Depression : The search for Dr Right

A lifetime ago I joined a dating site in order to find Mr Right. I don’t mind telling you – I still have nightmares about it now. Where do I start?

There was the man who spent the whole meal only talking about how he had a severe peanut allergy and how he wouldn’t even order anything with pine nuts incase it was a misspelling. That was fun. There was the man who turned up wearing a sort of heavy duty army style back pack, which he didn’t take off and announced he had just “just come from a funeral”. He was terrifying. There was the man who clearly thought I looked fatter in real life than in my profile picture (don’t we all?) and spent the whole time shaking his head in annoyance and grilling me on how much I ate and if I liked exercise … like him? The subtext being “I am never ever going to see you again you lying lard eating pig”. I could go on. Suffice to say – I never met my Mr Right.

But now I’m married to a semi normal man who is rarely seen in a backpack and enjoys the odd peanut M&M.

Much like a bad date can put you off men forever, a bad experience with a Dr can put you off going to a GP ever again. The first time I ever saw a Dr about my depression (2009) he was an elder gentleman. He more or less rolled his eyes at me and I could tell what he was desperate to say was “Pull yourself together woman! Get a grip!” but instead he shook his head, frowned like my dad would if I tried to talk to him about lady problems and threw a prescription for anti depressants at me. I was so upset by the experience that I vowed to never go back to the doctors again and I didn’t take the tablets.

Then I had my baby (2013) so I thought I’d try again because well, I was a bit braver and I no longer had any dignity. I was met with a doctor who said I wasn’t quite depressed ‘enough’ and should come back when I was suicidal.

But this time I was feeling a bit more determined so I tried again. I explained to another Dr that I seemed to suffer from terrific highs and helpless lows. After she had looked at my baby and said “Ooh I love a fat baby” she then asked if I gambled. I said I didn’t – so she said I couldn’t possibly have Bipolar and sent me away with my ‘fat’ child.

Then I got pregnant for the second time (2015) and felt so atrocious I felt I had to go back, there was no choice. I had a doctor this time who was ok about it but said she couldn’t really do anything until I had the baby (just nine months to get through then) and said someone would call me. They never did.

Which brings me to present day. I thought I would give it one more shot and went along to the GP with very low expectations but a sort of fury that I was going to chain myself to the desk until they believed me.

And there she was: my Dr right. We clicked. She got it. She just got it. She believed me. She listened. She cared. She knew. She asked to see me again. She helped me.

We have met three times now and while I am not cured – I am better. I am believed. I am listened to. I am weightless.

Four weeks since our first appointment and I found myself yesterday dancing, really dancing around the kitchen with my three year old to the song below. We were giggling and stamping our feet and mummy was happy. My Dr right has changed my life and the lives of my children.

My message to anyone who is suffering is keep on trying, however hard it is, to find your Dr right. Just like dating – maybe you’ll get lucky your first time and meet the perfect person. Or maybe like me it’ll take a few nightmare meetings before you stumble across the person you were looking for all along.

The important thing is to not give up – there are good eggs out there. Trust me. You might just find your soul mate.



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