This is my week, my month, my time with depression.

The dishes pile up in the sink. The garbage is overflowing. There is a smoke detector that got it’s batteries changed, but now it just hangs from the ceiling because I’m not quite tall enough to reattach it correctly.

The table is covered in Tupperware catalogs and fliers that expired a month ago. Order forms litter the dining room. Boxes overflow with the Tupperware I don’t use, had planned on selling, or was going to use as hostess gifts.

A shelf, purchased months ago, still sits tucked nicely in it’s box. Unopened. Our walls are decorated with pictures of my son. The idea was to change them occasionally. By the looks of them, he’s two years old.

Receipts and bills marked paid are scattered across the house, some have made it on top of the filing cabinet, most have not made it in.

I get home from work just before 6 o’clock. I start dinner, frustrated because I have to wash the dishes I need before I can use them. We eat dinner while watching The Big Bang Theory.

I get distracted by…something…

Suddenly, it’s 8 o’clock. I take a bath and read Harry Potter while my son plays in his room. I don’t bathe long, but suddenly it’s 9:30 and I have to get my son to bed. We should go to bed earlier, but where is our time going?

Now it’s 10 o’clock and he’s crawling into bed. I had planned to stay up later than him to get some writing done, but I’m exhausted. I crawl into bed with him and we fall asleep.

In the morning, I can’t get myself up with enough time to do anything besides get dressed and get out the door. I’ve tried waking up earlier to have breakfast with my son, to do yoga, to shower. It never works. Good thing his school serves breakfast.

This is my week. Each day blends into the next until it’s Saturday and I sleep until 10 o’clock, when I can. There is grocery shopping to do, errands to run that couldn’t get done during the week, laundry to clean. I work at my editing gig for an hour or two, wishing I could find more time to get it done before last minute.

And then it’s Monday.

And the dishes are filling the sink, the garbage is overflowing, and that smoke detector has been hanging there for weeks.

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I thought my latest bout with depression had to do with the pain I’d been in. I was on an anti-inflammatory for a few days, and now I am (almost) pain-free again.

But I’m still feeling low.

Where does my time go? Why can’t I get into a groove that actually works for me and not against me?

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2 comments on “This is my week, my month, my time with depression.”

    • Roxanne

      I’m sorry to hear you’ve been in a pit. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here for you. xo

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