It seems feeble but I have started a course of anti-depressants. The events of the last few months- longer even - have taken their toll and I reluctantly decided it was necessary before I become a complete bore to everyone around me. Whilst I would never find it amiss for friends to resort to pharmaceutical aids it did take me a while to admit I might need them myself. About fifteen years ago I took Efexor for six months and was impressed by how much better it made me feel; I remember catching myself really enjoying something and being startled by my own enjoyment. We can bump along on the bottom of the emotional floor without realising there is anything wrong. A level of anxiety and unhappiness becomes normal. Probably that is why the shop has ceased to give me any pleasure and why I feel tired all the time.
Right now I'm in the first uncomfortable days when the drug (not Efexor this time) is permeating my brain - hopefully - and there are uncomfortable side effects with no appreciable improvement in mood. Even so the very act of taking them has given me a more hopeful attitude. Two days ago I serously doubted I could produce any Christmas jollity at all, which would have been a shame as it's the first Christmas dinner I'm not in any way responsible for except for steaming the pudding. We're having roast wild boar. I was asked to find recipés and Google did not disappoint. The one I was most pleased with was found on the walls of Pompeii - I suppose they needed a relief from the erotica. In the end almost all the recipes (including the Pompeii one) involved long marinading in sweet wines with spices. So that is what is happening.
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