Outhouse blues…

So I’m sat in my outhouse smoking, pondering what the fuck to do about life right now. My Princeling is still the filthy little teen he always was, just like every boy his age. The finance company for My Lady’s car have still not got rid of it. I’m tempted to call them and tell them either they get rid or I will. I’m furloughed for another month too. Great… Living my best life!

I started attending online drop in sessions with the Cruse Bereavement Charity recently. With everyone in lockdown, it’s the only counselling/therapy I can get. The last few weeks have been hell. Up and down like a bloody yo-yo. One minute quietly numb, then BAM! Emotional freight train straight through the heart.  Did I mention?… I hate trains!

So now I’ve been on antidepressants for a few weeks now. Last week my mood fell off a cliff and I have since found myself wallowing in a deep and dark depression. So much so that I called my GP. When I couldn’t get through, I used their e-consult service thinking it would just send on my message and the doctor would call me presently. I answered a few questions and at the end, a big red box came up saying ‘Call 111, your GP, or go to an urgent day care centre now’.

‘Ok’ I thought. ‘I knew I felt bad but really?’ So I call the GP again and the doctor immediately doubled my antidepressant dose and insisted I call him every week. ‘Wow… Has it really come to this?…‘