This morning, after Os 5am feed, I went back to sleep. I know – lazy right? I could have started some washing or done the washing up or cleaned out shithole of a bedroom in that time.
Alas, I didn’t. I drifted back into the safe haven of dreams.
I quite like it there. It is yielding some good results, probably as a side-effect of the mess my head is during the day.
At night I have ideas. I find storylines buried deep in my mind. I’m allowed to be magical and beautiful and ride around on a unicorn. Or whatever.
Yesterday I asked for help. Not with stories or fantasies but with life. I reached breaking point with the sick anxiety. I went to the Drs. I told him tearfully about my shitty week.
“Counselling or pills?” He asked.
“Pills.” Fuck it. I get a free massage every week, I know what things I need to do to make myself feel better, but I am absolutely shite at following my own advice. I’ve never opted for pills before. They’ve always been thrust upon me. This time is different. This time I can’t cease to function. This time I cannot end up with threats of hospitalisation.
So now I have a prescription for Sertraline. A new one on me.
Apparently it will stop my premature ejaculation.
I have yet to acquire the pills. Just knowing they are there seems to be enough.
I don’t want them to take away the dreams.