I’m re-discovering food.
Most people with serious depression stop eating when they’re ill, but I have the fattening version. I turn into a fun mashup stereotype of ‘gay man eating his feelings with ice cream’ and ‘batchelor surrounded by pizza’. Neither of these are stereotypes I aspire to but here we are.
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Leaving aside the fact I’m off to Birmingham Pride this weekend, my alcohol intake (i.e regular slovenly insobriety) has slumped back to normal levels – well done there.
And aside from several large slabs of chocolate, last night’s Deliverance burger, chips and chicken wings extravaganza, an upsetting number of impulse detours to McDonald’s, and whole 6 pack of breakfast muffins the other morning, I’ve not had any self control problems at all.
(Note: Again, this is one of those occasions where the ‘physical’ side effects of my medication – in this case, reduction in hunger pangs – is easily overridden by the ‘mental’ side effect of impulse disinhibition. This doesn’t happen with my sex drive, where I’d actually ENJOY it; because biology and psychology both have a wicked sense of humour)