December Update – Part Two…Which is Actually a January Update, But Whatever

Greetings, strangers, and welcome. Please beware that because I’ve been too crap to update this blog properly for ages that this post is frustratingly long.

This is sort of continued from here. I considered splitting this into two posts but since when I write entries called ‘Blah Yakka Meh – Part One’ a ‘Blah Yakka Meh – Part Two’ doesn’t often seem to transpire, I decided against it.

I am indeed still in the land of the living, not that anything about the pursuit of living my life is particularly interesting. Which is partly why I haven’t written anything substantive in forever – though most of it is down to anhedonia. Or laziness. Whatever. I don’t feel especially depressed as of this writing, but the weird thing about depression, as I’ve found it at least, is that you can be in an episode without realising it. In fact, I’m going to (sort of) empirically test that contention…

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Wishing You a Most Pleasant…

I’ve been horrifically remiss about posting lately (and, in particular, about responding to comments). If you have any sense, you don’t give a damn, but since I do have some readers, and since I’ve been a non-existent twat on Twitter for ages, I wanted to wish you all a very happy Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah/Saint Nicholas Day/Epiphany/Diwali/[insert festival of your persuasion here.]

I will update properly soon.

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December Update – Part One

Sorry to those of you who commented on the last post that I haven’t yet responded to. When I started my ex-blog, I felt compelled to reply to every comment that was left for me, and that continued for a while. When it waned, I vowed that any new blog would not fall fowl to the same affliction – and yet it has. In my defence, my mental health isn’t great at the minute and I’ve always been a terrible correspondent, but I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.

Anyway, for those of you that follow me on Twitter or Facebook – my real life Twitter or Facebook accounts, that is, for I have not been following the ones allied to this blog for several weeks – you’ll know that further to my dilemminating last entry, I did in fact go to Edinburgh with my mother. I emailed the letter I’d composed to my therapy centre and they were gracious enough to accept it, instructing me to simply turn up at the next week’s meeting. As it turned out, I wasn’t the only person to miss the first week, but I’ll come to that.

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Group Therapy vs Mother’s Birthday Showdown

Just a quick post. I have got myself into a right disaster here. My mother was 70 in September, and not having a clue what to get her, I bought her a couple of days in Edinburgh for said city’s Christmas markets. My usual terror of the phone prevented me from having the bloody sense to ring one of her friends and ask if they would be available to attend. So, with a reluctance I shouldn’t be allowed to feel, I booked myself on the flights with her.

No problem. Not my idea of an exciting few days, but whatever. If my mother enjoyed it, that was the main thing.

Moving on. Having discussed the potential group therapy with my therapist, it was agreed that I would go ahead with it. At our last individual session last week, I said to him, in relation to same, “well, I’ll see you in a fortnight then.” The fortnight in question is up on Tuesday coming when the group assembles for the first time.

I was sitting about picking my arse yesterday when I realised with horror that the Edinburgh trip is from Monday to Wednesday coming. It clashes with the first group therapy session.

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10,593

This post is a pity-party of misery. You probably don’t want to read it, particularly if you’re feeling low yourself.

As of 8.15pm yesterday evening, I have existed on this planet for 10,593 days.

It means I’m now 29.

I remember once as a child, a friend and I talking about blokes we fancied. I genuinely don’t remember who I referenced in the conversation, but it was someone over 30 (I’ve always been attracted to older men. Indeed, The Man is 10 years older than me.) My friend posited that “30 [was] really old,” was I mad?! (Quite probably, but for entirely different reasons.)

I didn’t see being 30 as “old.” Much as still do as an adult, I’d sit there and imagine myself at the age I now find myself as someone successful, happy, witty, everything going for her.

Not as an overweight Venlafaxine addict with no career struggling with bills and state benefits and bi-fucking-polar disorder.

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