Hot Cross Buns Ruined My Easter

Despite being fully possessed of as much emotional baggage and unpleasant childhood/adolescent happenings as the next basket case, I have always been reluctant to engage in any kind of talking therapy.  Blame it on the Yorkshire genes.  Recognising, however, that Being Northern was probably not going to cut the mustard as reasonable justification for continuing with my favoured coping mechanisms (consisting chiefly of vodka, self-harm and hiding under the duvet), I decided to pursue J's suggestion of a practical talking therapy that would help me address and combat my 'triggers' - things that set off a hypomanic or depressive episode - without delving too much into the realms of exploratory psychotherapy.   This turned out to be cognitive beahvioural therapy, or CBT.  CBT exploded onto the mental health 'scene' a few years back and swiftly established itself as the new millenium's therapy du jour.  It's supposed to help you look at the way that you think, identify unhealthy thought patterns and tackle them with the Power of Logic, gradually rewiring your brain until it dispenses with throwing spanners labelled 'EVERYBODY HATES YOU' into the works of your everyday life.  It's actually not a bad plan on paper, and it definitely works for some people - converts to CBT are zealous in their praise of it.  So, all things considered, it looked to be worth a shot.

There are many reasons why it didn't work out, not least the fact that my therapist (let's call her T) and I just didn't hit it off.  But I like to blame it on hot cross buns, partly because it makes for a catchy blog title.  Hot Cross Buns are, for the uninitiated, not the all-butter fruit n'spice bun forever immortalised in nursery rhyme.  They are homework sheets that you have to complete to chart how your mind and body react to bad or intrusive thoughts.  This handy key should help you differentiate:

Hot Cross Bun

Not Much Fun

It turned out that the act of recording my negative thoughts and actions, then analysing them with someone with whom I had zero rapport was not entirely conducive to better mental health. Couple this with my notoriously poor handwriting skills and you come out with hours' worth of exchanges that went something like this:

T: So you've written here....what does this say?
19: Oh, um, yeah that says 'clawing at my face'.
T:  Clawing at your face....mmmm.  OK.  And do you think that was productive?
19: Um...well, no but...
T:  No.  So what could you have done instead of that...that clawing, mmm?  Can you think of anything you could have done?  That could have been more productive?
19: Um...

And so on.

It is possible that events on the day of my first appointment have also clouded my overall view slightly.  By the time I had clad my flu-ridden body in several layers of mangy yet comforting jersey and dragged it the 20 minutes down the road to the hospital, the combination of ill-sweats, flu-shivers and the November drizzle's magical frizz effect had conspired to lend me the air of an escapee from the electro-shock room in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.  This uncomfortable thought was not quieted by the ominous iron bars on the windows of the squat building I had been directed to.  It was this building that was to play host to an event so ridiculously farcical as to have no place outside Sophie Kinsella novels, or 00s rom-coms starring Jennifer Aniston. As I schlepped woozily up the stairs and rounded the corner to the waiting room, I found myself quite suddenly nose-to-nose with A.  A from school.  A who is now a trainee clinical psychologist working in the hospital proposing to treat me, apparently.  Suffice to say that, in a VI Form common room perpetually one step away from descending into a scene from Battle Royale, A and I occupied diametrically opposed (and geographically literal) sides.  It was therefore natural that, in that hideous, car-crash moment of mutual recognition, and despite the fact that A was clearly now a medical professional and therefore this would never happen (would it?), all I could envisage was the Class of 97 gossip phone tree springing into action, poised to revel in the gory details of my inevitable demise. 

A aside (I wrote an email  to her supervisor explaining the situation and requesting that we didn't work together), I'm aware that at some point it might be a good idea to board the therapy train again.  But for the moment, I'm more than happy to put off discussion of my psyche and let the Lamotrigine do its work. At least until I can look in a baker's window at Easter without screaming, that is.