After my surgery I started getting super crazy. Crazier than normal. Depressed, grumpy, tempted to throw myself under a bus and so so tired. At first I thought it was just an anaesthetic side-effect, but it’s still going on and I just realised yesterday that it’s because I’m no longer taking the contraceptive pill so my hormones have gone up the fuck. Fun times.
So basically I’ve been a miserable cunt to everyone and to myself. Mr. Flatmate has been pretty understanding, but he’s famously tactless* and I’m over sensitive. Although he hasn’t said so, I’m pretty sure he’s just about had enough. I’ve been trying to stay out of his way and keep my problems to myself. Having my meltdowns in the shower instead of on the kitchen floor makes things slightly less awkward.
Unfortunately, the thing about living with depressed people is that you’re constantly aware of their moods no matter what part of the house you’re in. We radiate that shit from every pore. It slips through the cracks under the doors and permeates the carpets, infiltrating everything and everyone. Which of course makes me feel horribly guilty and so the cycle starts again.
He’s gone out tonight to escape me and have some sexy fun with someone else. That’s a good thing because I’m not really feeling up to sexy fun tonight (which is in itself a bit baffling) and because now I’m not stressing over how much I’m probably irritating him. Tonight I’m looking forward to an early night and a long sleep. And tomorrow I’m going to overload on nutrients.
*Kinda hilarious, kind of devastating tactless-ness from Mr. Flatmate while watching American Horror Story:
F: “I’d let someone turn me into a vampire, no question. Vampires are awesome. Wouldn’t you?”
Me: “Mm-hmm, yep.”
F looks at me and ponders for a bit: “There’s never any big vampires. You only ever see hot vampires. Why is that?”
Me: *dies a little inside my big, not-hot body*