A Day in the Life

For my Abnormal Psychology class, I'm reading a memoir of a woman with bipolar disorder. She's also a renowned psychiatrist. Her book is very sterile; I empathize with her, but mostly just on a cognitive level. Ironically, a book about roller coaster emotions is rather unemotive. So I want to share with you a glimpse of major depression. I hope that by the end, you'll be able to *feel* it as well as just know it.

Allow me to set the mood. Turn out all the lights in your bedroom and put a heavy blanket or drapes over the windows. Only whispers of light should enter the room. Crawl into bed and pull the blanket up to your chin. Curl up into fetal position. Pick a spot on the wall, and stare at it. You're really too lazy to look away anyway. It's about 9:30 in the morning, a lazy Saturday or Sunday. Or maybe it's a Tuesday and you decided that you simply cannot pull yourself out of bed to go to work or class. So you stare at your place on the wall. You're extremely thirsty, and decide to get out of bed for a glass of juice, but then your mind starts going through the motions of what you'll need to do: it's exhausting. In your mind, you pull back the covers and brace yourself against the cool air rushing onto your skin (your apartment is just warm enough to keep the pipes from freezing, but not much more.) Then you have to uncurl yourself and slide your legs out of bed. Already you feel out of breath from the exertion, and here comes the worst part. You will have to pull your head from the indentation on your pillow and actually sit upright. There's a slight melancholic tugging on your heart; you want a drink, but are having second thoughts whether it's worth the effort. Stand up and immediately start walking before, in one motion, you lose momentum and fall back into the respite of fetal position under the comforter. You drag your legs, which feel more like fins, across the carpet. It's only about 10 feet from your bed to the kitchen, but the distance seems to stretch indefinitely. You pour the juice, and as you sip, are vaguely aware of the smell of trash you haven't taken out in close to two weeks. Your former pristine place has now become the host of large amounts of decaying matter and possibly biological weapons grade bacteria growing on the counter tops. You can't even remember when the last time was you did the dishes; but you see a slight film on the water of the bowls sitting in the sink. The cold, dark apartment with its musty smells of rot only depresses you further (is that possible?) and you seek refuge in the only place you know. Before you can think it, you're back under the covers.

Of course, none of this really happens. Remember, this is all in your mind--you figuring out the steps required to attain this much coveted glass of juice. Your tongue is sticking to the sides of your mouth. You contemplate calling your mother, who lives 20 minutes away, to come over with the spare key and pouring the juice for you. Sadly, it's not the inconvenience to her that stops you from calling, but the fact that she just had major back surgery and can, in fact, barely walk for more than 3 minutes at a time, much less climb stairs, drive, or completely dress herself. So you set in bed, staring at the wall. Another thought comes to you: maybe you don't really want juice anyway. You want a latte. In your mind, you fast forward past the getting out of bed, putting a coat over your pajamas, walking down the two flights of stairs and across the quarter mile of parking lot to your car, to where you actually pull into a parking spot at the local coffee shop. You envision yourself standing in line, your armpits slightly moist and forcing your to remember when you last took a shower. You apologize silently to the people around you for your surely offensive smell and just pray that the baristas are quick with making your beverage. In your mind, it's your turn to tell the cashier your order. You look into her earnest, cheerful eyes and open your mouth to speak. You choke on the words. In bed, your eyes well up with tears, which quickly begin to spill over onto your pillow already warm and slightly damp with sweat. You're embarrassed and you pull the covers over your head to hide your shame from the shadows of your room. In the dark, you cry freely for a minute when, just as inexplicably as they begin, the tears stop. Deep breath.

You wonder what time it is, but then, it doesn't really matter. Whatever you're supposed to be doing, you're not. Whomever you're supposed to be meeting will be neglected. Where ever you're supposed to be, you're not going to. You've given yourself freedom to hide in your cave indefinitely. Your face itches. When did you last wash it? Are you breaking out? Who cares, no one will see you. Now you have to go to the bathroom. How could you be so dehydrated and still have to pee, you ask yourself. You hold it. The warmth and carbon dioxide from your breath under the covers is unbearable, and you peek your eyes and nose out for not fresh, but slightly less stale, air. While you've moved this much, you decide that maybe you should just go to the bathroom and get it over with. This time, you actually get out of bed for real and try not to think about how cool the apartment is. You walk into the bathroom and turn on the lights. Only one of the eight lightbulbs is actually screwed all the way in, allowing for the least amount of light possible. You still look away from the brightness. Pee, and done. There's the scale. You step on and realize you've lost a pound since yesterday morning. For a fleeting moment, you're happy to have lost weight, but then you realize that you're not actually losing weight so much as wasting away. You're not getting thinner, you're decaying into nothing. Your eyes sting with tears again, and the choking feeling returns to your throat.

Back in bed, you stare at your favorite place on the wall. This eternity has actually only lasted about 8 minutes.