A part of me wishes I took a before picture so that I could have proof that it was as bad as it was, that I wasn’t imagining things. But another part of me is relieved I didn’t because it was bad. Really, really bad.
Let me start from the beginning.
The bathroom was a mess. Still is, mostly. The three-part glass door had broken, so one piece was leaning against the wall for so long that the dust which accumulated at the base had been wet and dry so many times that it was fused to the tiles. The “bath mat” was a bamboo one we’ve had for more than a decade, with little spots of mold and caked dirt cementing it to the floor. And the shower…
I’m MENTALLY ILL™
And not the sexy, dangerous kind like Hannibal Lecter. Or the romantic, tortured genius type like Sylvia Plath. Nope, I gots the unable to do anything today because my brain thinks there’s something out to get me kind. The so bored that it’s physically painful but nothing you try helps and you end up in tears kind. The excited for the D&D game you’ve waited 2 weeks for but cancel an hour before because you’re convinced that your friends now hate you and now you’re lying in the shower crying so hard you’re physically sick kind. The kind that has no fuckin’ “superpower” attached to it.
And proper Clinical Depression is a hell of a boss. It’s always telling me how things are my fault, but I’m too weak to change anything. It’s the only voice I hear sometimes, overriding even my own when I want to speak up about things. So for the last, I don’t know, five years, I have been fairly useless. Doing just enough to get by. Feeding the dogs was about the only thing I could consistently manage. “Cleaning” the kitchen by unpacking and repacking the dishwasher was a Herculean task that was managed a few times a week. Food was just an obligation, no taste and no joy, just fuel for the soft machine to keep it going. And my hero of a spouse worked so hard to keep us afloat.
I changed my medication about two months ago. I was on a cocktail of anti-depressants, stimulants and anti-psychotics, all carefully selected by a variety of doctors with the best of intentions. But nothing was working, I was adding more pills to the rotation with less results each time. So enough was enough. I asked my psychiatrist to start from scratch. Chuck out all the pills and try again, as if I just walked through the door. And so we did.
It sucked. It sucked so much.
Migraines sent by angry gods, mood swings where looking at my dog for longer than a minute made me burst into tears, one day I felt like my brain was just rattling like a vibrator in an empty bed stand. I got fits of freezing cold when everyone else in the house were puddles in the 40°C sun. The withdrawal from my old medication was almost bad enough that I thought I would die. But things also got better. Finally restored a small sentimental box that I’ve been meaning to do for a few years now. I started cooking again and loving the food I ate. I cleaned out the depression nest around my computer and I vacuumed our bedroom.
Today I tackled one of Depression’s biggest sticks it uses to bash me in the head: the shower. I fixed the door, I busted out my drill and used brush attachments to go at the mildew-infested grout. I took that little nightmare cubicle that would have looked at home in Silent Hill and scrubbed, bleached and sprayed the devil out of it. And now it looks better than it did when we moved in!
It only took me a few years to clean that shower. But now I can keep it clean, easy peasy.
It doesn’t matter when you start, all it matters is that you did when you could.
I cleaned my shower today
