Who Let The Dogs Out?

One of the (fun) things about having a deficient amount of the correct brain chemicals is that you never really know what mood you will be in from one day to the next. For the most part, you’d hope to be at a stable point where you can enjoy the good things in life and understand the bad. The closest that you can come to normal brain chemistry.

But occasionally you get thrown a curve ball by your body. Nothing has changed that you are aware of. No great tragedy has befallen you. You haven’t forgotten to take the little white magical pill which keeps you on the straight and narrow. You’re still watching kitten videos or, more magical, videos of babies farting.

And yet everything seems to be a constant battle. You’re fighting yourself, almost, to get things done. You want to do things. You want to crack on and knuckle down at a project, or even just play some games but it just doesn’t fill you with any sort of enthusiasm.

That was my day.

I wanted, today, to record some gameplay footage that I could stick on YouTube. I wanted to do all manner of things. To be perky and hilarious and ramble on as I captured myself playing games (undoubtedly badly) for the joy of the two or three people on the internet who have watched them.

But I couldn’t be arsed.

Literally couldn’t be bothered. It all seemed too much of an effort even to set the stuff up, let alone be a bubbly package of fun as I did it. I could have done it. I should have done it. But there’s every chance that any commentary I would have offered would have been world-weary and monotonous.

It’s funny because when I do record my footage I’m always conscious that Peppa might start interfering. She might jump up on me and rub against the microphone, or walk across the top of the laptop and stop the recording, put it into rewind or just plain delete it. So I make contingencies against her doing any of that. I don’t, on the other hand, plan against the black dog – or, in today’s case, swarm of black dogs – descending on me and disrupting what would otherwise be a genuinely fun day.

A day which contained nothing different to yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. A day which should have been fine and dandy except, for some reason, my brain decided that it couldn’t be.

I suppose I can be grateful that I afforded the opportunity to have good days and bad days. And that, generally, the good days far outweigh the bad. There are people who don’t get that luxury, who are constantly fighting an uphill struggle against a tsunami of misery riding on the back of a pack of angry, doubting black dogs.

I just get the one, every now and again, and when he’s had his fill he buggers off for a bit and just lets me get on with things. I think he’s had more than enough food today. Practically a three-course meal as I mooched around and lay on the couch watching bizarre videos and looking up interesting things on the interweb to try and keep him entertained.

Tomorrow is another day. I wonder what my brain has in store.