Why I'm Such A Mess
My room is a mess.
My hair is a mess.
The house I share with my mom & daughter is a mess.
Why? Why am I such a messy person?
I'm not.
I don't want to be.
Then why?
Because.
Because of my depression. The depression that's had hold of me since the second week of June. The depression that has gone untreated because my doctor can't see me until the tenth of August. The depression that almost nobody understands.
I experience bouts of depression because of my bipolar disorder. It comes and goes and usually, only last for no more than four to five days. This episode is one of the longest I have ever experienced, and has made the past few months unpleasant to say the least.
My depression makes me feel like I literally can't do anything. I can't eat, I can't rest, I can't keep up with my self-care or the care of this house. I literally can't. It's like there is an invisible brick wall between me and the millions of household tasks that stand before me, and I am too weak to knock it down or even walk around it.
I am almost one hundred percent sure that my medication needs adjusted, and the only person that can help me with that is my doctor. The only way to get out of this deep, dark hole of depression is to adjust my medication.
I've tried everything else. I've tried vitamins. I've tried forcing myself to eat and be active. I've tried praying, begging God to give me the energy and motivation I need to keep this house clean. Nothing has worked, and still I lay in the bottom of this pit, unable to move and unable to fulfill the needs of this house.
I don't expect anyone who hasn't experienced this kind of depression to understand, but do not tell me that you do understand. Unless you have experienced bipolar depression, or unless you have sat with me during doctor's appointments and therapy to have it explained to you, you do not understand. And without understanding, there is know sympathy or empathy, just resentment and rudeness.
The last thing I need during a depressive episode is to be put down and berated for what I am not doing around the house. The last thing I need is my poor diet to be pointed out constantly. I know I'm eating poorly. Why? Because I'm not hungry, and when I am, I turn to comfort food. Why? Because I am depressed.
During a depressive episode, I need sympathy, empathy, compassion, and understanding. But I've learned not to expect it, and I've almost come to a point where I truly think I don't deserve it.
I've turned into a slob, a mess, a hurricane of destruction. Why would anyone cut me some slack when all I do is leave a mess in my wake? Why do I deserve compassion when I am clearly just lazy and unwilling?
I want to be better. I want to be organized. I don't want to be depressed. I don't want to be such a mess. I don't want to live in filth. I wish my doctor could see me sooner, I wish there were a magic pill I could take that would take away my bipolar depression. But she can't, and there isn't, and I can only try so hard.
Why can't you see that I am trying? Because to you, trying looks different. Trying to a depressed person means doing the best I can, but that is not enough for you.
Depression is an awful beast. It glues me to my bed or ties me to a chair and prevents me from moving; to eat, to sleep, to clean. I'm confident that when my medication is adjusted that I will go back to normal, go back to eating, sleeping, and cleaning in a way that pleases you. But until then, I don't know what else to do. Give up, I suppose. Give up, because I have tried and failed because of my bipolar depression.
There is no "forcing myself to do things". That's not how depression works. There is no "trying not to be depressed". I cannot make my body move in cement. I cannot rest when there is a train running through my head. I cannot force myself to do anything because of my bipolar depression.
Why am I such a mess? Because of my bipolar depression, that is why, and that is all.
