Mick Jagger and his merry men called them ‘Mothers little helpers’. Sadly, I am not a mother.
Antidepressants I’m referring to. I have been popping these for years now. I guess they do help. When I’m sat on the loo in the small hours of the morning, I do my business and leave. I used to sit there and dwell and let my mind fall towards a blackness that would overwhelm me; a screaming panic, a tightening of my insides as if my very giblets were being pulled from within me. At on time, this primeval fear started to encroach upon me during normal waking hours as well; paralysis would follow. I would remain like this for what seemed like ages before, somehow, I would snap out of it and function again. I would be left with a tightness in my chest which gradually faded, a bit like the fade of an attack of muscle cramp.
The downside of the pills is that existence becomes rather flat. The low points have been filled in at the expense of the high points. I don’t get excited about the prospect of future events, holidays and such like. I have no enthusiasm for anything; there is no motivation, no drive within me.
“Ya can’t have everything”.
If you add on the Covid thing, the three months of almost complete isolation, then I wonder if I am still alive. The cycle of the clock has no relevance to me. Without the interaction of the outside world, my body clock is not being regulated and so I am waking and sleeping at all sorts of peculiar times. I don’t watch live TV. British television programmes these days are just so much crap, interspersed with depressing news dominated by Covid ‘this’ and Covid ‘that’. Therefore, I don’t have the power of ‘the box’, the ‘haunted fish tank’, to help regulate my waking moments.
I don’t know where I was going with this post now. It’s just become another whinge. Repeat after me, “I must think positive! Life is fun!”
Aitch hey pee pee why,
I am aitch hey pee pee why,
I know I am,
I’m sure I am,
I’m aitch hey pee pee why!