Ian McKlatchie
New Member
(I hope this isn't too long. People often think of me as being weird. I thought, by telling my most recent psychiatric story, I might be able to make more sense of my oddness, to folks.)
My mental health history goes back around 55 years - the depression and anxiety started when I was still at school. I'm now in my late 60s. Over the decades, I managed with medication, personally invented therapies and with just...time. That meant that I knew my depression, and how to deal with it, pretty well.
Last year, that all changed, thanks to the incompetent healthcare system, here, in the UK!
In January of 2025, I was hospitalised for 3 weeks - a kidney related thing. One knee-jerk doctor's decision later and my life took a terrible turn for the worse. The doctor in charge of my case saw that I was taking amitriptyline. He saw that I was on 75mg a day.
Instead of tapering down the dose to gradually remove it, he...just...stopped...it - DEAD!
AFTER FORTY YEARS!
No medication was given to me, to compensate, or relieve! Every body part I owned was twitching, jumping and spasming. It affected my balance, my reflexes, my eyesight, my co-ordination, my speech - everything: I was in Hell! All of this was seen - nothing was done about it! Once the physical/kidney problem had been addressed, I was discharged, mid-breakdown! At least, half way through breakdown No 1.
This is how I usually tell the rest of the story...
Ian died, last year! I am merely Ian's ghost!
I haunt the house in which Ian lived when he was alive!
I'm a spectral detective, trying to figure out who Ian was, what he was like, what he did, etc..
I know Ian watched movies, because I found 800 of them, here, in the house.
I know Ian listened to music, because I found lots of it on his computers.
I know Ian read books because I found books with bookmarks in them.
I know Ian wrote a diary because I found one of them in this bedroom.
I know Ian wrote poetry because I found a few poems on this hard drive.
I know Ian ate chocolate because I found boxloads of it, here, at the house.
I know Ian was a smoker because I found a pack of cigarettes and some lighters.
I know Ian was a photographer, because I found a few expensive cameras, here.
I know Ian was a weapons collector, because the upper floor is packed with swords, knives, machetes and tomahawks.
I know Ian played chess against online computers - the links say so in this browser.
I know Ian played Gran Turismo on his PlayStation 3 - the disk was still in the machine, here.
I know Ian did weight training - the bench is still in the front room, here.
But, as Ian's ghost, I feel absolutely nothing for any of it!
Everything in that list...means nothing to me!
I don't understand why Ian did those things, or why I would want to, in the complete absence of all interest in any of them.
I no longer suffer from only something familiar, like depression. My condition is called..."Acute Dysphoric Anhedonia" - no longer just a brain chemistry thing. It's apparently a neurological condition, caused by being forced aggressively off the amitriptyline, in January of last year. My pleasure centres in the brain are chemically cut off from the rest of the brain. For that reason, I find the feeling of pleasure impossible, except in the most fleeting of situations/occasions.
That's the state in which I now am.
So, when I'm feeling the depression at full strength, I'm no longer shocked when somebody on the Mental Health Crisis Line says, "Read a book" or "Watch some TV" or "Play a game" or "Listen to some nice music". They don't understand, even in the Crisis Service, what this condition does to the patient.
MISSING: Other people (even the "experts") say, "Which hobby do you miss the most?" Yes...they don't get it, either, but understandably so, because they don't suffer from this. The person with anhedonia would LOVE to miss a hobby - WE YEARN TO MISS OUR HOBBIES, but...to miss something, you must be able to sample the former pleasure derived from having it. I can't feel pleasure at all, so I can't even miss the very hobbies that I wish I still had.
"STILL HAVE YOUR HAPPY MEMORIES": They say that to me a lot. No, I don't...I can't have my happy memories. To have a happy memory, you have to be able to "sample" the pleasure of the happiness from back then, and my brain can't do that, either. So, I don't even have the happiness of memories to turn to, for solace.
THE CRUELLEST: This is the most terrible one of them all? I know Ian was a Christian, because I found a wooden "holding" cross in his bed when I got back from the hospital - and, some crosses on the walls of his house. But, I feel nothing. Losing my Faith is the cruellest blow of all! That little wooden cross means nothing to me - it meant plenty, to Ian!
Nobody in the professions has a clue whether or not I'll ever beat this thing - they've started me on "Behavioural Activation" therapy...gentle exposure (without expectation) to things connected with those hobbies Ian engaged with when he was alive.
