My libido is on anti depressants


And anxiety is my middle name. Depression is exhausting. It’s bullshit, actually. I spend as much time as I can in bed, sleeping, only sleeping, or attempting to sleep. There is nothing in my life for me to be depressed about but that doesn’t stop me. I’m lucky I understood depression before I got it, because of Libby. Being Libby’s big sister taught me so much about mental illness. I knew if she could, that she would be up and about and that, snap out of it and think happy thoughts would never cut it. Knowing you have what you want and you still can’t get out of bed is depressing. Depression makes depression makes depression. And anxiety. What the Hell do I have to be anxious about? The sky has fallen, Libby is dead, brush off the clouds and get on with it.

So it’s chemical. Sling some tablets at it and get on.

And be kind to yourself.

Cut yourself some slack.

My version of cutting myself slack seems to be eating junk food in ever-enlarging proportions. Don’t tell anyone, but I have put on ten kilos since this time last year, and six kilos in the eight months before that. I told you my dead sister is making me fat.

Procrastination is driving and shame has the map.

I dream about Libby but I can’t reach her.

But it’s not all bad even though my jeans wonder what on Earth I’m doing with my life. Today my middle son, PVP, was home from school for Curriculum Day. We had cuddles, I bought him a Simpsons comic, and we hung out in a café. He’s chatty, has ideas, needs a haircut, he prefaces a question with, ‘Mummy, can I ask you a question?’ and he says it a lot. His birthday is in ten days. He’s been counting down since Christmas. It was lovely to be with PVP and simply be, no hassling about homework and shoes and wet towels on the floor, repeat. And it was easy to be thankful.

Anxiety, depression, flab, I smiled and was thankful.

And I figured out how to stop the chocolate.

You say NO. You say it with a capital letter tone. You say it anytime the idea pops into your head. I look like I’m having an angry one-sided conversation with myself, NO, NO, NO, No. But for two days it has worked.

Two days? Is that all?

More like, two days, that’s excellent.

Previous to that I was going with, Come on, be good to yourself, be patient.

Ha! I don’t do patience, being good to myself is way too broad, and if I’m eating like chocolate like it’s about to be withdrawn from sale then the shame spiral is too twisted to think I’m worth being good to. You know it’s serious when you drive out of your way to supermarkets where no one you might know will see you buying your fix. Shame in a shiny wrapper. Yuck. When I feel like that I feel like my grandfather’s abuse victim; out of control, someone with so little regard for herself that she’s not worth looking after.

Anxiety, depression, flab, I say, NO!

It’s working. It will work.

I have too much to do, see, love.

Like my sons.

Last week I spied my eldest son, Big H, walking home from school. I slowed down and rolled down my window, I couldn’t stop smiling at the poor kid, I love you, Biggie. I reminded myself of one of those crazy-in-love types, too smiley for her own good. Big H grinned and waved and I didn’t curb crawl down our street just to be with because that’s silly. But how I love the look of him, tallish, strong, handsome, a young man in his world. I realised I have a crush on him, that’s how good it felt too catch unexpected glimpse of him.

Anxiety, depression, flab and love.

I’m thankful and I can say NO.

I’m in a rebuild. I will stick with the medication, the anxiety will stop screaming, the depression will sleep on the floor where it belongs, and my libido will come back to bed. Come back to bed.




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