I fell off the Happy Wagon today. Right off. And I possibly got run over by it too, just to finish me off.
Over the last few weeks I’d almost convinced myself things were almost right back to better. That I was happy again and nothing was going to bring me back down.
Then I got tired. And got some bad news. And had an argument. And fell apart.
Next thing I know I’m back on the same old middle-of-nowhere bridge looking at the same old brook that I used to storm to when I was a teenager. It’s concrete, chipped, bashed, battered, old and rusting. It’s cold to sit on but it’s quiet and aside from the odd dog walker it’s almost guaranteed to be yours and yours alone for as long as you want it.
So I sat there in the late September sunshine and tried to work out where I had gone so wrong. I didn’t want to go home. Not for Sy. Not for Tori. Not even for Arthur. I just wanted to be on my own, shivering and miserable for the rest of forever. I wanted to sit on that bridge until it got dark and I fell asleep and no longer had to worry about anything.
For no good reason.

I did go home eventually. A sense of responsibility won out and I shakily returned.
Tomorrow I have to go explain all this to my doctor and see if we can change my happy pills or something because I’m not doing so great on these at the moment. I feel lost in my own life and I’m frightened. It will get better. I will get better. I’m just not there yet.

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