I have been to see my family doctor about my current condition (anxiety and depression), and he prescribed me a higher dose of my present medication, put me on a waiting list to see a psychiatrist, and filled out a form that grants me a couple of weeks of stress leave from work.
My adjustment to a higher dose of medication has left me dizzy and emotionally numb, it turns out that the psychiatrist will not be able to see me until October, and the two weeks of stress leave is slowly dwindling itself down to nothing while I get no better and may, in fact, be worse.
There are good things happening, though. I have lost six pounds, which means that my inner thighs are not tossing themselves up against in each in great slapping waves as often as they used to. I have more colour in my cheeks than I have had in months. I feel physically healthier. I even sleep through the night now.
Still, though, I am spending my days staring at the furniture and feeling completely impotent as far as accomplishing any of the projects I have on the go, AND I WANT TO COMPLAIN ABOUT IT.
I want to be a big howling, spoiled baby and throw myself on the floor. I want to reject everyone's attempts to pacify me. I want to cry so hard that my nose starts bleeding. I want to take my brain, psychiatric drugs, the psychiatric system, and all this hot, sweaty weather to court for being entirely unfair.
Plus, I'm drinking so much tea that I am peeing constantly, and we are out of toilet paper.
And I found a pile of stinky cat poo that one of those buggers we keep around here tried to hide under two of my favourite shirts. I'm taking that poo to court, too. It was nearly inexpungible.
Also, sushi isn't free. I'm broke. I hate my new antiperspirant. This first-world pissant is ANNOYED.
(That orange masthead I had at the top of this website was killing me. I don't know why, but it kept stabbing my brain, so I gave it the boot. If you're reading this in a feedreader, click on over to check it out.)