She Blinded Me With Science

Time for another experiment, dear readers. This time, unlike my previous posts on the subject of mind-altering substances, this one is entirely serious. Doubtless it will come as no surprise to my remaining readers (ie Cheeks and Matt), but I, along with half the western world, have been prescribed anti-depressants. I wonder what took them so long. My fear of doctors, probably. But it seems that things I thought were normal - utter lack of interest in career, trouble sleeping, rubbish concentration - are symptomatic of depression, along with a number of other things I've generally lived with for a few years (no, being right wing is NOT one of them). It was a self-pitying email to my mother that finally persuaded me -or rather she did - to see a proper quack this week. So I have spent the day enjoying the various side-effects of Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors. I was warned that during the adaptation phase the symptoms for which I am being treated may increase, along with other, rather more interesting side-effects. I started on Thursday.

Since then I have experienced:

constant low level shaking;
constant drowsiness but inability to sleep;
increased depression and mild suicidality (a word I thought I had invented many years ago, but it turns out to be real) - ie silly fantasies which I remember now having as a teenager - don't worry dear reader, it's just like being fourteen again, or eighteen, in my case;
palpitations & general increased anxiety;
anorgasmia (don't ask);
bruxism -(weeping and)grinding of teeth(though I get this anyway).

And it's true. It does affect your driving. I was struggling to find third and fifth gears. Or maybe the transmission on the old Fiesta is giving out.

I haven't quit the booze, though I have cut it in half, and I think probably that has something to do with it. The quack said I didn't have to give it up but the pack's instructions are fairly brusque on the matter. So I guess I will try. I don't feel like a drink anyway. I feel like breaking up with my Stella...

In other words, whereas I didn't feel too bad, just generally rubbish, now I feel utterly crap.

You might wonder why you are being subjected to this. Well. I went to the quack's because I am utterly fed up with what Will Self correctly called The Talking Curse in his book of short stories, Grey Area, and my mum insisted I do something about it, making her about the fifth in line from the ex, my dad, my landlady and my sister's boyfriend (don't ask). Talking through problems often makes them worse, activates and doubles the bastards, increases self-absorption and pity. And I've been there and done that, endlessly.

So I wanted something chemical.

But I can't altogether get rid of the urge to talk about myself.

So here it is.

Hey ho. Ten O Clock and I'm blogging on my bed. Alone.