Alone and Unobserved

I’ve been taking antidepressants for the past several months, but to be honest, I haven’t noticed a huge difference. After I started taking them I wasn’t depressed, but I hadn’t been horribly depressed before, either—I was anxious, which is why I went to the shrink in the first place. And the meds didn’t seem to help with the anxiety at all.

Well, now I think I’m depressed again, despite any medication I may or may not be taking. To be more precise, I think I have been depressed for some time and just didn’t realize it. The symptoms? Lethargy; listlessness; lack of interest in doing anything, even things that I used to enjoy; feeling like simple tasks, such as cleaning my house, are just too monumental to tackle; decreased appetite; etc.

Of course, there is only so much concerted “not cleaning” that can go on before The Mess begins to push back. My house, it was a disaster. Out of consideration for my readers’ stomachs, I won’t try to describe the horrific nadir of shocking squalor I descended to, or to qualify the length of time that had elapsed since I cleaned the last time, although I will note that I use the words “horrific,” “nadir,” “shocking” and “squalor” advisedly, and that “It’s been a good, long while since I last cleaned” would be something of an understatement in this context.

Anyway, on Monday I looked around at the sty I was wallowing in, and lo, it was not good. The living room wasn’t good and the bedroom wasn’t good and the bathroom wasn’t good, and let’s not even talk about the kitchen, which really wasn’t good. The hallway was passable, at least in the literal sense, but the rest was a disgrace. This time, though, instead of collapsing limply on the couch in defeat, as I had been doing for the past, er, “good, long while” every time The Mess confronted me, I grabbed a sponge and started cleaning.

Last night, after two days of sweeping, spraying, scrubbing and sweating, I had made a respectable dent in the Herculean task I had created for myself (where are the Alpheus and Peneus when you need them?). Aching and twitching, I fell into bed. Sadly, instead of falling asleep, I lay there for what in this new context could again be called “a good, long while” (despite encompassing a much shorter amount of time in the absolute sense) and panted feebly for air.

At about four in the morning, it finally dawned on me that it was hot in my room. After a bit of online reconnaissance, I have discovered that it was probably in the mid-forties outside; whence, then, the oppressive blanket of heat that smothered my bedroom with a heavy hand last night? That’s right: my landlord has once again turned on the boiler, given control of the thermostat over to the lady in the freezing basement apartment, and left us all to bake.

Lying in bed and broiling got boring after a while, so this morning at six I got up and started cleaning the bathroom. At eight I had an unhurried breakfast, drank a gallon of coffee, and went to work at nine. And even though I was exhausted and in pain all day, there was one thing I didn’t feel: depressed.