That Shrinking Feeling

Posted on 19th October 2026

I have a very high opinion of psychiatrists. As a former guest of one of Britain’s fine mental institutions I feel I am qualified to say that. I am always impressed by the way the many members of this fine body manage to sham their way through a salaried career, successfully convincing their employers that they have some sort of idea as to what they are doing.

Initially I thought it was my early experiences which had coloured my opinion. Perhaps I had just been unlucky in my first encounter; a Scotsman called Doctor Reid, who was based at Parkside Hospital in the neighbouring town of Macclesfield, but who made visits to the hospital in Congleton, where I lived.

Dr Reid combined so many negative elements into one person that I feel he ought to receive some sort of qualification for that alone. It was the way he was able to be offensive with so little apparent effort which impressed me most.

One important psychiatric principle at least he had learned: not to internalise his feelings, which in his case was his contempt for his patients. At first I thought he simply didn’t like me, which was fair enough, if rather personal. Then I wondered if he just didn’t like the English, which I could understand, and tolerate. But eventually I realised he didn’t like anyone. More to the point, he was contemptuous of everyone. His face was mainly expressionless, or perhaps slightly morose, but from time to time it would develop a sneer. It was an excellent sneer; I have seldom seen it equalled, let alone surpassed.

The way his manner manifested itself most obviously was what might be called the GP’s approach; he didn’t pay attention to what I said. But where a humble GP with little experience in such matters will reveal himself by writing out a prescription for you while you are still describing your symptoms, Dr Reid carried it a stage further. He let his gaze wander. In fact he rarely looked at me at all. He would look away, out of the window, anywhere but at his patient, whom he clearly found tedious and boring. He may not have picked his nose and yawned, but he gave the wonderful impression of doing so.

He did tell me one thing though. He told me I had agoraphobia. This was not the correct diagnosis, but at least it was a recognised psychiatric term. He prescribed various drugs, none of which worked. The only difference was that my condition deteriorated. Initially apathetic he soon completely lost interest. The closeness of the relationship declined. The passion had gone.

I don’t want to depress people so I will simply say that some weeks later I tried to kill myself – obviously, as you are reading this, failing to do so. My only memento is a lead slug which remains lodged in my thick skull from my .22 air rifle.

When I was next conscious and in a clear enough frame of mind to appreciate my position I realised I had messed up. I was still there. Or possibly still here. In Parkside Hospital. Well, things couldn’t get any worse, could they? They could. Dr Reid was put in charge of my case. He was clearly very disappointed in my behaviour. It reflected badly on him. I wondered if they’d stopped something out of his pay. As an added insult I had missed my last appointment with him.

But now I was inside his territory. I saw him every week in a scene rather like that depicted in the famous painting ‘When did you last see your father?’ I sat facing a large desk behind which sat Dr Reid and a number of other psychiatrists. Well, I suppose they were psychiatrists – they never introduced themselves as such. They may have come in by mistake. All I can remember is that there were two Asians – Indian I think – a man and a woman. I remember this because I couldn’t understand a word they said, with the result that the man rapidly gave up all attempt at communication and the woman had to repeat herself at least three times before I could guess her meaning. But Dr Reid was the one who directed things. He was back on form again. The chip on his shoulder had grown to almost monstrous proportions.

He mocked my way of speech, which was, I admit, rather pompous for someone of my age. It still is, come to think of it.

He would ask me a question, then turn to one or more of his colleagues and start a conversation with them, ignoring me as I answered him.

I am not particularly patient or tolerant, and in the end I’d had enough. I can’t remember what he asked which triggered it, but I responded by telling him I didn’t like him, and why.

I expected the atmosphere in the room to change, to become tense. I waited for Dr Reid to summon the burly male nurse with the syringe or one of those exciting electric prods which would send me writhing to the floor, twitching uncontrollably. But the others didn’t appear to be much interested; I wondered if they had been listening. Still, at least Dr Reid had. I awaited his response. Anger, perhaps? Would he reveal something of himself to me? But I seemed to have barely registered. What he said instead was this:

‘How long have you had these feelings of dislike for me?’ He had won again.

