It’s mental health awareness week. Have we all been aware? Shit, I’ve been too busy binge-eating myself stupid to be aware.
Quick, someone grab my shoes, I need to go on a mental health walk.
The eating shizzle has gotten a bit out of hand lately, but weirdly I’ve lost a few pounds, even though I’ve been consuming my yearly intake of sugar on the daily – so really, the scales are encouraging this behaviour. They’re complicit.
I was feeling a wee bit pants yesterday, but then a delightful lady at tennis told me how much she’d enjoyed reading my book in bed next to her husband, and she said how much she missed me when she’d finished reading.
Look at me in bed with a married couple. Does that count as a three-some? Brilliant, that’s one to tick off the bucket list.
Writing does help my mental health, so it’s nice to hear that it also brings joy to someone else. Or sends them to sleep. Either is a win.
Tennis also helps my mental health, however, as soon as I stop playing tennis I need something else to distract me from the crying screams inside my head. Is that why I devoured six wagon wheels when I got home last night?
Yes. Yes, it is.
Christ, I’m going to start looking like a wagon wheel soon: smooth exterior, mallowy innards and a juicy centre. Sounds delicious. I might eat myself.
In all seriousness, we should all take mental health awareness week as an opportunity to be aware of mental health and realise that everyone is a bit nuts upstairs, so it’s alright if you’re riding the struggle bus. If you need help, burden your friends, become a drunk, gorge yourself to bloatation and just do whatever you can to distract yourself from the pain of being alive.
Is that sound advice? Probably not, it’s a good thing I’ve just booked myself in with a new therapist. She’ll be the sixth in a few years because why change your ways when you can just change your therapist?
However, it is a bit unnerving having so many people in the little town that I live in know my deepest darkest secrets. At this rate, there are only five people in the town who are unaware of the neurosis going on behind my smile.
Lucky buggers.
Thankfully, I am yet to bump into any of my ex-therapists. Perhaps they’re purposefully avoiding me, a wise decision on their part.
Anyway, it’s sunny now, which is fan-dabby-dozy, because it means that my seasonal affective disorder is back to the good old, run-of-the-mill despair and depression.
And I can deal with that*.
*As long as I have a regular supply of wagon wheels and a new therapist to burden.
Anyhoozlebees, happy mental health awareness week.
Have the best time!