If you’re a regular fan of this blog, or if you follow me on social media at all, chances are good you’ve already deduced that yes, I do indeed suffer from a mighty case of depression.
And you would not be wrong.
Still. I wouldn’t go changing your name to “Columbo” just yet. For one thing, you need a fake eyeball, a dirty trench coat, and 38 thousand packs of cigarettes to really sell it. More to the point, you need to be able to crack cases a LOT tougher than this one. I mean, it’s not exactly Unsolved Mysteries over here. I’m pretty sure just about anyone with access to the evidence would come to the same conclusion.
Let’s take a look at the facts, shall we?
- Given the choice between taking a nap or a shower, I alwZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz
- I have actually said the words: “I’m not tired enough to sleep, but I am too tired to watch television.”
- My idea of a good time? Eating vast quantities of Chinese food, then falling asleep instantly.
- *sees hairbrush* “Not today.”
- *sees toothbrush* “Nah.”
- When my husband gets home from a long day at work, I find the best way to greet him is to ugly-cry for 45 minutes about how I stubbed my pinky toe on the washing machine seven hours ago.
- I have actually thought to myself: “Thank God my son is in school full-time, otherwise when would I watch my six hours of YouTube videos a day?”
- “My glasses are dirty.” *does nothing about it*
- “I forgot to put on deodorant.” *does nothing about it*
- “Is that a skid mark in my underwear?” *does nothing about it*
- “I’m a month behind on my work.” *binge-watches The Blacklist*
I guess what I’m saying is: Calm your boobs, Sherlock. It wasn’t like you needed to bring in a profiler or anything to figure this shit out.
But worry not, loyal readers. NEVER FEAR. I’m not going to take you through any kind of detailed explanation of my 25-year history of depression, mainly because it’s really boring and not even remotely funny. (Also boring.) I’ll spare you the long litany of my daily complaints, ranging from “I’m sad today” to “I’ll probably be sad tomorrow” to “How long have I been wearing these pajamas?”
That said, I do think you guys might get a laugh out of just how bunched my panties can get over dumb, relatively unimportant shit when I’m in the throes of my depression. Because that part IS actually pretty funny, especially when you’re looking at it from the outside in. AND there’s pictures.
So go burn some microwave popcorn, pull up a chair with a busted spring in it, and get ready to accompany me on a journey through
THE DUMB SHIT THAT BUNCHES MY PANTIES WHEN I’M DEPRESSED
DUMB SHIT #1: My son’s pajama drawer. Every evening I tell my son to get his pajamas on. Every evening I tell him not to make a huge mess of his pajama drawer. Every evening I walk into his bedroom and find this:
METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: They’re not actually up IN the crack, but they’re definitely threatening to go there. All it would take is one wrong move with a butt cheek.
MANIFESTATION: Wandering around and muttering: “You know what I LOVE? Saying the same damn shit, day after day, to people who can’t even be bothered to pretend that they’re listening. Why no, I’m not being sarcastic! I’m serious as a heart attack over here! Being habitually ignored in my own home truly is the wind beneath my wings.”
MITIGATION: An entire pint of ice cream, eaten alone and in silence, all while glaring and making the obvious statement of not offering any to anyone else.
DUMB SHIT #2: Slicing my toe open while shaving off my toe hairs. I mean, I could just *pluck* my toe hairs. Or I could use a fresh razor blade on my toe hairs instead of the one I’ve been using since September 11th (never forget). Or I could just not do anything at all about my toe hairs because nobody gives an actual fuck. But no! I have to shave them off BECAUSE HAVING NO TOE HAIRS MAKES YOU SUPER HOT. JUST LOOK:
METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: Making a comfortable home in the ass crack, but not so deep that they can’t be dislodged with an awkward chair swivel or an overly animated walk to the restroom.
MANIFESTATION: Crying buck-ass naked on the toilet, trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow of toe blood with a rapidly disintegrating wad of cheap toilet paper, and repeating “I hate men” over and over again.
MITIGATION: A huge bowl of pasta with cream sauce and extra Parmesan cheese. And don’t you dare forget the garlic bread. Seriously. DON’T FORGET IT. I’ll push your mother down the god damn stairs.
DUMB SHIT #3: The day-old cup of coffee found on the floor next to my husband’s side of the bed. I mean, it makes sense to drink a cup of coffee in bed, doesn’t it? Get that nice big oily jolt of caffeine right before trying to go to sleep? I know that’s what gets me ready for Mr. Sandman. I especially like to not actually finish the coffee, and instead just leave it on the floor for someone else to pick up, or perhaps accidentally drop a dirty sock into. That just sends me straight to dreamland.
METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: Where the edges keep darting into your butt crack for what seems to be short recon missions. First the right side, then the left. They’re never all the way in, they’re never all the way out.
MANIFESTATION: Staring at the cup of coffee for a second, then deciding to just leave it there until someone else just fucking deals with it. Slumping both head and shoulders in defeat when the realization hits that NO ONE ELSE is going to fucking deal with it. Then, with a morose sigh and a half-hearted “Eh. FINE,” giving in and bringing the coffee mug down to the dishwasher.
MITIGATION: Writing about it on the Internet for all to read.
DUMB SHIT #4: The person who installed the light switches in my bathroom like THIS:
METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: Practically in the rectum. Will have to be manually dislodged at a later point, when there are sure to be no witnesses. They’ll then go straight into the washing machine because reasons.
MANIFESTATION: A pure, unadulterated hatred of the universe. Sullen, empty threats to “burn this whole jacked-up house to the ground” and “move into a dirty dumpster” because even that would be better than spending one more minute in “this janky pile of shit.”
MITIGATION: Taking two Night-time Mucinex and hitting the sack at 9:30 PM.
So! I hope you guys have enjoyed this little tour of the ridiculous bunched-panty moments of a depressed person. You know, they say you can’t truly understand someone unless you’ve walked a mile in his or her
shoes house slippers linty dollar-store socks with cat hair on them.
EDIT: Thanks to Jeff of Jeff and Jill Went Up the Hill for helping out with this piece, despite being in recovery from “the snip.” If you’re feeling generous, check out his blog, or send him a bag of frozen peas. Whichev.
1839: Oil on canvas by Edward Delacroix: Tasso à l’hôpital de St Anne Ferrara (Tasso in the Madhouse) – public domain — modified