Firstly, my apologies for not writing for far, far too long. Much longer, in fact, than has been good for me, but I haven’t been getting out much of late. So instead of resorting to recording the minutiae of my budgie’s day-to-day existence, and what I have had for lunch every day, I have remained silent. Well, I’m always silent here, it’s not as though I read what I’m typing out loud, record it in an mp3 file, and post a link to it.
But, anyway, someone asked me fairly politely when I was going to write something, and kindly went so far as to furnish me with some suggested topics. None of which I really knew much about, so I’m ignoring them, and having a gentle little ramble, in the hope of ending up in a tortuously metaphorical cul-de-sac of actual subject matter. Sorry if it’s not very good, but I’m very, very out of practise.
After several months of being treated by my doctor for anxiety (see “I hate the Jobcentre” post for the a full explanation of the ailment’s exogenously arising causational stimulus), I finally got an appointment through the post, for an assessment by the people who do psychotherapy (who may or may not be called psychotherapists), with a form enclosed, in which some questions are asked of the recipient. The recipient’s me, just to clarify that sentence.
Most of the inquisition is fairly straightforward: “Have you had a head injury?”, “Are you on drugs?”, “Do you have Vietnam-induced PTSD?”, “Do you beat your children, and if so, have you been abused whilst in jail for it?”, and “Jesus, Lindsay? Just how much of an alcoholic ARE you?” But the one that particularly drew my attention was “Do you sometimes feel that others might not like you if they really knew you?” This line of enquiry is presumably intended to catch out the paranoid delusional, who is convinced that others are insulting them behind their back.
But hold on. Isn’t worrying about others’ perceptions of you a good thing? The next psychological intrusion the form goes on to impose is whether you “sometimes feel that you are better/superior to others”. Well yes, yes I do. In my case, this is due to a somewhat inflated ego, and an apparent sprinkling of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Which is a completely uncalled for label, and just goes to how society will stigmatize you for being so great. Because they don’t want me to get too big for my boots. They don’t even want me to “sometimes” think that I am either better or superior to others. Even though I quite obviously am. I mean, objectively, surely I’m a slightly better person than, say Fred West (my brother’s “favourite serial killer”, incidentally), or that dreadful fellow from Pineapple Dance Studio?
The internet informs me that his name is Louie Spence, and he is exactly what happens when a person fails to be concerned about what others might think of them. As was the influence of however many decades of Big Brother were inflicted on us, with its encouragement of the imbecilic to gain the favour of the media by showing no regard for the public perception of them. “I’m just bein’ myself, an’ if anyone don’t like it, well you know, that’s just me”, they uttered, as though it is some kind of noble display of integrity to hold your innate dickishness open to scrutiny by all and sundry.
Worrying about others disliking you is a good thing. It gives you the motivation to be nicer. Hence, the idea of philanthropy as an evolutionarily advantageous trait. This theory posits the suggestion that a philanthropic act is done not so much out of a concern for its recipient’s wellbeing, but through the impulse to improve one’s own standing in the eyes of others. Or maybe some people are just genuinely nice. But my point is that, if not concerned by others’ perceptions of you, you are by definition a psychopath. If I were to care so little about others’ opinions that I picked off my neighbours with a sniper rifle, I imagine the psychiatrist might have something pretty negative to say about it.
So, I am presented with four options by this conundrum of logic the NHS has provided me with. I can check neither box, in which case I neither care what others think of me, nor ever feel that I am superior to others. So, I think I’m the worst person in the world, and don’t care if others agree with me. Wow. I must have a really depressing life. Maybe I live in a skip. Earning a living through prostitution (despite my obvious low self-esteem making me the lowest charging hooker in town).
Claiming both a grandiose opinion of myself, coupled with a fear of rejection would give me a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder, the most spurious, fatuous medical complaint ever concocted, as an attempt to medicalize the condition of being insecure, but also a bit stroppy.
So the only remaining solution is to claim either a fear of others’ perceptions of me, or an inclination towards despotic narcissism. In the first instance, I spend my life accompanied by an imaginary commentary in my head, insulting everything I think, say or do. Probably provided by that BASTARD from Come Dine with Me (I know he’s paid to say that stuff, but he should still be strung up). Or alternatively, it is me that proffers the Come Dine With Me commentary to others, critiquing their multitudinous inadequacies. And eventually, under the tyrannical rule of my alternatively diagnosed autocratic self, the guy from Come Dine with Me would, indeed be strung up.
It’s a confusing business. Under no circumstances can I come across to the therapist as free from mentalness. Nobody can. It’s a Catch 22 situation, in which you inevitably condemn yourself to abnormality. However, my point here is an anti-psychotherapy polemic. I’m not resolutely against having a little weekly chat with a stranger. Maybe I’ll take biscuits. What I object to is the compartmentalization of personality traits as a means of attempted diagnosis. Indeed, for the need for an attempt to medicalize the personality at all. Psychiatry is still such a hopelessly non-scientific science, and maybe this fact should just be accepted. Instead it is denied, in an attempt to legitimize the work of its practitioners. I’m not suggesting that many psychiatrists don’t do sterling work, but that their approach seems rather akin to what is politely termed “alternative” medicine. Neuroscience is an eminently respectable, and unimaginably important scientific field. Perhaps psychiatrists should migrate en masse to neuroscience labs, instead of attempting to give pseudo-scientific labels to the slightly unstable, by asking them to solve impenetrable, semantically recondite riddles.
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