(no subject)
So it is all swings and roundabouts here. I ran out of antidepressants, gave my last two to my brother (he's newly on the same stuff at the same dosage) and though I knew crashing off them was probably not the wisest thing to do, still I had a feeling I might be all right. Specifically, my brother was so concerned to cover the gap before he could renew his prescription because he knew even a small lapse would likely entail swift and severe punishment, and I thought yes, that was what it was like, but that isn't how I feel any more. People had told me you know when you're ready to come off antidepressants, and so I'd been waiting for that certainty and it hadn't come. But I did know I could go a day or two without the sort of crap that would once have happened. And then a week passed without any unpleasant consequences, and it felt as if I might as well keep going and see what happened, and now it's been almost a month, and there have been a few bad and scary days, but so far I've been able to see the symptoms trying to sneak up on me and bash them over the head with a hefty stick and the difference is they stay down.
(I have been to the doctor about this, albeit after the fact. I was rather touched by both the GP's and the nurse's reaction: their faces sort of lit up and they said "oh that's great!" and ... yes, yes it is.)
I even had a dream that was built out of stress dream components -- (I'm driving a car and suddenly remember I can't drive) -- which then turned into, well:"Oh no! Can't cope! Scary situation! ...which I am... fine with, somehow. Might as well just carry on driving my car, then. Off we go, then, tralalala."
However I can't really ENJOY my newfound lack of crazy, because...
So, I love my London, and my Victorians, and my Victorian London, but nevertheless my plan on moving here was not to spend my ENTIRE FIRST MONTH COUGHING. It's very old school, especially for a writer, but thank you, no.
Currently not in London but in parents' house, rather feebly located in bed, in some confusion as to how to proceed. Go back to doctor? (seem to be getting kind of better and according to what she said last time it's a virus anyway so no antibiotics) Doctor here or in London? Move? Don't move? Bah. I am now coughing only occasionally which is just as well because now when I do it HURTS LIKE A PICKAXE-WIELDING BASTARD. I have spent days half-convinced I'd broken a rib. Now largely back to thinking it's just muscular, because the internet seems full of testimony that yes, fucking up your intercostal muscles really is that bad of an idea. So... yay?
Ah, I want to be exploring the Thames and going to the theatre. And, specifically, today, buying a top hat.
Still, I managed to write another pro story, actually on time and everything. Also, we did actually use up the onions.
Meanwhile, sticking with health-related matters, my father continues to be bafflingly well to the extent one almost suspects the doctors who told us he was basically done for of just picking a prognosis out of a hat.
(I have been to the doctor about this, albeit after the fact. I was rather touched by both the GP's and the nurse's reaction: their faces sort of lit up and they said "oh that's great!" and ... yes, yes it is.)
I even had a dream that was built out of stress dream components -- (I'm driving a car and suddenly remember I can't drive) -- which then turned into, well:"Oh no! Can't cope! Scary situation! ...which I am... fine with, somehow. Might as well just carry on driving my car, then. Off we go, then, tralalala."
However I can't really ENJOY my newfound lack of crazy, because...
So, I love my London, and my Victorians, and my Victorian London, but nevertheless my plan on moving here was not to spend my ENTIRE FIRST MONTH COUGHING. It's very old school, especially for a writer, but thank you, no.
Currently not in London but in parents' house, rather feebly located in bed, in some confusion as to how to proceed. Go back to doctor? (seem to be getting kind of better and according to what she said last time it's a virus anyway so no antibiotics) Doctor here or in London? Move? Don't move? Bah. I am now coughing only occasionally which is just as well because now when I do it HURTS LIKE A PICKAXE-WIELDING BASTARD. I have spent days half-convinced I'd broken a rib. Now largely back to thinking it's just muscular, because the internet seems full of testimony that yes, fucking up your intercostal muscles really is that bad of an idea. So... yay?
Ah, I want to be exploring the Thames and going to the theatre. And, specifically, today, buying a top hat.
Still, I managed to write another pro story, actually on time and everything. Also, we did actually use up the onions.
Meanwhile, sticking with health-related matters, my father continues to be bafflingly well to the extent one almost suspects the doctors who told us he was basically done for of just picking a prognosis out of a hat.