Work, as of last week, now being psychiatry. Akin to marmite, you either love it or hate it, let there be no doubt in your mind, 6 days into this post and I am a fan of neither. So far I have gone through more thorough checks than most airports to clerk a forensic patient stepped down to medium security after 13 years, become au fait with the local ‘crime families’ despite being 1200 miles from Sicily, seen scabies in both staff and patients and reviewed a patient with a personality disorder (who I incidenty referred) after she swallowed a handful of staples.
Those who know me may beg to differ, but I consider myself too ‘normal’ for psychiatry. The need for us to attend a Balint Seminar on a weekly basis with a psychoanalyst who is clearly laughing at our expense as she analyses the hidden mystique behind our consultations is beyond me. And seeing 3 patients in an afternoon clinic does not strike me as a particularly good use of our flailing NHS resources with their ever increasing waiting lists. Essentially I am mourning the loss of my GP practice and just need to build a bridge and get over it.
As I walk through the front door of our home I am greeted with hugs, tales of christmas parties and twinking fairy lights. “Santa’s coming to nursery tomorrow” is sung in excited repetition, and I can’t held but wonder why I spend my day prescribing toxic drugs to banish illusions and I spend my night conjuring up vivid illusions of make believe.