We reflect our bad energy over to something simpler, something we would rather be doing when reality is too hard to face. I do this every day from my own house. When my depression gets out of hand I can’t focus on the things I’m supposed to be doing, but I become a master at other simpler tasks. Things I’ve always hated have now become my main priority.
I’ve always been great at school, before. Now I can’t take a note if my life depends on it. One of my favorite things to do has been simply reading a book that I enjoy. Fill it up with notes in the margins, and post-it’s full of ideas. My head just fills with thoughts and I’ve always loved putting them on a piece of paper. But it’s been months since I finished a book. My paint is dry, and my arts supplies are on my desk gathering more dust each passing day. Even my camera is packed up somewhere. My loving camera which I spend hours at a minimum wage job saving up for, and the day I finally had enough to go buy it. Wasted. I still love those things, don’t get me wrong, but I simple just don’t. I don’t do anything, I don’t even know if I miss it at all. There’s simply just no desire for it anymore, no passion that drives me, keeps me going. I claim to be this aspiring artist or wish to be one, but what do I have to show for. Maybe I’m just another angsty teenager, a wannabe day time show cliché.
So what do I do? I fold towels, no corners. Just like in the hotels, but wait. I also fold clothes, one pile for each member of the house, then another one for kitchen cloths, one for table cloths and then so on. I mop the floors; clean the counters, a maid you say? I am no maid, but I do cook. Yes, dinner for my family. I hate cleaning, I always have, I hate the idea of being tied down to a house full of chores. I hate the life of a housewife; I’ll never be a housewife. I’ve never even had a real desire for marriage. Just the thought of being somebody’s someone, having the house and dinner for that somebody. It’s not a life, not one I intend to have. But I’m already living it. I may not have a husband, but I have the life, only it’s my family who plays that role, same situation just different people.
How about meeting an old friend? No, I’d rather rearrange the cups, mugs and glasses in the kitchen cabinet. Going out? Facing anxiety? No, I’ll clean and rearrange the food pantry. Whatever I was doing before doesn’t matter; I’m busy with this new task that takes hours, and really not worth it. So why do I complain? Most people would love the willpower right? Being able to clean all day, keep the house intact. It’s quite the opposite, I have no willpower. As I said, I hate cleaning, always have. It’s an obsession, something I don’t know if I can control. I no longer do the things I would enjoy. It even took me 3 glasses of wine to just write this. But I need it written, I need to reflect, and I need to know that this is a piece of memory that I will only look back on in the future.
Right now, I see now future past my next task. I used to dream about arts school, traveling, lectures on literature and foreign studies. Now I hear the sound of the dryer when the clothes are dry and plans for dinner. I don’t dream, I don’t hope. I simply just, am.