to do so.

I once brought this up with an ex-doctor-friend of mine.  Ex-friend that is, not ex-doctor, because we slept together one night and it was an incredibly disappointing experience for all parties and next morning it was so excruciatingly awkward that it was easier to never speak again.  I blame the fact that it was unsatisfying and sad.  But I brought the issue up one day, under that unconvincing guise of 'my friend wants to know this...' and my sub-par lover likened it to self-harm.  As in, drinking oneself to oblivion has similarities to cutting oneself.  I can't agree definitively with this comparison simply because I can't speak for the mindset behind self-harm.  I have only done it once and, like Marmite or The Mighty Boosh, it was not for me.  But the alignment doesn't strike me as inaccurate.

I am well-aware that I use alcohol as a coping mechanism.  I know that sometimes I drink because I'm bored, or lonely, or I know that in a few hours time I'm going to have to do something that's going to make me inconsolably anxious and I want to relax.  And it's all very well knowing this, but it's of little use when I so consistently fail to find a viable alternative.  I did wonder if it might be something worth bringing up at the doctor's next week, but it is only the first appointment and I don't want to overwhelm poor Watson with my tales of woe.

Watson: So what's the problem?

Cecil: I have anxiety.  And depression.  I think I might have a borderline alcohol problem.  Also skin cancer.

Watson: I see.

Cecil: I'd like you to check for all the cancers, actually.

Watson: (sighs) We have told you before, Mr Cavender.  One problem at a time.

Cecil: For every cancer?  I'll be coming back for years.

Watson: I'm sure you will, yes.

But the appointment is not imminent and I've no idea if I'll even have the courage to mention it.  My medical record is ridiculous enough without potential alcoholic being added to the tome, and I fear they'll think I'm imagining it like every other case of Incoming Death I've arrived with.

So by the time of finishing this I'm on my fourth G&T and frankly, I don't think anything's going to change before the fifth.

I didn't see him, but then I suppose if I had, I wouldn't be here.

Skin cancer

For the past couple of weeks I've had this ungodly itch just below my right shoulder blade, and it doesn't appear to be going away.  I can, therefore, only assume that it must be skin cancer.

I spent a good half hour staring into the mirror with my head craned over my shoulder and twisting every which way in order to get a look at my back.  Despite having stripped to my undies though, the cancer was made no more visible and I was disappointingly unable to locate it by eye.  While there is a mole on the left side of my back, it has been there since time immemorial and the fact that my mother still charmingly though inaccurately refers to it as a beauty spot tells me it is unlikely to be malignant.  But the right side nevertheless remains irritated, and the thought of what horror must be developing beneath the surface is a source of great consternation, and is beginning to keep me awake nights.

The lack of rash perplexes me.  In fact the only time it is ever marked is when I have been scraping at it during the day, an act which is beginning to cause the students at work to liken me to a cat, as it is often enacted against the back of a chair.  I have tried to subdue it by slathering myself in E45 cream, which quells it temporarily, but alas fails to rid me of it for good.

Blessedly, it does not appear to have spread anywhere yet.  I intend to bring it up at my forthcoming doctor's appointment though.  I know that they only like to deal with one problem at a time, but as I already feel like a drain on NHS resources I am absolutely fucking buggered if I'm booking in again.  It makes far more economic sense.

Amusingly, the doctor's name is Doctor Watson.  She is a pleasant woman, though seemed wholly unimpressed at my attempt at whimsy upon our last meeting.  Unable to answer my Case of the Palpitating Heart, I thought it would be funny to tell her that once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.  She remained stony-faced, but did at least restrain herself from hitting me in the mouth, which I have been tempted to do on more than one occasion when people ask me how my diamond empire is holding up.  And my surname isn't even Rhodes.

Cecil Rhodes.  Not me.  More's the pity.

Don't let me avoid the doctor

I don't know what the fuck I did to myself over the weekend but I can hardly fucking walk now.  I got out of bed this morning and my calves are just crippled, like the muscles have entirely seized up and think it appropriate to have me totter about like a scarecrow.  It almost had me toppling to my doom down another set of stairs today, but thank Heavens my fall was cushioned by a gigantic man who called me 'an Absolute Fucking Peanut' before kindly dragging me back to my feet.

In other news, I had a whiskey and dry ginger this afternoon and summoned up the courage to call the doctor and book an appointment.  And it isn't for any type of cancer or imminent stroke this time - it's actually to talk about the whole anxiety and depression thing, and about where to go from here.  We were meant to do it a little while ago but somehow I kept finding reasons to avoid it...

But I am going to go this time.  I have inscribed it upon my calendar and therefore I must go because the calendar is law.  Also I've written it in an uncommonly thick black pen that reminds me of a board marker but has a nib so gargantuanly huge it has left absolutely no space for me to write anything else in there.  So I can't change plans now, because it won't go on the calendar and I'll forget.

Don't let me make up a reason not to go.

I was searching for a picture of a giant pen, but this came up so I kept it.

Nosebleed

I sneezed.  Now there is a nosebleed.  Why is there a nosebleed?

I think I'm dying out of my right nostril.

I can't sleep.

I am panicking.

I have work in less than five hours.

Damn my sneeze.

Searched for a nosebleed picture, regretted it, here is the Krampus instead.

Everybody panic

I am as yet unsure on the statistics of panic attacks, and of how many people shall be forced, wailing, to endure them, but I assume it is not as low as I would think.

What I was entirely unaware of was the sheer variety of panic attacks, the multitude of forms that they may take.  It's a bit like wine; one man's Merlot is another man's urine, and one man's ejaculation is another man's Cabernet Sauvignon.  Would that any of them were as tasty as Merlot.

From a short perusal of the NHS website, one would assume that they consist entirely of clutching one's arm, out of breath, and probably lunging over the desk of A&E to check yourself in a little swifter than the staff can manage.  Which, in reality, is probably not very swift at all.  Half your face could've fallen off and they'd still tell you to take a seat and behave.  Now I'm not saying I've never done this, because I have, and there was an ungodly amount of screaming involved, but that was more due to a pathetically palpitating heart than an actual panic attack.  No.  Mine tend to make themselves known at the most inopportune moments, often on trains, and they attack in an altogether different manner of fury.

I sit, still, silent, with an incomprehensible and overwhelming sense of doom oozing out of every pore.  Death is mere moments away.  The Reaper is tapping at my shoulder.  I am seconds away from curling up on the floor and weeping, which is not an altogether infrequent thing for me, but I try to avoid it in public simply because I value my reputation as an Englishman.  So instead I sit still, life flashing before my eyes and regrets boiling out of my ears, occasionally nibbling at my nails when I work up enough courage to move.  Then I convince myself I must've accidentally eaten some drugs and am currently overdosing on an unrecognised narcotic that they won't be able to diagnose at the hospital so I will recede into cramps and general bleeding until I die, twitching, on the floor of Accident and Emergency because I've fallen off one of the seats again.

And then I'll likely be told to sit back down and stop being a ridiculous man.  And I won't be able to stop being ridiculous, because I'll be dead.

That's the sort of panic attack I get.  And I do wonder how many types there are, and I wonder if the next time I see someone staring off into the distance on a train, they are contemplating their entire livelihood and its moment of ending.  If you see me, that's what I'll be doing.

Apologies to the staff of the Royal Free who had to put up with my shenanigans each week.