Hibernation and Prozac
December 31, 2012 § 120 Comments
I have been hibernating.
Other than Christmas Day itself – which was magical, with wonderful, warm and welcoming and generous friends, despite my children being away – my heart rate has slowed. I have been at home, with my books and my duvet. I haven’t wanted actively to walk into the path of a train, but nor have I wished to engage with the world. It feels as though I have been living underwater. Numb and detached.
My ex-husband is getting married today, I think today, not sure, to his pregnant fiancee, in a far off place; our children present. Absent from me.
I am not drinking vodka. No one to drink it with. But I ought to be.
Woman’s Hour had a whole item once about what women can do on the day their ex-husband remarries. Some give parties, apparently.
Not me. This morning, I had cups of coffee with a sprinkling of girlfriends in the cafe and this afternoon I have been doing out my children’s sock and knicker drawers. I was meant to be in the arms of SYT, which would have had an erotic resonance on this, shall we say, pronounced day. Alas, life’s not so neat and tidy. Life veers, more, I find towards shit than joy. This evening, then, supper with beloved Mr and Mrs Standard Bearer. I am taking a bottle of filthy Bailey’s with me which, despite myself, and my rather more sophisticated and lofty notion of who I am, I cannot resist once in a blue bloody moon; plus one of Heston’s figgy puddings with hidden toffee sauce. So I will be with the best of friends, but sad and fat.
Then tomorrow, having taken nothing stronger than a bleeding paracetamol my whole life – oh, the odd line of coke and amphetamine, neither of which did jack shit for me – I am going to take, after weeks of deliberation and visits to my fantastic doctor and chats with my gorgeous, brilliant friend who’s a psychiatrist and whom I trust with my life and my brain, my very first happy pill, namely Fluoxetine.
I’ve done the whole shitty thing all my life, endless, infinite years of fucking shit, and these particular past years, a total virgin, unaided by anything other than the love and support of miraculous family and friends, but the time has come for a bit of added extra.
2013 has got to be different, has got to be better, and if I can get a bit different and a bit better with the aid of the contents of a little white and yellow box, and it ain’t going to change my personality or dull the keening mind (I have done much research and I am assured it will not), then so be it. The rutted pathways need to be re-routed. They ways of seeing and the patterns of believing need to be shifted, even brightened. I am tired. Pessimism is so wearing. New eyes required with which to see the world not in the dull grey of the whites just turfed out of the children’s knicker drawer, but instead with a touch of Dylon or Vanish or whatever chemical product it is which has been developed to tackle the stains.
Happy, Happy New Year to you all.