The course of treatment I had to follow was called Systematic Desensitisation. It was a good, solid, professional-sounding term. I liked it. The term that is. The treatment was notable for being very hard to endure, and causing a decline in my health. Dr Reid clearly felt I was doing it on purpose, in order to undermine his position. His paranoia was growing. When I suggested the treatment may not be working he became visibly disturbed. With such a clear case of denial I was reluctant to push his already teetering mental stability too far, and conceded that as the patient I could hardly be expected to judge such matters.

More than ten years on I was to have another interesting encounter. This time it was a psychiatric nurse rather than a doctor of psychiatry. When he learned that the method of treatment I had undergone was systematic desensitisation for agoraphobia he was displeased. He obviously felt that I ought to have known better. In tones of mild reproof he informed me that this method had been discredited, and was now regarded as doing more harm than good. Also I clearly had social phobia not agoraphobia, a distinction of great importance – though in what way it was important, other than in its spelling, he never succeeded in making entirely clear to me.

When I politely put it to him that the method he was propounding – graded exposure, a term which sounded more like a sexual offence than a medical treatment – might be equally unfashionable in another ten years he took it well. I felt pleased for him. There was a possibility of recovery.

The graded exposure treatment was not a success – but at least it did not seem to have made my condition worse. My condition had got worse, but this was due to diazepam addiction, and I could hardly hold the psychiatrists responsible for that, for they had been assured it was not addictive. The manufacturers had told them so, and they seemed like trustworthy, professional people, unlike their patients, who were clearly mentally disturbed.

I’m not sure what Dr Reid’s exact position was, but it was obviously not the lowest, as I only saw him once a week – a relief for both of us – seeing at other times another psychiatrist called Dr Kennon, another Scotsman. This made me uneasy; I wondered if it was all part of a sinister plot. But Dr Kennon was different. He was in his sixties, and had been a GP, having only just realised the advantages of psychiatry – as a GP he was expected to cure people, often involving unpleasant physical contact and uncongenial working hours. He could put all that behind him now. But he showed an encouraging amount of effort, even enterprise. On one occasion I went to his office, sat down in the chair opposite him and waited for him to start. I waited for several minutes. His nerve broke first. He had apparently wanted to know how long it would take before I either said something or made eye contact with him. I am not sure why; perhaps he felt he ought to try something innovative. I felt encouraged by his enthusiastic approach. There was a possibility of improvement in his condition.

However after several weeks he cracked and confessed to me: ‘With your insight into your problem, you shouldn’t have it.’ He was obviously distressed, and I felt guilty – he had gone to all that effort, been through all that training, and I had let him down. It was an unhappy moment for both of us. I felt I ought to comfort him, realising how important it was that he should be allowed to cling on to his beliefs. After all, none of his peers would expect him to cure a patient, would they? In fact I felt his life may have been in danger had he done so.

I would like to think that he was able to put my case behind him and make a full recovery; I certainly hope so.

There was another man in my life at this time, but I cannot remember his name now. He wasn’t a psychiatrist, but a psychologist. He was a small man, and painfully shy. He had an embarrassing way of leaving the talking to the person he was interviewing. It was difficult, but I learned to supply both sides of the conversation, asking the sort of question I thought he would like to ask, then answering it. Sometimes I would run out of material and there would be a long silence until his attention returned. I was concerned he may have been abusing drugs of some sort.

Once he managed to get round his problem by giving me a questionnaire to fill in. It had a curiously dated look to it, as if it had originally been prepared in the 1950s. The only question I can remember from it was ‘Do you find tall women attractive?’ I still wonder whether the compiler had slipped that one in as a joke or if it was supposed to lead to some insight into the patient’s nature. I hope it was the former.

As a final experiment he took me shopping in Macclesfield, as a test of my ability to cope with the presence of other people. I remember him taking me into a clothing store to buy some children’s underwear. I am not sure to this day who was the one who profited more from this experience.

I would like to believe he did. These poor people need our help and sympathy.