I deleted my last entry; it was evidence of why you shouldn't blog whilst drunk. If you read it, everything I said still stands, just in a hopefully slightly more eloquent and slightly less self-pitying way. If you didn't, you didn't miss a lot, just a rant about how sick I am of drinking so much and not eating or sleeping right. I feel like I'm on the verge of a depressive episode. That about sums it up.
I feel like I'm slipping. I'm losing perspective and an ability to judge what of which I'm feeling is real, and what isn't. Whether I have any worth, hope, future at all, whether I should bother trying to fight this one or just be done, when it always comes back around. God. I just feel like complete and utter shit, mentally, and it's making me feel the same physically, because I am losing grasp on all the basic human necessities. Nutrition, hydration, sleep... all going to pop. So I'm sitting here now in leggings, thick socks, a baggy top, a huge cardigan and a blanket, as if I am ill. I really, really need a cuppa, but I can't bring myself to walk to the kitchen. I'm feeling a bit pathetic.
I'm so anxious and paranoid, that it's making me flat and weapy. The other night I went to bed, took out my lenses and laid down in the dark, and just cried. Last night I took extra sedatives, before I could think enough to be paranoid about sleep. Ginge was so worried yesterday that she called up her doctor (mine is based in Essex) and got me temporarily registered and got me an emergency appointment for last night, but obviously there's not a lot he could do. I don't know what I need, but whatever it is, I know he'd not be able to help. Instead, he wrote me a prescription for some extra anxiety pills (I already take them twice a day, now I'm to take them three times, too), but that's about it.
Just got to keep it together until I see my GP and shrink next week, really. And then some after that, given that it's my birthday on the 1st of September, hahahaha.