Marks out of Ten, please

“Have there been any changes to your health since your last visit? Are you taking any new medication?”

My dentist, an energetic Romanian woman peered through about seven layers of PPE, her fingers poised over the keyboard, waiting to punch in my reply.

“No,” I replied mechanically, reclining into the dentist chair. “Oh, wait a minute. Yes.” I corrected.

“I’ve started taking anti-depressants. Citalopram.”

“Right,” she replied brightly.

“At the end of September,” I added unnecessarily.

“Great.”

Was she gentler with me after this disclosure? It seemed that way to me.

That evening, I went along to my men’s group. It was my 4th week. There were two new participants there tonight as well as the leader. We start by checking in with a score out of 10 and then elaborate on what’s been going on for us. This question is followed by three more prompts. Each man takes a turn giving his answer before we move on to the next prompt.

One of the newcomers, Phil gives a low-out-of-ten and I can see the inner twists and turns as he tries to put his suffering into words. Low mood, bad thoughts, anxiety. Not being able to summon the energy to play with his young daughter. He’s dressed casually in a dark blue Crew Clothing top, blue jeans and Converse and works as a surveyor. He’s ashamed to be owning up to his struggles, perhaps. Worried that we’ll think he’s weak or defective.

I lean back on my chair. It seems strange to hear these things from the mouth of another man. As strange as if you’d heard it from the mouth of your butcher, Asda delivery driver or one of the dads in the playground. After all, it goes against all our conditioning. It’s bad enough to be suffering from mental ill-health. Worse still to be owning up to it.

What am I thankful for. That’s the second prompt.

“That the storm passes,” I say when it’s my turn.

I talk about how bad my depression was just a month earlier. The vivid and frightening intrusive thoughts that kept me from sleeping for days on end. The calls to the mental health primary care liaison team and the very real fear of being banged up in an institution. The worry of how I’d support my family and if I’d ever be able to work again. The despair that left me crouching on the little white plastic step the children use to reach the sink, head in hands, afraid of the day ahead, crying.

“I’m thankful for my wife,” Phil says when it’s his turn.

I hear this a lot. We all are. Thankful for the love that, behind closed doors, holds a man in his strange and private pain. The love that doesn’t retreat because the pain can’t be seen, and is not frightened by the secrets and shame that seem so dangerous and frightening to him. The love that, with no mental health training, is able to calm and reassure, comfort and soothe. The love that gets us back to sleep.

A hero’s love.

At the end of the session, we update our score out of 10 and say a word or two why.

“I’m up two points to a six,” Phil says.

“It’s really good to know…” he continues, looking over towards me. “That I’m not the only one going through this.”

No Phil, I think, returning his gaze.

You’re really not.