I’m not dead, I just look that way.
For the past week or so we have been moving to a new (small, charming, disturbingly gas-scented) house, and despite Ian’s best efforts, our local internet provider has been astoundingly non-helpful about providing internet. This frees up heaps o’ time for unpacking , but leaves me feeling disconnected and more than 13,300 spam comments behind schedule.
Additionally, last week my depression evolved from a damn nuisance to posing a genuine threat. I blamed myself for skipping my meds for a week… … until I remembered that my only medications are for acne. Obviously, my thinking has been cloudy.
Just now, I realized that depression and moving are the same in some ways: my brain feels cluttered and hostile, as does my colossally messy new home. I can’t find anything in my head or in the new place, and I can’t afford possible solutions, whether counseling or bookshelves. No matter how carefully I sort things out, new messes crop up. There’s a big mural of God I’d just as soon do without. I keep thinking real life can start again once my home is in order, or once the pain stops, whichever comes first. But how many years have I been laboring under that delusion?
Perhaps this is why order and cleanliness have always been so important to me: I can’t manage my brain, but managing my environment helps discourage my brain from panicking and sending unsolicited “ABORT MISSION” messages. Environment has always had a MAJOR effect on me, so being trapped in a small, chaotic space is really, really hard.
For now, I’m in a holding pattern. We should have internet again on Thursday (or last Sunday, depending who you ask), so I don’t expect to be absent forever.
Yes, critics, I’ve subjected you to a LOT of talk about depression lately. I would feel bad for oversharing on the internet, but you already know all about my body hair, Diva cup, and old flames (which I just mistyped as “old lames.” HA!). What sensitive topic will I flog you with next?