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Odds and Ends

I made it to therapy. Which was nice. Because it's lovely to have someone say *yes, don't worrry. you're a good person. you're doing well. your family are all lunatics* and commiserate with my struggles.

T: How do you survive?
Me: With difficulty.

Me: I'm having horrific nightmares.
T: I think you're processing stuff very well. it will be really interesting to see what happens over the next few weeks.

Neil's use of the word interesting makes me increasingly uneasy but I have resolved to keep an open mind.

On the way back from therapy my eye was drawn by the magical sign proclaiming *sale* so I got a new t-shirt. It's cute. It's girly. It's springy. It has butterflies and blue and red flowers on and reminds me of one of my aunt's more misjudged curtain choices from the eighties.

Since time immemorial my family has been harping on at me about wearing undershirts in order to keep my kidneys and ovaries warm and I largely took no heed and rejoiced in walking around barefoot and showing off my bellybutton, and now at last, I reluctantly concede the point. Hence I've gone shopping for long tops, ones that easily cover my lower back and keep my kidneys blissed out.

Still doing battle with migraines, cluster headaches have been kicking my ass for days. I've cut my hair (it seemed a better idea than cutting myself). For some reason it is very soothing.

I'm no hairdresser but I've got thick hair so I can afford to mess around a bit. I proceeded to mess about and cut some layers into the hair. It looks better than I thought it would and I've also got bangs again something I haven't had for years.

I like bangs. They work with the messiness of my hair and(in my mind at least) disguise the squareness of my forehead.

I've got a sheep. Her name is Molly. She was half-price. She has a fur coat and high heels and she is a stuffed toy of obscene size. I love Molly. She is immensely comforting to me in my time of need. Probably because she's big as a small child and cuddling her feels like being curled up to a person, just one that smells nice and doesn't do irritating things like shout at me and devalue my life choices.

I realised the other day that I should probably go on meds again, and that those meds should not be SSRIs (whose most tangible effect was to ruin my sex life, thus arguably only intensifying my depression) and while hunting out information on Wellbutrin, I came across the following gem of a sentence:

Untreated depression can progress to suicide which is a terminal illness.

from http://www.mercola.com/2001/mar/7/zyban.htm

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