It is my sincerest hope that I have not depressed anybody with this account of what happened to me!
My mental health history goes back around 55 years - the depression and anxiety started when I was still at school. I'm now in my late 60s. Over the decades, I managed with medication, personally invented therapies and with just...time. That meant that I knew my depression, and how to deal with it, pretty well.
Last year, that all changed, thanks to the incompetent healthcare system, here, in the UK!
In January of 2025, I was hospitalised for 3 weeks - a kidney related thing. One knee-jerk doctor's decision later and my life took a terrible turn for the worse. The doctor in charge of my case saw that I was taking amitriptyline. He saw that I was on 75mg a day.
Instead of tapering down the dose to gradually remove it, he...just...stopped...it - DEAD!
AFTER FORTY YEARS!
No medication was given to me, to compensate, or relieve! Every body part I owned was twitching, jumping and spasming. It affected my balance, my reflexes, my eyesight, my co-ordination, my speech - everything: I was in Hell! All of this was seen - nothing was done about it! Once the physical/kidney problem had been addressed, I was discharged, mid-breakdown! At least, half way through breakdown No 1.
This is how I usually tell the rest of the story...
Ian died, last year! I am merely Ian's ghost!
I haunt the house in which Ian lived when he was alive!
I'm a spectral detective, trying to figure out who Ian was, what he was like, what he did, etc..
I know Ian watched movies, because I found 800 of them, here, in the house.
I know Ian listened to music, because I found lots of it on his computers.
I know Ian read books because I found books with bookmarks in them.
I know Ian wrote a diary because I found one of them in this bedroom.
I know Ian wrote poetry because I found a few poems on this hard drive.
I know Ian ate chocolate because I found boxloads of it, here, at the house.
I know Ian was a smoker because I found a pack of cigarettes and some lighters.
I know Ian was a photographer, because I found a few expensive cameras, here.
I know Ian was a weapons collector, because the upper floor is packed with swords, knives, machetes and tomahawks.
I know Ian played chess against online computers - the links say so in this browser.
I know Ian played Gran Turismo on his PlayStation 3 - the disk was still in the machine, here.
I know Ian did weight training - the bench is still in the front room, here.
But, as Ian's ghost, I feel absolutely nothing for any of it!
Everything in that list...means nothing to me!
I don't understand why Ian did those things, or why I would want to, in the complete absence of all interest in any of them.
I no longer suffer from only something familiar, like depression. My condition is called..."Acute Dysphoric Anhedonia" - no longer just a brain chemistry thing. It's apparently a neurological condition, caused by being forced aggressively off the amitriptyline, in January of last year. My pleasure centres in the brain are chemically cut off from the rest of the brain. For that reason, I find the feeling of pleasure impossible, except in the most fleeting of situations/occasions.
That's the state in which I now am.
So, when I'm feeling the depression at full strength, I'm no longer shocked when somebody on the Mental Health Crisis Line says, "Read a book" or "Watch some TV" or "Play a game" or "Listen to some nice music". They don't understand, even in the Crisis Service, what this condition does to the patient.
MISSING: Other people (even the "experts") say, "Which hobby do you miss the most?" Yes...they don't get it, either, but understandably so, because they don't suffer from this. The person with anhedonia would LOVE to miss a hobby - WE YEARN TO MISS OUR HOBBIES, but...to miss something, you must be able to sample the former pleasure derived from having it. I can't feel pleasure at all, so I can't even miss the very hobbies that I wish I still had.
"STILL HAVE YOUR HAPPY MEMORIES": They say that to me a lot. No, I don't...I can't have my happy memories. To have a happy memory, you have to be able to "sample" the pleasure of the happiness from back then, and my brain can't do that, either. So, I don't even have the happiness of memories to turn to, for solace.
THE CRUELLEST: This is the most terrible one of them all? I know Ian was a Christian, because I found a wooden "holding" cross in his bed when I got back from the hospital - and, some crosses on the walls of his house. But, I feel nothing. Losing my Faith is the cruellest blow of all! That little wooden cross means nothing to me - it meant plenty, to Ian!
Nobody in the professions has a clue whether or not I'll ever beat this thing - they've started me on "Behavioural Activation" therapy...gentle exposure (without expectation) to things connected with those hobbies Ian engaged with when he was alive.
It is my sincerest hope that I have not depressed anybody with this account of what happened to me!
