The Betting Shop Shrink (1998)

It's nearly 25 years since I went to see my G.P. and told her that I didn't feel right.

I kept thinking I was having a heart attack or a stroke and I spent most of my life trying to run away and hide under a large duvet in a dark room. It was horrible. I was exhausted and I was terrified to go to sleep in case I didn't wake up again. I thought I was going mad. And it took me a long time to say something about it.

My G.P. couldn't find anything physically wrong with me. My blood pressure was a tiny bit high but she thought I was suffering from anxiety and having panic attacks. She made a lot of sense, but she didn't want to prescribe any medication - not without input from a specialist.

I had to wait a long time to see a Psychiatrist. I almost gave up. I almost convinced myself that I just needed to pull myself together/sort myself out/stop being so soft... But then I'd find myself locked in a toilet cubicle at work, just trying to breathe properly without screaming.

When I eventually got to see a Psychiatrist, he did want me to take medication. He told me I had a chemical problem in my brain and that meds would sort it out. That was the only straightforward part of the appointment.

I was sent to The Phoenix Centre. It was a block of old council flats that had been converted into offices and consultation rooms for mental health appointments. Psychiatric Nurses and Doctors would hold clinics at The Phoenix Centre, but local 'clients' could also drop in for a cup of tea or to pick up some self-help leaflets. I read most of those leaflets before my first appointment.  

The Psychiatrist was very late and a complete mess. Imagine Columbo with a North Yorkshire accent. He shambled into the Centre, avoiding eye contact with everybody and mumbling an apology. He looked like he'd been sleeping in his suit. His hair was long and greasy and the tips of his fingers were stained brown with what I hoped was tobacco. And he couldn't find his prescription pad. He looked through his battered briefcase - at one point turning it upside down and shaking it - and said he was always losing things. 'That's why I was late' he told me, 'I couldn't find my car keys'.

I'd tried to prepare myself for the appointment because I finally felt as if things might start to get better. I'd waited so long to see an expert, I'd had time to write down all of the things that had happened and all of my symptoms - and I hoped that he'd have some answers or a plan or some tablets to make me feel better... but he kept falling asleep. 

The bloke wasn't just shutting his eyes or daydreaming - he was slumping back in his chair and snoring. I'd be trying to talk about chest pains, dizzy spells or insomnia - and I'd have to stamp on the floor to wake him up. He'd shake his head and smile and tell me about how tired he was. And then he'd do it again.

I didn't know if I should say something or complain or leave or laugh or cry... I'd never seen a Psychiatrist before - is this how they were supposed to behave?  

He never did find his prescription pad but he did have his car keys, so he offered to drive me to my Doctor's surgery. 'I'll tell them what tablets you need and they can sort out the script' he said. I didn't want to get into his car - it was as scruffy as he was - but I needed the medication. I was sick and tired of feeling like crap.

On the way into town he turned to me and asked - 'is there a Ladbrokes or a William Hill nearby?' 

At first I couldn't answer. I thought I'd misheard. 'A bookies?' he said, 'is there a betting shop, a bookies in the town?' 

Was he taking the piss? Or was this some sort of test? Was he trying to find out if I was a gambling addict? Had I been sent to see the wrong Doctor? Or had he read the wrong notes? I told him there was a betting shop just over the road from the surgery and that seemed to cheer him up - 'brilliant, that's perfect! Perfect!'

We ended up in a branch of William Hill. I'd never been to a betting shop before and it was a very strange, gloomy place. There were a lot of blue plastic benches, television screens and scattered newspaper pages. I recognised quite a few of the customers as local Taxi drivers. 

Every time I tried to ask about my medication or when he was going to go and sort out my precription, the Psychiatrist ignored me. He was lost in thought, scouring the lists of races and horses that were pinned to the walls of the betting shop. And he was constantly pulling wads of twenty pound notes out of his coat pocket and slapping them down on the counter alongside his scribbled out betting slips. 

He didn't back one single winner but he did tell me that 'we all need to find a vice'.

As we left, the Psychiatrist looked at me as if suddenly remembering why I was there. 

'Take that to your Doctor' he said, scribbling the names of some tablets onto a betting slip, 'they can sort it out'. 

And then he was gone. I walked to the surgery and showed them the betting slip - the receptionist frowned and said I'd have to make an appointment to see my G.P...

I never saw the same Psychiatrist again* and I often wonder what happened to him. My G.P. said she'd heard a few comments about 'that Doctor' and asked if I was happy to take the medication he'd suggested. My only other option was to go back on the waiting list in the hope that I'd be seen by a different Psychiatrist... So I gambled. And took the tablets.

*A couple of years later I did see another Psychiatrist at a hospital in County Durham - but he had to stop working after giving 'intimate massages' to some of his female patients.