Sleep! Give me sleep!

I am exhausted. My psychiatrist increased my anti-psychotic and I feel as if I've been stuffed with cotton wool – weak and floppy and squashable. I'm struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

A friend from the union came round and borrowed a frock I made for a convention. She's going to a Renaissance wedding and needed something to wear; I offered as I hardly wear those frocks. It was a bit stretched on her and she suggested that we both go on a diet. I don't feel much like dieting – I've got enough to think about without adding that.

I was too weak to say so, and now I'm feeling guilty about every mouthful, while still eating as much as I usually do. So that's got me precisely nowhere. Suggestions that I 'just eat less' will be treated with the contempt they deserve – if it were that easy, I'd have done it already. Besides, I know nobody IRL who's dieted and kept the weight off. There may be such people, but I'm not one of them and I've never actually met one of them.

I want to go to sleep!

Oh, bugger!

It is as I dreaded, Mr Smelly-Opposite is living in the damaged flat. The police came round tonight - I couldn't hear the conversation once he'd been persuaded to come to the door.

I so totally don't need this.

ETA: He has done nothing to the flat. Not even put locks on the door. It's open to the elements and the windows are broken, and he's living in that smell! Isn't there anything I can do?