Dryathlete

I'm doing the Dryathlon challenge, where I give up the booze for a month to raise funds for Cancer Research. (Sidenote: if you want to do Dry January and you mean it about giving up for the month, do it for charity and tell everyone.) I've occasionally wondered if I'm overdoing the booze. That, or hitting thirty a few years back really did for my ability to drink and not get hangovers that stick around for whole days. So, Dry January it was.

So far it's going well. I feel better. Sleep better, less depression, more energy.

On the other hand, I'm yet again helping run the consultation on Newcastle Council's budget for this year. Sitting in a pub and refusing the beer? Easy. Surviving a week of that project and not getting home and diving into the Chardonnay? Not so easy.

Two weeks to go. Wish me luck!

Pills, Thrills and Locked Doors

Collected my prescription the other day. You know how some people say “I’m a bit OCD?” I have to resist the urge to say “Oh really? Can you leave your house without checking the door is locked ten times, then having to go back into the house and check the oven is off five times, then repeat the process with the lock? Do you put your hand inside the oven in the morning to check you turned it off? If not then dude, you are NOT PLAYING IN MY LEAGUE, you just need to REMEMBER TO TURN THE DAMN IRON OFF”.

Anyway, the prescription is for the nice happy pills that make this go away, or least lessen it to the extent that I only need to check the lock five times, and sometimes not at all if it’s a good day. The worst aspect of OCD, by the way, is that you know perfectly well you have got it, and that what you are doing is ridiculous, and you are embarassed and ashamed about it, but this is where the compulsiv
e part comes in; it’s very hard to stop.

(This is why, if you know someone has OCD, unless they’ve told you it’s okay, it’s not a great idea to comment on how often they’ve checked the lock. There is nothing rational about checking. Most folks with OCD know perfectly well that the lock doesn’t get more locked if you keep checking it. That’s not the point. The point is that you’ll be terrified out of your wits later if you can’t remember whether or not you locked it. You know the feeling you would get just before you fell off a cliff? It’s that feeling.)

I have my happy pills, which is nice. Every so often I have a conversation with the doctor along the lines of:

DOCTOR: Have you considered coming off your pills?

ME: Yes, but I’m concerned about the side-effects. (A combination of feeling depressed and losing your balance to the extent that you can’t tell where the floor is, if you’re wondering.)

DOCTOR: Perhaps you could try it when you have a stable, relatively stress-free period in your life.

ME: I’ve just bought my first home, I’m working full-time and studying part-time, my employer has made me apply for my own job three times in 24 months, and is likely to do so again this Christmas.

DOCTOR: Why don’t I write you another prescription?

At least now I know where my prescription goes to; the Boots next door to the doctor’s surgery. Last time I forgot this, ran out, applied for more pills and turned up at the surgery desperate for the pills, only to be told “Sorry, we can’t give you a prescription because the system thinks you might be over-using them.”

It’s hard to convince people you’re not over-using drugs when you are clearly on the verge of replying “No, I assure you I am not, now GIVE ME MY DRUGS!”

Half a Page of Whining

Would make for a remarkably awful blogging experience for both the author and the reader, which is why I haven't been blogging much recently. Things haven't been too easy for me lately.

A lot of people who know me know that I suffer from intermittent depression. Not, thank God, the really awful type where the world is black and the only answer seems to be jumping off the Tyne Bridge. Just the sort where the world is grey and there seems no way forward.

When I get like that, I tend to avoid people I know. It's not personal. But it's not the job of my friends to be my counsellors; it's my counsellor's job to be my counsellor, and I don't want to inflict myself on them.

A horrible aspect of being depressed, for me, is that part of me, on the inside, knows I'm ill, but the Depressed Me is standing in front of that part and speaking for me. I have cringed at some of the words coming out of my mouth when I'm depressed, because part of me is yelling "That's not me! That's not the real me!". But it's a strong illness, and hard to fight.

I'm happy to say that I'm now feeling much better, if still not 100%. I've decided in future to live my life less by the principle of "What should I do?" and more by the principle "What will make me happy?" On that note, I'm off diving tomorrow.

See you all around, and much love.

Paradoxical Antacid Tablets

Would be a really pretentious band name.

I've been suffering from heartburn recently, though it's rapidly getting better. I have no idea why this is.

But why do they make the antacid tablets so large, it really hurts to swallow them? You'd think a product aimed at people with sore oesophaguses would be easy to get down.