I didn't take a cetirizine hydrochloride today.
"You look a lot better," said Clive, when I ambled into the office, "Yesterday you just didn't seem like the real Matt."
That would make a great excuse for my behaviour yesterday, wouldn't it - if it wasn't really me? If some imposter had somehow done an invasion-of-the-body-snatchers type switch and had locked the real me in a cupboard?
Or perhaps I had been hypnotised into a claggy trance and sat here off-colour all day? Some devious agent might have brainwashed me not to remember it.
But. Of course, I was not in a cupboard. Nor did I spend the day in an alien spacecraft while Zorg The Shapeshifter pretended to be me and blogged about depression to mask my unusual quietness at my desk. Nope. I was here, and I was miserable and clogged up all by myself.
I'm a lot better today. It could be the medication, I suppose, but I feel brighter, more hopeful, stronger, and less grumpy - which can only be good.
Meanwhile, the pollen forecast is still VH, according to the Met Office. And accordingly, I am happily sneezing, and my nose is cheerfully runny. However, I'm also much less blocked.
It's come to something when the thing you take to avoid suffering, actually might be causing you to suffer, hasn't it? You have to start asking what the point was.
I might write to the Pharmaceutical Giants at Smith-Kline-Glaxo, and ask them whether I should keep paying them to make me miserable enough to require further medication. Not that I'm being cynical.
Well. I'm not saying it was the tablets' fault. I think my moods are highly cyclical anyway, and my emotions are less under control than they could be. All I know is that today is better than yesterday.
Of course, it could just be that it's Friday.
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