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. Yes, literally, a mural of God. 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. My 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 service 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?