Living for Disco

I’ve been doing really well for the last few months, as far as being depressed goes. By this I mean that generally I’ve been happy. There are some days, naturally, when the washing up glares malevolently from the sink as if bent on destroying my mental wellbeing, and just waking up turns me into a bitter, self-loathing witch. However, these days they are pretty few and far between.

That said, there are a few reasons why I might have another appointment with my psychotherapist, who I haven’t seen since May. See if you can guess which one it is:

1. I have the fear about going home. I’m worried that I’m going to miss Namibia more than I have bargained for. I think sometimes that I take the vast blue skies, the balmy days, the hazy mountains and the splodgy bright bougainvillea for granted, and once I go home, everything is going to seem eternally grey.

2. I have the fear about what’s ahead. What happens when I go home, start a new job and a new life with a new man? What if it doesn’t work out? What if I don’t get this job and have to work in MacDonalds, or sit transcribing insurance dockets from an old tape machine for 2.50 an hour? What if the pair of us find that we can’t live together? What if what if?

3. I’m worried that I’m still on the anti-depressants. I don’t want to be on them for much longer. I’d like to stop now please.

4. She wants to find out how my international blind date went.

Answers on a postcard. The correct answer wins a packet of smarties.

UPDATE! So, no-one got the correct answer, which was, in fact, number 4. She wanted to catch up and see how I’m doing, particularly as she was interested in the outcome of the date. So, while I am worried about those other things, it’s certainly not to the extent that I’d seek professional help. I’m just a worrier, naturally. I think I’ll keep the smarties.