My apartment is becoming pretty gross, and I’m not doing anything about it. I could wash dishes and take out the trash and clean the litter box, but not tonight. Cleaning has become A Thing, where “A Thing” is defined as “a minor and physically simple but also impossible task.”
I’ve finally figured out that depression is not a binary state. At its extreme end it’s obvious enough. When I’m sad or numb all the time, avoiding all human contact, and daydreaming about death, I feel comfortable enough calling that depression. It’s trickier to label when I’m feeling reasonably confident, making it to work, and enjoying myself sometimes, yet still. Still there’s a sink full of dishes and trash piled up. Still there’s a little tugging in my chest, a little helpless stain.