So I took myself to a town some way down the highway to see a private psychiatrist. There were no such services in my town and my GP at the time didn’t even mention Community Mental Health Services (I now know why!).
The psychiatrist was an older man. Slight in stature and build, greying. Reasonable bedside manner. After hearing my story he diagnosed Bipolar Disorder and gave me my inaugural seat on the medication merry-go-round by prescribing lithium.
A week or so later I saw a death notice in the local paper for a man by the same name as the Shrink. It wasn’t a particularly common name so I rang the clinic to see if my Shrink had departed this mortal coil. The receptionist laughed and assured me he was alive and well. Two weeks after that I recieved a phone call from that same receptionist. My Shrink had decided to die after all.
I was left somewhat paranoid and without a psychiatrist.