Testing, testing

I have made a gross error in judgement.  I was supposed to be going to see the doctor after work today, to finally start sorting all this tiresome shit about medication or therapy or whatever the fuck is going on, which I have continually put off since diagnosis but thought I had eventually summoned up the courage to face.  I rang today to cancel it because I'm 'covering a lesson in the afternoon.'

But I'm not covering a lesson in the afternoon.  That is a bare-faced, bare-arsed fucking lie.  I don't have anything in the afternoon except an appointment with a whiskey and a withering sense of self-loathing.  I got scared.  I didn't want to go and I haven't even bothered rearranging, I've just said I'll contact them soon.

What I'm scared of, I've no idea.  Dr Watson is perfectly pleasant and I don't anticipate her being anything other than the pinnacle of professionalism she has been thus far.  She isn't going to make me whip of my undies and perform the cough test or whisk me away for sectioning.  This was supposed to be to start making this better, and for reasons unbeknownst I am epically scuppering that.

Unfortunately, the abject disappointment in myself too often manifests itself in over-consumption of alcohol and an inevitable spiral into further despair.  And while I think that shows a remarkable level of self-awareness, it's hardly of help when I'm not doing anything to prevent it.  But I do want to prevent it, and in that vein, I'm going to do a little test, to prove my resolve.  I'm putting this piece up now, and I'm going to come back in a few hours, and if I'm not drunk by then then something's gone right.  I'm going to see if I can stop myself.

So it's all good fun.

- - -

Later

It could've gone better, the whole 'not drinking' thing.  It could've gone better but it was fucked from the start really, I knew I was going to the pub even before I finished the fucking first bit, I don't know why I even bothered.

It was one of those moods, one of those manic moods when I feel like laughing or crying or screaming and I don't know which one but none of them would really be appropriate so I just don't say anything and I get a beer at the pub and sit on my own in the empty garden and look at the foxes passing outside the gate.  I felt happy earlier, for a bit, but whenever I feel that happy without good reason it always turns into this.  It makes me scared to be happy.  I wish I hadn't gone but if I keep drinking and I keep smoking then I don't have to think about laughing or crying or screaming.  I can wait to calm down.  I'm still waiting.

If I didn't have work in the morning I could just drink until I fell asleep, but I'll regret that even more than I regret this.  I don't know what the fuck I'm doing right now.  I might just carry on but I know I'm only making it worse for later.  I don't know what I'm doing.

It'll be funny later.  Tomorrow, maybe.