between the rock and the cold, cold sea

Sick.

I hate and loathe the common cold with a hatred and a loathing unmatched by any other hatred and loathing I have ever known. Not only does it make me incoherent and make my brain not to work, but I whine. I moan. I flop around the house like an aimless incoherent whining flopping thing.

I need more episodes of Angel. Or Babylon 5, or something that doesn't really require a brain. Seriously. The only time I actually like television is when I'm sick.

Season one was cool, but I finished it yesterday.

I have to go to college tomorrow. Only one lecture, but urk.

Okay, I'll stop whingeing at the internets now.

Lately, for certain values of lately, I've been feeling pretty much continuously down. Not depressed down, but lacking in energy, impetus, initiative, drive, and braincells. This feeling has been going on for at two weeks that I'm certain of, and perhaps a month before that when I was blaming all my downers on shiftwork.

It also corresponds, roughly - with, I mean, perhaps a month's margin of error - to the period where I stopped taking selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. AKA anti-depressants.

Then again, it also corresponds to a period where my sleeping and eating patterns got severely fucked up.

But my sleeping and eating patterns are no longer severely fucked up: in fact, I've almost got them back on track. And yet I still feel down.

Does this mean, then, that I need medications to regulate my brain chemicals? Or does it simply mean that I've finally killed enough braincells to make me stupid? Or does it just mean I need to get my thyroid hormone replacement dosage adjusted*?

Because I feel stupid-slow. Lethargic. And this could be a thyroxine issue, or it could be a depressant issue, or it could be a lifestyle issue (I need to be doing more exercise, but I don't have the initiative or feel I have the energy, bleh), or it could be some other kind of thing.

And if I visit the doctor, I will being spending fifty euro to be told a)I have nothing wrong with me, b)he doesn't know what's wrong with me, or c)yes, we can do something about this, but the tests/prescription will cost another fifty euro and oh, come back in a couple of weeks.

There are times when I hate my life, and my self. Today is one of them.

*I have hypothyroidism. Occasionally it complicates things.

And lo the sixth day of the Ick dawned upon me, and I was feeling slightly better, but not nearly better enough.

Ye gods and little fishes, I'd give a lot to be able to think clearly again. To have no itchy-scritchy hives, no aches, the ability to eat a decent meal without feeling sick - I'm living on pears, chocolate, water and bread, since anything else induces Bad Feelings - no sinus drips, no phlegm, no feelings of shaky coldness, and most especially to be able to think clearly again.

I broked my brain. Is it still under warranty?

Ah, pay me no attention. I'm only whingeing. I did manage to read a book of plot more riveting than Suetonius' Lives of the Caesars (my friend in my sickness, after endless DVDs of Buffy the Vampire Slayer wore thin. If I watch more moving pictures on a screen this month, my brain will explode. No, really.), though. Karen Traviss' (karentraviss) Star Wars: Republic Commando: Triple Zero is well worth the purchase price, and that's about as much sense as my poor abused medicated synapses are going to make of it until later.

Goodnight and good luck.

Notice to those who have this journal on their flists: posting around here may be scarce while I'm struggling to overcome the urge to keep my head buried in the sand.

I say 'may' because the last time I said 'will' I went over on my ankle and ended up confined to the house for the better part of a week. So, y'know, what happens happens.

Notice to the world: stop trying to crush me with meaninglessness, right?

And no, I'm not talking about anything in particularly, but I'm really tired of feeling all crush-able and brittle and waiting for the penny to drop and shatter.

So, stop it, okay? Because I am just about Fed Up to here with it.


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In other news, I have written page 85 of the bloody novel-thing, and I have a splinter in my foot that refuses to come out.

I shouldn't post this. I just want to curse, just - shit, I don't know. If you read this and it offends you, leave me a comment and I'll delete. I probably shouldn't use LJ as a venting site for undirected angst, but hell. I'm too tired to care.

Shit, I'm so tired. Tired enough that my head swims when I try to form the concepts I need to finish this assignment. I've been writing it all day, and what does it say about me that I can't kick out a miserly 400 more words? Well, not and have them make any sense.

Urgh. Gah. I am so fucking screwed. Why did I take an arts moderatorship, anyway, and not go for science? At least science doesn't have way the fucked up reading lists. Want to go back and studying the life sciences. Fuck I'm screwed. Can I just quit and reapply now? Cause I love the ancient-y history bits, but fuck, you can always study the history-type bits on your own. Tell me why the fuck am I cursing? Shit, shit, shit.

Cut me half a fucking break. I never thought I'd miss fucking mathematics. Subject from hell. Just let me turn back the clock to my application form. Or let me reapply and do science. Because fuck I do miss it. And science is at least structured.

Damnit, I probably shouldn't post this. Ignore me, okay? Just venting. Whining. Whingeing. I'm one of the lucky bastards. One of the lucky ones, right. I should be grateful to even have this fucking opportunity, and what am I doing? Wasting it. Being the world's worst fucking idiot, with my head stuck up my own arse. Damnit.

Damn, damn, damn.