Am I eligible for free mental health care? How would I know?

Alice O'Keeffe's "Squeezed Middle" column.

‘‘So how long have you been having these irrational thoughts?” I pause to think this through. It’s important to give the correct answer. I have to strike just the right balance with the kind lady from the Mental Health Access Team who has phoned to assess me. If she thinks I’m not mentally unstable enough, she will not refer me for free counselling. If she thinks I’m too mentally unstable, she might call in the social and tell them to take my kids away. Would she actually do that? On balance, probably not. Nevertheless, I must tread carefully.
 
I immediately decide against the honest answer, which is that I don’t think my depression is “irrational” at all. It is based on hard facts, many of them scientifically provable. First, our flat is too small for a family of four. Second, there is now officially no chance of us ever being able to move out. Third, our joint incomings do not match our outgoings and we have no savings or pensions. Fourth, the government has no interest in making things better for families like us – or, indeed, anyone other than their Old Etonian buddies. Fifth, the destruction of the environment continues unchecked, with consequences that are likely to prove utterly disastrous for humanity within my children’s lifetime.
 
I’d argue, on balance, that this is reason enough to feel legitimately less than 100 per cent zip-a-dee-doo-dah. On the other hand, whatever your circumstances, your glass could always be half full. No doubt it is partly the way I am perceiving the difficulties which makes them feel insurmountable. If I were more of a can-do type of personality, I’d be out there doing a jolly tap-dance on the grave of Europe’s bee populations.
 
“It started a couple of months ago. The baby stopped sleeping. We were buying a house and then it fell through . . .” I give her the sorry list of symptoms: the exhaustion, the creeping insomnia, the almost constant snivelling. She sounds pleasingly concerned. This is going well.
 
“Any suicidal feelings?”
 
Gosh. Funnily enough I did catch myself lying in bed the other day, thinking how nice it would be never to have to get up ever again, never to have to deal with another unexpected bill or another broken night . . . but it was more an idle thought than an active planning-to-kill-myself thing. Does that count as suicidal? I’m not sure.
 
“No,” I say firmly. “Not at all.”
 
“Good,” she says briskly. “So what I’m going to do is recommend that you come in for a full assessment session with one of our mental health nurses. You should receive a letter in the post.”
 
“Great. Thank you.” Result! I can’t wait for them to make me better again. “And how long will it take to get the appointment?”
 
“It shouldn’t be more than six weeks.”
 
SIX WEEKS!!! I can’t wait six weeks. Curly is on the brink of disowning me. I’m on the brink of disowning myself. I take a deep breath. “Right. Well, thank you very much for your help.” As I hang up, the tears have already formed a puddle on the keypad.
Alice O'Keeffe's "Squeezed Middle" column appears weekly in the New Statesman.

Alice O'Keeffe is an award-winning journalist and former arts editor of the New Statesman. She now works as a freelance writer and looks after two young children. You can find her on Twitter as @AliceOKeeffe.

This article first appeared in the 19 August 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Why aren’t young people working

A girl in an Ariana Grande top. Photo: Getty
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The joy of teenage girls is the heart of pop - we can't let the Manchester attack change that

What happened in Manchester feels horribly new because it targeted young girls in one of the places where young girls can be themselves to the fullest.

This morning, while the radio news talked of nothing but Manchester, my 10-year-old daughter asked me if it was still safe to go and see Adele at Wembley Stadium in July. The ticket was her big Christmas present and the printout of the order confirmation has been blu-tacked to her wall for months. She’s as excited about it as she has been excited about any event in her life, but now she’s also scared. Could this have happened to her when she saw Ed Sheeran the other week? Could it happen to her at Wembley, or anywhere else? I am sure that there are similar conversations happening across the country. Some long-awaited birthday treats will be cancelled. Red letter days erased from the calendar. Parents can allay their children’s fears (and their own), and decide to go ahead despite them, but they cannot pretend the fear isn’t there, suddenly, where it wasn’t before.

When I first started going to gigs in 1989, I never worried about not coming back. I fretted about missing the last train back to the suburbs, or not having a good view of the stage. You can feel unsafe at a gig, especially if you’re a girl in a moshpit where boys can’t keep their hands to themselves, but usually not life-or-death unsafe. Fatal crowd disasters such as Roskilde in 2000 and Cincinnati in 1979 have spurred the concert industry into making venues as safe as possible. There are sensible, practical measures you can take to avoid crushes.

Terrorism at music venues, however, is relatively new and hard to deal with. This is why the Bataclan massacre in November 2015 had such an enormous impact. There is no hierarchy of tragedy — a death due to terrorism is a death due to terrorism, whether it’s in a concert hall in Paris or a mosque in Iraq — but some tragedies are so close to home that they change the way you think. The first show I attended after the Bataclan (New Order in Brixton) was charged with a strange electricity, as defiance defeated anxiety and the rational mind silenced this new kind of fear. A few weeks later I saw Savages in Paris and it was even more intense. The venue was small and subterranean. I have never paid such close attention to the location of the exits.

Everyone has tried to reassert normality after an atrocity has felt like this: the first time they took the tube after 7/7, or went to work in New York in September 2001, or danced in Miami after the Pulse shootings, or stayed out late in Istanbul after last New Year’s Eve. In some countries the fear is never allowed to fade. What happened in Manchester feels horribly new because it targeted young girls in one of the places where young girls can be themselves to the fullest.

The joy of teenage girls is the heart of pop, and it is often misunderstood, if not patronised and dismissed. Their excitement doesn’t derive purely from fancying the star on the stage — when I saw Taylor Swift or Miley Cyrus (at the MEN arena in fact), the screaming was as intense as it is for any boy band. In fact, it’s not entirely to do with what’s happening on the stage at all. As a critic in my 40s who’s been to hundreds of shows, I may be bothered by an incoherent concept or a mid-set lull, but nobody around me is solely interested in the performance. Even shows that I’ve found disappointing have an ecstatic carnival atmosphere because a pop show is a catalyst for a great night out — one that may have been anticipated for months. The pop star is a vessel for a mess of inchoate desires and thrilling, confusing sensations (Bowie knew this) so the girls aren’t just screaming for the star; they’re screaming for themselves and for each other. They are celebrating music, of course, but also youth, friendship, the ineffable glee of the moment, life at its most unquenchable. It’s a rite of passage that should never be contaminated by even an inkling of dread.

First and foremost, I feel compassion for the victims and their friends and families. Then for the survivors, including Ariana Grande, who will be traumatised for a long time to come. But beyond those immediately affected, this atrocity will cast a long shadow across the youths of countless pop fans. Will something like this happen again? Perhaps not. Statistically, the possibility of an attack at one particular show is minuscule. Over time, the fear will subside, because it always does. My daughter is absolutely still going to see Adele, and she’ll have a whale of a time. But the knowledge that it could happen at all means a loss of innocence.

Dorian Lynskey is a journalist living in London. He blogs at:

33RevolutionsPerMinute.wordpress.com

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