I suppose I should write something about it.
But it's going to be brief. Maybe to be expanded upon later (maybe not).
Those three months (from the start of April until the start of July) which I thought were surely helping me to get better; seems they were just an interlude. The 4th July, I can pretty conclusively say, was the actual nadir.
Details...maybe another time. I can never forget some of the stuff I saw that night though.
It was enough of a jolt to actually get some medical help, though. I can't deny that I've been quite forcibly resisting medicalisation in general (and medication in particular) for this but fuck that, I was wrong.
Can't deny that the first three or four days were a nightmare - racing thoughts, nausea, no appetite, almost impossible to sleep - but those side-effects passed and it just somehow works. I can't say I'm never depressed anymore, and that's a good thing - I don't want to be excessively controlled - but I'm getting there. I'm getting to a place where not everything has to be shite (but haven't lost my critical faculty; I still recognise that 99% of what goes on in the world is shite, it's just that I don't necessarily need to be part of it anymore).
Clear as mud, there. Better explanation when I'm ready, whenever that might be.
[Edit @ 22/09/2016: This probably represents the peak of my madness and it's not as bad as I thought, which is a relief!]