by The depression, I mean. I had two terrible days a fornight ago, including the day of my MRI scan, but yesterday was on a whole different level. I was dangerously depressed. I had no lessons until the afternoon, but I had various “life admin” tasks to keep me occupied. It’s the life admin that’s been wrecking me of late. It’s got totally, utterly beyond me. How people cope with all this stuff and bring up a family I have no idea. Yesterday morning I watched the news, which showed a heartbreaking piece about an 85-year-old woman living on her own in Constanța who called 112 because she thought she would die of cold in her hopelessly substandard home. After a bout of screaming in the living room, I forced myself to email my health insurer (could I make a claim?), then again forced myself to call Barclays. I still have a five-figure sum tied up in the UK after Barclays closed the accounts of everybody living in the EU, and nothing has happened since I contacted them in the autumn. I rang the number, needing to use Skype because I couldn’t call it from my phone, and swam through about eight layers of telephonic treacle. “For all other queries, it’s three.” It’s three? That doesn’t make any sense. I eventually got through to a lady who was very helpful. Look, I’m not at my best today, I said. Please go through what I have to do slowly otherwise I won’t remember. She said that if I don’t follow the instructions to the letter and get everything properly notarised, which by the way doesn’t appear to be possible in Romania, they won’t release my funds. I shouted, “But you’ve stolen my money!” She was just the messenger, of course.
I was in an increasingly bad way when I made myself go back to the notary in Piața Unirii, where they certified a copy of my passport last November to no benefit whatsoever. Do you need a translation? Translate my passport, what? They left me alone in the waiting room where I banged my head against the wall, four times I think. Oh jeez. How has it come back to this? I did get the certified copy of my passport and I sent it off with a slightly angry covering letter and other bits and pieces, but when I got home I was a complete wreck. I can’t go screaming and banging my head against a wall, that’s ridiculous and dangerous. I calmed myself down enough to get through my lessons, then later in the evening I saw my doctor. As luck would have it, it was Tuesday. This time he was joined by a younger assistant (a man). I told my doctor that I was struggling and I desperately need to come off my new antidepressant ASAP. He said once again that shipments of citalopram – the old stuff that I first took in 2001 – still aren’t getting here, as a result of the war in Ukraine. Este periculos (that’s dangerous), I said. Then I shouted the word: Periculos! Not to the doctor, not to the assistant, just randomly and very loudly into thin air. The assistant took my blood pressure and pulse – they were both above my normal level – then the doctor wrote me two prescriptions, one for citalopram and one for yet another supposedly similar antidepressant. The assistant said he only knew a few words of English. I thought about asking him if he wanted lessons, but I figured he wouldn’t want a teacher so obviously incapable of controlling himself. God, I felt like a horrible ugly monster.
When I got home I remembered that the FA Cup replay between Birmingham and Blackburn was about to start. Maybe watching that would make me feel better. But none of the channels carried it. Perhaps just as well, because it was a terrible atmosphere (only 7000 people showed up) and a terrible match which Blackburn won 1-0 after extra time. I might watch the Sheffield United – Wrexham replay next week, and that’ll probably be the end of my interest in football for a few more years.
I got up this morning at about six, in a state of absolute anguish. I sat on my office chair and crashed repeatedly into the bookcase and chest of drawers, then lay on the sofa, head in hands, then crawled back to bed. I dragged myself out of bed for good eventually.
Today I’ve steadied the ship somewhat. Most importantly, I’ve managed to get my old antidepressants back. It’s quite likely the new drugs aren’t to blame at all, but at least I can eliminate that. I called up the biggest pharmacy in town, and they said the old stuff was available. I’d never been there before; I went on the way back from the lesson with the four twins. The place had eight counters and people were queuing way out the door. It was all chaotic and a woman accused me of jumping the queue, but I got the pills, that’s what matters.
Last night and today, as the self-inflicted physical pain has gradually subsided, I’ve been wondering where I went wrong and what to do now. Should I have stayed in my previous place? It was sunnier, with that wonderful view, and in such a convenient location. The smaller size made it more manageable, and meant that I spent more time outside – that was surely a good thing. I’ve even been missing the simplicity of the single room in that guest house where I spent two months initially. I could cook simple meals in the kitchen down below; at the time I had everything I needed. Of course I couldn’t stay there. Does living alone mean I’m just doomed whatever I do? Should I take a week off lessons soon? A whole month? It’s not like anyone can sack me.
I’ve got a big day of lessons tomorrow, from 8:30 am to 9:30 pm. I hope I can manage.
