hungover

Since I sort of lost the plot last weekend, we've both made a big effort to do something about me. I finally registered with a doctor, after being without one for the past 15 months. We bought some furniture, and unpacked a couple of boxes. I chucked a load of stuff out, and bought a whole load more stuff in. Book stuff, mostly, but I have a lovely new pair of boots too. And some shocking red hair dye.
And I've more or less decided that I am too fucked up for words. But that's a problem in itself, as I discovered yesterday when I skipped off to the doctor to ask for some help. I couldn't fucking do it. I didn't know where to start, what to say, or where to look. So I muttered something about my contraception, and skipped home with 168 tablets to stop me getting pregnant, instead.

I don't have to go back to the doctor for six months.

I'm so upset I've cried. Mind you, I've cried alot recently. But I just don't know how to go to the doctor and say I think I've got borderline/histrionic personality disorder! Stop laughing! There is something wrong in my head, and I don't know what it is, or how to show the doctor it, without actually having a mental episode of some description. And I can't plan those (or control them, unfortunately).

So that's good, eh. And in other, even more cheery news, I've got the hangover from hell.