It seemed an eternity before I was allowed to have a good day. On a good day I had the usual tears and a general lack of motivation to be with people, but at least the suicidal thoughts, the thoughts of inadequacy and self-loathing, took a holiday. My head was a little clearer—clear enough to realise I had to do something in addition to taking my meds. I found my wallet and retrieved the number for the psychologist—Dr. Clarkson—which Dr. Franklin had given me. I took it to the telephone and proceeded to spend the next two minutes staring at it. What would it be like to see a psychologist? I wondered. Would he make me reveal all my weaknesses? Would he make me go to places I didn’t want to go? Would he make me feel violated?
I took a deep breath and dialled. If I wanted to be well again, I
