I'm finally starting to write again, which is, quite frankly, an utter Gawdsend, as I'd pondered the thought that perhaps that was it and I'd shot my authorial bolt ... as it were.
Now I know I haven't - or perhaps that should be 'think' rather than 'know' - I'm marginally happier. Not that I haven't been happy ... just a tad depressed.
I went to the doctor last week and told her - I had a choice of a her or a him, and I think if you're going to spill your emotions to a doctor it's probably best to do it with a her. After all, hers are supposed to be nurturing and caring, whereas a him would just tell me to buck my ideas up and be a man.
Anyway, I told said her that I was depressed, and swifter than the fastest swallow (unladen with coconut) I had a prescriptiion for Fluoxetine - which is another name for Prozac. Yum, I thought, cantering out of the surgery. Okay, actually I had no idea what Fluoxetine was until I read the leaflet and enquired of our Oh Lord Wikipedia what doest thou say?
And then ...
... I read the side effects.
I'm still a tad depressed, but I'm not going to be joining that band wagon, thank you very much. I wouldn't mind a therapist to talk to, but as the bottom line is 'know yourself,' what on earth would I say? It'd end up being a very expensive hour of silence.
Yours, most felicitously,