A Sertraline Story

My couch digs deeper than hers.

Back to freelance and left solitary, it's easy to see how far from perfect I am. I can't lie to myself about progression with no A to B for Thursday and Friday, but I am doing better. While my life may be a shell of what it could be, I am languishing in paradise when compared to the state I was in two years ago.

I am heavy and unkempt. I am unsure and out of control. I drink too much.

But, I have friends. I am in love. I am writing more now than I have ever done, my output increasing with my waist. The radius of my nights out may be frustratingly small for those who love me, but they understand, and they still endeavour to see me. My passions are allowed to swim in and out my psyche, informing and informed by the life I love to live.

The SSRI dreams continue to invade, leaving me exhausted by sleep, but not enough to bother me. In a way, I enjoy them. They're like my own personal movie theatre, the shining from the projector at the back of my skull leaving my eyes tired when I wake. They give me ideas. In that sense, they can never be negative.

I suppose what I'm saying is, I'm happy. I hope you're happy too.

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