I don't remember much about the last few days other than being completely overwhelmed by the driving licence issue. It has consumed my every waking moment.
Mrs Mo went to the family doctor to plead for mercy but he told her as far as my licence was concerned, it "was just a matter of time now". I am really brightening her life up at the moment... she is now back on Citalopram.
Last night. My pal picked me up and we drove up into the hills to photograph the Leonids but the skies were completely masked by thick cloud and the only thing that fell from the heavens was rain.
I have been asked to play in a blues band on Saturday. Thursday night rehearsal is at my pals house, ten miles away up in the hills. There is no bus service, this may be the last chance I get to play music with other guys.
This morning I was lying in the bath contemplating nothing in particular. Just letting my mind float off like one of Nena's 99 luftballons when I heard the dull thud of manilla on carpet then the clank of an angry letterbox as the postman from perdition grudgingly dropped the car bomb on my world.
It was the letter from the DVLA. I was hoping they had forgotten about me when they didn't respond to my email immediately. How wrong could I be? Isn't it strange how efficient harbingers of doom are. If you made an enquiry for assistance from some large corporation you would spend months writing letters, phoning Asian call centres and being shunted from department to department without any result other than a nervous twitch, a few more grey hairs and a profound disillusionment in humanity. Yet send a one line email when the bastards might get the better of you and they are at your throat immediately like a pack of vampires suddenly discovering a virgin lost in the woods two hours before dawn.
Anyway, the form basically asked i) are you mad and ii) do you drink. So it looks like my only hope is to be a bit economical with the truth. Here's the form...
The missus has gone off to the city tonight to see "We Will Rock You" so I treated myself to a sirloin steak for dinner. American readers will think this puny piece of cat food is a small spare rib but for an unemployed loony this is a banquet. You will notice that I also have a nice bottle of French red wine... cost more than the steak... pious readers may think "sacre bleu!"... ce n'est pas un problème... look, even the DVLA letter is bigger!!!!
Once I have finished this I am going to watch Star Trek 2009 which I illegally downloaded. No doubt if I confessed this act to the shrink she would be compelled to breach patient confidence and inform the police, my ISP as well as the Performing Rights Society. I smell shite. My days of shrinkery are indeed over now!
I must remember to always brush my teeth and have a fake urine sample handy at all times. Maybe the voices in the radiator are right, perhaps I should kill them all now. I just remembered that I said that on Wednesday in front of the medical student and his eyes nearly popped out of his head, I thought he was going to faint or soil my couch. Four years of medical training and still as gullible as a fuckin' primary school kid. Yeah we're all serial killers... and they say that I'm the mad one. Is it any surprise I have no faith in the medical profession.
The shrink arrived this morning with a medical student in tow. I told her I was much, much better now. I had charted my mood, alcohol intake, sleep and chlorpromazine use over the past two weeks. As ever, she was concerned about the alcohol (70 units/week) and spoke for a good half hour, doing the old motivational interviewing crapola... "so what do you think would make you want to change" etc. Eventually she stopped harping on about it and I got a chance to tell her the good stuff. How I was now taking pictures, restarted my blog and even been to Glasgow for the day. She asked how I had gotten to Glasgow and I told her I'd driven. "YOU STILL DRIVE? DO THE DVLA KNOW?". What the fuck is she on about?
She then explains that the DVLA must be notified when you are diagnosed bipolar and she presumed this would have been done by one of her predecessors. Nope, never heard of such a thing. She says it never occurred to her to check as she had "inherited" me and presumed this was all taken care of long ago. Why does it matter, I'm not epileptic nor do I have narcolepsy. She says that I wouldn't be allowed to drive for about 3 months following a hypomanic episode. Fair enough. BUT she then says her main concern is my drinking and that I shouldn't be driving with my current consumption (only 10u/day). I need to inform the DVLA of my diagnosis or my car insurance will be invalid. They will then send questionnaires to the shrink and my family doctor who will provide them with information not only about my psychiatric condition but also drug and alcohol use. If the docs indicate that I am misusing alcohol I will have my licence taken away. I AM DEVASTATED!
How come Joe Public can drink as many units as he likes, confide in his doctor and continue driving BUT if he happens to have a diagnosis of bipolar diorder his licence will be removed. This is discrimination, no doubt about it. How many fuckin' doctors drink more than 21 units per week? And they keep talking about fighting the good fight against the stigma of mental illness. BULLSHIT. The more perceptive reader may have picked up that I am a wee bit annoyed about this. And before you say it, NO, I can't get the train, there are no stations in my entire region of four counties! No I won't get the fekn bus cos I don't fit into the seats which are designed for tiny munchkins and unable to accomodate 18 stone whales like me.
I live in a remote rural area and without the car I am fucked. A trip to the likes of PC World means a half hours walk to the bus stop. The bus to the city takes two hours. Then there's half an hours bus trip to the retail park. Add on to that lengthy waits for a irregular bus services and you are looking at about 8 hours to buy a memory stick. I can drive there and back in about 3 hours (and without anxiety and physical discomfort).
When I feel up to going for a walk these days, I invariably drive to someplace where I am unknown or where no one will see me. Without the car I simply wouldn't go out. This ain't no psychological breakdown, this is the road to hell.
There's one thing for sure, I will NEVER confide in a doctor about my drinking again. In fact I plan to keep my cards close to my chest and reveal as little as possible about my mental state in future. How can I confide in a service that isn't completely confidential but is willing to inform other government agencies of my condition.
