Hmmm! Did I take two of those? I can’t remember. I know I meant to, but the bottle is perfectly aligned in true OCD form between my William Dabs luxury hand and body cream - a gift from my ex-housemate’s ex-girlfriend - and my Andolex-C - a remedy for my inflamed throat that coupled with my not sleeping though for the last five weeks has resulted in a cough and a cold. So back to whether I took them or not: another two wouldn’t get me over the daily limit, which is five so two more go down my throat. Then I spray the throat spray - ten times. 

So, you might wonder how I can be so damn ditsy. 

One: I haven’t had more that 3 hours of consecutive sleep in 5 weeks. 

Two: I just had a minor accident on my scooter with myself as I fell off it and it landed on me. I anticipate bruising tomorrow and will medicate accordingly. 

Three: On Monday I reached a new low. I had been styling and doing so well - seeing my pdoc once every 6 months and just going in to get my meds. 

Four: Meds became the problem. The state was short of my primary SSRI and I had to go in weekly to get stock. Then they ran out. Just like that. I was offered the option of getting a private script (two hundred ront for just the script and over 400 ront for the drug) and I could buy the medication myself. Oh joy! That was not financially sustainable for someone on a state disability grant. I did it once. So they gave me something different, but I was only allowed 3 pills of this SSRI because of a black box warning so I had to make up the rest with my primary SSRI. Playing with fire. And yes, when I finally did get to see my overextended pdoc, he did have an apoplexy. I was at risk of serotonin syndrome. To be frank, I don’t give a fuck. I felt great. Five weeks ago, Dr Dish as he is called by some, moaned and wined about me taking ownership of my meds and did a 180 degree turn and put me on a tricyclic antidepressant. 

At first I felt resilient. I liked it. My brain came alive. I remembered things - not what was on my to do list - but I’d suddenly break into song: Chris de Burg’s Patricia the stripper recycled in my head. I had to google it to get the right words. I was wittier - back to my old self.

But I wasn’t sleeping. Consistently. Out of sheer desperation last week I took one or two of every depressant I had in my drawer. Fear not! This was not a suicide attempt, this was a desperate attempt to just get a good night’s sleep. It was entertaining. I got lost in my own bedroom and couldn’t find the en-suite loo. I woke up with my pyjama pants in the bed. When I went downstairs for a warm beverage the next morning, I was clearly not hundreds and fell down the stairs. Bruises only fortunately. The puppy that I was carrying also took a tumble, but she was her usual happy self. 

So I can blame myself (for acting out of desperation) or blame the system that has been working for me for ten years. If the state is supposed to provide medication and is not able to do that simple task, how in the world are we going to manage a National Health Care?