I was gleeful too quickly. Too complacent (aren’t we all nowadays?). I must understand, from my struggles against it, that it is by no means self-induced. Nor could it be overcome by sheer willpower (try doing that with appendicitis won’t you?). It is biological. Definitely, maybe. And in my quest for Prozac it seems I must yet again trudge down to that dreaded place, and be quizzed to death by psychiatrists who read two pages of your history and claims to know you. I must put out my card, by now yellowed and crumpled, and waited for hours in the cold waiting room. I must sit down and state my symptoms. Except with this sort of thing I can’t just tell it all in seconds. I must lead herr doktor through my case file, bring him to back to the past, remind him of the lead characters, repaint my life after -, how I climbed back up from the abyss of the dead (or more accurately, less poetically, my bed), and how, now, I’m back in that same seat, sniffling. I must re-describe the signs – the bad dreams, the uncontrollable sobs on the train, the twisting of the fingers, the thrill of having the cat claw my hand till the skin peel off, the breathlessness, the sorrysorrysorrys, the weekend spent in bed worrying about the broccoli out there, wilting – Starkey would have to go without it for now, three broccolis gone! I shouldn’t be thinking about broccoli.. shouldn’t be thinking about it at all. All I want is to be on Prozac again. Maybe I shouldn’t never have gotten off it. It works long-term. Without it, it’s just short-term straight-line surrogate happiness.
Filed under: humdrum
