Sorry about the weekend blip. I was going through an existential crisis, but I’m feeling slighter saner now. Let’s blame it on the Prozac, that’s what I tend to do.

Talking about my mental health, I still haven’t told you about that support group (which I bunked off today – with my doctor’s approval).

Well, you might be aware that I was diagnosed with depression in early-mid 2006. After trying to manage the condition through natural means (exercise, self-help, etc) I succumbed to my doctor’s suggestion of Prozac in June 2006. At the time I was going through a lot of aggravation at work, and the Prozac really took the edge of my frustration and unhappiness. It was like nothing could bother me. I felt like myself, but with a thick layer of bubblewrap around my sensitive emotions. It’s not such a dramatic sensation now, as my body has become accustomed to the extra dopamine or seratonin or whatever feel-good chemicals it boosts in my brain.

Anyway, my GP also referred me for counselling. Almost a year later I get contacted by the Primary Care Trust, who decide that I would be suitable for an 8 week depression support group. I was intrigued by the idea of the group, remembering those scenes from television:

“Hello, my name is PJ and I’m an alcoholic/overeater/sex addict…”

But it wasn’t quite like that. I won’t go into specifics, as I can’t break the confidentiality of the group, but the whole thing just drove me crazy. There were 10 people there, all with very different experiences of depression and ways of coping with it. Some people seemed to love the group format and talked endlessly about their experiences, while others (like me) seethed with quiet rage and wondered how this could possibly help. The group was run by two psychotherapists, who seemed nice enough, but were not adept enough to resolve a conflict which arose between a few members during the first session. It did not feel safe enough for me to discuss my issues there. I did attend a couple more times, but each time I experienced the same feeling of anxiety, rage and frustration. I guess the Urban Recluse really should stay away from group therapy…

Apart from that sorry experience, I’ve been feeling all mixed-up. Not knowing what to do next. With hindsight, I can pinpoint certain turning points in my life. I don’t think I’ve been really happy since 2001 (my trip to Japan). I haven’t felt like an adult since March 2003 (when I moved back in with my parents). I haven’t been content in my job since I returned from Jamaica last May (and it shows – I’m like a robot there now). I long for adventure, but I don’t have the means to pursue it right now.

My books reflect my current state of mind, look at them scattered everywhere! They attacked me this evening, perhaps in bookish retaliation at my neglect. Or as a literary wake-up call.

A couple of these shelving units would probably help to maintain order, but not for $450. I could probably ask my dad to make me one.

Last Saturday morning I was drifting merrily in the land of nod, when I heard my mobile phone ringing in my bag. I turned over in bed then reached over to find that noisy object in order to find out who would be so cruel as to interrupt my Saturday morning lie-in. The display told it was Charlene, my friend Miguel’s friend.
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I’ve been going through a tumult of emotion during the past few days. (What’s so special about that? ask my long-suffering readers.)

So many extreme thoughts have gone through my mind today. I’ll probably unburden myself in another post, but for now know that I’m okay.

I happened upon this acoustic cover of Rihanna’s hit song Umbrella, and it helped to soothe my savage beast.

This guy is talented. I love his voice and his guitar skills.

When the sun shines, we’ll shine together
Told you I’ll be here forever
Said I’ll always be a friend
Took an oath, I’ma stick it out till the end
Now that it’s raining more than ever
Know that we’ll still have each other
You can stand under my umbrella
You can stand under my umbrella

Poor Britney, did you know that she turned the chance to record the song before Rihanna was offered it? The poor lass is definitely down on her luck right now.

I blogged about the original video a while ago, watch it again if you wanna see Rihanna in her golden birthday suit.

I had 3 days annual leave from work last week, which gave me about a week and a half off work in total due to my part-time regime. As I had no money and the time off was a last-minute decision I didn’t go anywhere exciting. Most days I just dossed around the house, watching telly, blogging and eating crap (as usual). The days just merged into one long solo slumber party. I did leave the house a few times, though I can’t remember why now.

And I bet that you guys didn’t notice much of a difference. I’m still a damn lazy blogger. I don’t know why you even bother to read this blog: it’s not as funny as Dr M or ES, as aesthetic as BV, as inspiring as SW or AV or AW or LS, as informed as AGD, as sexy as NoS, nor as dismal as that spineless JMC (thank godness). I’m not even a superhero like CI. For a so-called “aspiring writer” I’m not writing much, even my blog posts are rarely more than 100 words.

Oh I know, you just come here for the Sunday soft-porn show – you filthy perverts.

Sorry, I wasn’t supposed to write all of that. Last Thursday I was in such a massive rage, it was bubbling in my stomach like a fizzy lake of acid at the base of a volcano. I swallowed it and gave you all a chance to be rude instead, but as usual the bile which I kept inside still leaked out in tiny puddles of mean (like now, in case you didn’t realise – and I have NOT wet myself!).

You really don’t want me to let it all out at once. I’ve never actually completely lost my temper or released my rage. I think the free world would probably end at that moment. I would turn into some kind of mythological beast and terrorise you all with my two heads and razor-sharp fangs. I would demand daily sacrifices of the young and firm of every land, starting with Paris Hilton and Britney J-Lo. I would vanquish my enemies with fireballs (you first J.D.).

I’d probably look a bit like this, though not as pretty:

So you had all better keep me sweet. Agreed?

And by the way, I hate you all.

There’s nothing nicer than going out for a walk to see if the local supermarket is open on a Bank Holiday Monday.

It was a lovely day; the sun was shining. The streets were empty, and I traversed the back streets of my neighbourhood on my way to Tesco.

I walked past a house. A UB40 tune blared out of an upstairs window. Music for slow, sexy dancing.

Further down the road a car had paused. Rap music pumped from its speakers, the bass vibrating through me.

On the way back home a woman of my mother’s age smiled at me, and asked me if I was okay as I passed her. I nodded and smiled back.

The peak of the British summer was straddling my shoulders, like a delighted child held up by her daddy at the Notting Hill Carnival. Unlike that child, who will never be so young again, the summer will return; if not tomorrow, then next year.

Now I’m back indoors, but the summer day is reluctant to go to bed. Pale streaks suggest ebbing sunlight along the dark blue sky.