Niggle

(Possibly Niggle 1 of several. Possibly not.)

So, as mentioned previously (see Whistle), I’ve just finished a years worth of psychotherapy sessions provided by th’NHS. All well and good, so you might think. Well….yes…………………………………and no.

Although the NHS provides Mental Health centres, therapists and counsellors (good), they only provide them for a finite time (not good). I’ll explain.

I self-referred to th’NHS to try to help with my ongoing status as loony and Major Grump™. (I’m quite good at hiding the Major a.k.a Marvin. This usually manifests itself as being humourous, witty and the life and soul of the party, albeit with a slightly manic edge and getting loud after a couple of pints). I was offered, and accepted, a years worth of psychotherapy. And hereby lies the rub. That year is set in stone. Just as I was beginning to make progress like never before the one year cut off date reared its ugly head. Now, I’d spent the first 8 months in ‘denial’ (psychobabble, I know but wotcha gonna do about it, eh?) over this huge lurking monster; this whirl of emotion, fear, insecurity and vulnerability deep inside. I was just reaching a point where, metaphorically, I could approach this monster and gently prod it. It was incredibly painful to do. That’s why it took about 8 months before I plucked up the courage to do so. And then one year is up and ……………………………………………nothing.

What it means is that I’ve re-buried the monster. It could re-surface at any time. And the NHS was actually very helpful during that year. I got on really well with my therapist and between us we had formed a ‘safe’ place in which I could, gently, open the lid of the box and prod the monster inside. I just needed more than a year. And, by writing this, I can feel myself, for the first time since late autumn, standing next to that box, and I can feel that monster close by.

Where next?