One of my psychiatrists told me to put on a pretty dress and go dancing. I was suicidal at the time. Another one quite literally could not speak English. The other just looked through a medical diary for twenty minutes without speaking to me, then left the office saying he'd be back in a minute and didn't return (after half an hour I showed myself out.)
After three months as an inpatient after a nervous breakdown in my twenties a consultant, who had never even met me before, said that she had no idea why my GP had suggested I be admitted in the first place (well gee I dunno, you mean I've been here for three months being pumped full of drugs for no reason?)
You might say that the NHS mental health service failed to live up to my expectations, yes. I'd go even further and say they were all beyond useless and right out the other side, to the point that at times I felt I was living in a black comedy.
Fortunately I have had two superb GPs to counterbalance those experiences.
Ten years later I worked out all by my own sweet self that I was autistic, hence my thirty-odd years of stress and misery and exhaustion were not "all in my head", and were of course not likely to be improved by a posh frock and a quick boogie down the local disco.
Suddenly, people of the medical variety are taking me VERY seriously.
I often wonder how many other people are like me, but just don't put two and two together.
I think it's an awful lot.