Prologue: This is where I'm anonymous

I haven't told any of my non-virtual friends about Open Salon.  Actually, I haven't told any of my other virtual friends, either.  I want to write about things I'm ashamed of here, things that I'm tired of taxing my friends with. 

This is my first post, and it's a rather gloomy one and self-involved one. This is about depression and it's a litany about my difficulties with organizing and cleaning.

I'm not trying to show off my writing and my cleverness with words and humor this time. That'll come later (I promise). 

Down, dooby doo, down down

Depression (and everything else in the DSM IV) shines a bright light on the difference between Brain and Mind.

I have chronic major depression. I'm 46; I've had it most of my life, and I've been on medication since I was 27 or so.  I am so damned tired of it.

It's a relief to know that tinkering with my brain chemistry can make it much easier to tackle the cognitive and behavioral work. On the dark side, it's hard to know when it is the brain chemistry that's gone wonky again -- when the meds are no longer working. Tinkering is trial-and-error. It can take months to find the right combination.  One of the things I absolutely loathe about this is that no-one really knows how or why various medications work. We're in the Dimly Lit ages. 

I concluded a few months ago that it's time to tinker again, and I'm not looking forward to it. I doubt in my ability to tell when the meds are working. Ironically, of course, my hopeless feelings about this are just another fun symptom of depression.

I've been dodging Reality as much as I can, and it hath not availed me.

 Awareness is a Good Thing; it's the first step toward change. For me, it's also a delicate balance between understanding and acknowledging why I do what I do, and being paralyzed by that knowledge (and its attendant guilt, shame, anger, and despair).

Home is where the hazmat is

I don't want to think about the fact that I haven't cleared off my bed or changed the sheets in a few months, nor do I want to think about re-wearing underwear and socks because I've put off doing laundry for too long... and how  I continue to find it difficult to marshal the energy to go do it.

I don't want to think about the state of the kitty litter (and the corresponding state of the floor) that is the result of several months of avoidance. I know it's not kind to my cats. I rationalize that they have chosen an alternative place, so even if it means I step in cat shit barefoot, it can't be all that bad. I know in my heart that it causes stress for one of my two cats. And I kinda liked that pink sweater.

I really don't want to think about the kitchen. I want to avoid looking at the dishes in the sink, some of which have been there for a year.   I'm not happy about the spiders and fruit flies who have set up housekeeping in my bedroom and kitchen. They don't contribute to rent. OTOH, spiders eat other insects. They can stay.

When the refrigerator light bulb burned out, I didn't replace it. When the overhead kitchen light burned out, I didn't replace that bulb, either. The light over the sink still works, and is bright enough for me to do minimal puttering and cooking.

I haven't used the kitchen table in months. I saw something crawling across it, freaked out, and have avoided it ever since.  I'm kinda grossed out by bugs.  So I don't look in the corners or under the papers. I know they don't go away of their own volition, and the cats aren't interested in helping with population control.  (I can replace the old bug traps and then some of the wildlife will go away. New bug traps are still in car. Must retrieve.)

I haven't Celebrated Trash Day ( my way of referring to taking out the garbage and recycling) thoroughly in a couple of months.  I do take out incremental amounts, but I haven't gone through and collected all the moldy jars, empty cat-food bags, and organic matter that has moved to Funky Town (see light bulb in refrigerator, above).

When I start thinking about cleaning, I feel panicky and overwhelmed and ashamed that it's gotten this bad. I can hear my mother's voice, and she Is Not Happy. 

I keep clapping my hands, but the Cleaning Fairy hasn't appeared in burst of glittering light, wielding a Dyson vacuum cleaner. Darnit.

I know how to deal with this:  pick small tasks, set time limits, shove the guilt and shame out of my mind constantly as I work,  and resist the temptation to get sidetracked.

I'm so tired of having to face The Truth, admit I need help, and ask for it. The "carrot" of knowing how much better I'll feel afterwards somehow isn't enough (and I have yet to figure out a way to dip the metaphorical carrot in metaphorical chocolate-- metaphors are inconvenient that way).

I know that I need to be pragmatic, put the emotional stuff in a box (and maybe take it to therapy) and ask for help. Being tired of having to do it is not relevant.

And so it goes

Oddly enough (or maybe not so oddly) I feel better for having written this out.  I hope the feeling lasts, and makes it a little easier to do laundry and take out some trash. As the Buddhists say, "after enlightenment, the laundry."