Prozaic

Three months now since I started taking the tablets. Do I feel better?

It's hard to say. External factors beyond my control were the things that were getting me down, in the main. Anti-depressants won't solve the recession, unless you're a major shareholder in a pharmaceutical company (now there's an idea...) And I made my bed so I'd damn well better lie in it, at least until I work out a better plan.

Some of the issues that were making me feel low, I've worked hard to tackle them. Now they have been replaced by other issues instead  -  and so it goes.   It is lonely again at home now Christmas is over and the Literary Lodger has left, although the Broken-Hearted Sicilian has returned and is slightly less broken-hearted, with a mysterious smilewhich I plan to investigate in due course.

The Terrible Tweenagers are fighting raging hormones this week and so am I, suffering the impact of that dastardly plan of nature to synchronise the cycles of women who live together. What a bad evolutionary idea, it's amazing humankind progressed at all and didn't end millennia ago in some weeping family catastrophe.

At least everyone is back in the normal routine, and some semblance of stability can be restored. Not that I want things to carry on the way they are, but at least there is a rhythm to the week again now, rather than the formlessness of hanging around at home with no schedule and no bedtime and no meetings. It all feels rather like one long round of cooking and laundry and picking up shoes otherwise.

I suppose in the last three months, I have had some success of sorts. I did not jump off Beachy Head, I did not hit anyone, I survived Christmas, I came to work every day.  I've been dieting. I've been exercising. I've been working. I've been reading about poetry to try and refine my skills. I am trying to be good.

I have not been writing. It just won't come.