The Season of the Slutbitch is on day 12 and Hamish is coping okay with his moody and irritable sister; she just wants peace and quiet, while he just wants zoomies and sex – I don’t think he’s too fussed as to which. He’s doing a lot of lying down and huffing, his sad golden eyes looking longingly at her. Apparently zoomies with me are just not the same, and as for the sex, well……what can I say? 😉 Coffee and Iggy Pop time, before opening those books.
Depression is such a downer – you think you’re coping okay, and then suddenly you realise that a whole day has just passed you by; a whole day that could have been filled with life, but you’ve just wasted it on internalised drifting – which, by definition, is limited and has hard surrounding walls that merely bounce you back on yourself. No flying high, or dreaming on the wind, just cocooned in a cotton wool blackness.
I’ve been on Citalopram at 40 mg for years now, and I’m wondering if I should go back and harass the doctor for a change in meds; they make a huge difference, but the deep hole I’m in now belies that. But I have that quandary – scared of change, better the devil you know and all that, and a lacklustre feeling of despair and numbness (contradictory, I know) which prevents all positive action, and turns it into a minute by minute fight.