I suppose it’s actually longer than that. Let’s see. He died on the 14th March. So that’s 163 days to yesterday. But the breakdown happened the weekend before the funeral, in a Birmingham hotel, when I found myself at 6 in the morning, sitting on the side of the bath, shaking and staring at the floor, tears shining on the black tiles at my feet.
28 hours later I was sitting in my GP’s surgery telling him that I had spent 44 years hiding this, fighting it, dealing with it and getting nowhere.
Finally, I put my hand up and said, out loud, “I can’t do this anymore.”
Citalopram and therapy followed, quickly.
So, four months have passed.
Yesterday, two sessions earlier than expected, I was signed off the therapy. “You’ve come so far since that day in April when I first met you.” The therapy started with a face to face session but, after that, it was a series of workbooks and phone calls.
“Your voice was quiet and timid. Your body language was withdrawn, inward looking, defensive. You couldn’t make eye contact.”
“Now, your voice is bright, engaging. I can hear your eyes » Continue Reading.