I have feelings and introspections to share and confessions to make.
What I don’t have is time.
I have a new roommate starting on Tuesday and I haven’t even started cleaning my house. I know that doesn’t seem like such a huge endeavour, but when I got depressed, I stopped cleaning. Period.
My house now looks like a feature in one of those exploitative reality tv series that people gawk at and shake their heads while tut-tuting and feeling immensely superior. “How can anybody live this way?” they ask with scorn masked as pity masked as disbelief. “How could she let it get that out of control?”
It’s actually surprisingly easy.
Take one part depression, and with it the apathy that prevents you from caring what’s going on around you. Mix it with feelings of worthlessness so that even if you do recognize that things are getting bad, you’re not going to fix it because you don’t deserve to fix it. This one’s fun because it actually feeds on itself to keep growing, you feel more worthless as things go downhill, and obviously things are crashing so dramatically because you’re worthless. Toss in a healthy(haha) helping of despair because nothing actually matters anyway, and it never will, so why clean?
And POOF! Next thing you know, you’re up to your ears in unopened mail and tripping over laundry and there’s that smell coming from your kitchen sink that makes you gag so you just stop going in the kitchen, it’s not like you cook anyway.
It’s a scarily organic progression, to be honest. Add in the ADHD and the busy and the stressful job and I’m probably more vulnerable to this particular cycle than most.
But you’ve been so much better lately!
Well, sort of? Yes? Mostly?
But I look at the mess I’ve made and I am overwhelmed. Where do I even start? Are there going to be spiders under there? Oh god, why did I think that? There’s so much to do, and objectively it might not take that long, really, in me-hours. But focus on the menial and the mundane isn’t something that I can sustain consistently, so a 20 minute task becomes an hour and that gets really discouraging really fast.
It will never end and I will have to do this again very soon. D=
So it’s been easier to throw myself into anything else and just avoid it a little longer.
Which I kind of can’t do anymore. Because roommate. (Who actually understands my myriad issues and understands depression and apathy and is mostly prepared for the feat that is Making My House Sellable but I don’t want her to show up to Nightmare Squalor Manor and have to dig her own space out of the rubbish)
So yeah, if you don’t hear from me for a week or two, just assume that I’ve inadvertently mixed chlorine and ammonia and accidentally gassed myself and dial 911. Or, you know. Figure I’m cleaning.
If you do hear from me before then, and the first thing I say isn’t I FINALLY CLEANED MY FUCKING HOUSE, feel free to link me back to this post and remind me that Future Roommate Deserves Better (even if I don’t always think I do).