21 April 2013

I'm glad I'm on antidepressants because they stop me crying. Actually, that might not be such a good thing. Maybe I could do with a good weep. I just drove 60 miles to meet up with friends, then 60 miles back. The reason for not stopping? I got out of the car and realised I felt too unsteady to make the 100m or so, then the stairs, then actually spend time doing what I went for.

That is, I think, the final nail in my coffin. I can now do nothing independently, unless I can go by public transport.

I looked at the beautiful bottle of Irish malt whiskey sitting on my kitchen work top and mused that drinking myself into an early grave is starting to look more and more attractive with every passing day.

I'm sure things will look better in the morning.