Why I can't talk to my doctor

I can't talk to my doctor because I'm British.

Not newfangled British, you understand, not the kind that runs about emoting, swearing and binge drinking. I was brought up in the old school, taught to respect authority and not bang on about oneself. If someone asks me how I am I'll probably say, "Fine" and ask them how they are. This is one reason for forcing myself to do this blog; a kind of therapy. You see, there are downsides to being my kind of Brit, especially when you're a slightly paranoid example of the species. One of those downsides is that seeing a doctor tends to go something like this:

Doctor says: "Hi, how are you?"

I hear: Quick as you can, please, I've an awful lot else to do.

I say: "Not so bad."

What I mean: I'm in agony, I've been in bed for a week, please help me!

Doctor thinks: Why are you here then, timewaster?

Doctor says: "So what can I do for you?"

I say: "Well, I've been a bit tired lately, and I keep having these symptoms ..."

What I mean: Two days ago I could barely walk, getting here was awful, I've so much to do, please help me!

Doctor thinks: Uh oh. Doctor's heart sinks. Doctor smiles reassuringly.

I see the smile, think: You think I'm a timewaster, don't you?

I say: "I just wondered if there was anything I could do, you know."

Doctor thinks: God give me strength. Where are the sugar pills?

Doctor says: "Well, maybe," and resignedly starts running through the backup questions.

What happens next depends on the doctor. If they ask about how much exercise I take, they'll prescribe me more. If they ask about family history, they'll discover the streak of depression that runs through the Bells, and decide I must be depressed, whether or not I'm actually thinking about killing myself at the time. If they ask about the symptoms, CFS has so many of those that I could end up being diagnosed with anything from anxiety to gastroenteritis, depending on which disgusting bodily malfunction it occurs to me to mention at the time.

It's not the doctor's fault. I just can't seem to communicate, however hard I try. I'm making a list for my next appointment, in the hope that it'll help. I rarely get more than three items into a list before curling up in apologetic silence, but perhaps this time it'll be different.