Good Housekeeping

And the dull, average first step I've taken to get out of this pit of despair is to wash a load of my laundry.  Are you unimpressed?  I haven't done any of my laundry in about four-five weeks...and yes, I have that many clothes, that many pairs of underwear, but I am down to my last pair of clean socks.

Cory used to do this exact thing.  Only instead of finally caving to wash her clothes, she'd try her best to get me to buy her a few new things to stretch her options just a couple more days.  I used to get so aggravated with that child.  "How can you just let it pile up like that?  It's going to smell!"

At that time, I knew next to nothing about the places depression could take you, and the self-loathing that occurred when you finally lifted your head enough to see where you had ended up.

Now I do.  And I'd like to say this,  I'm so sorry, Cory.  I had no idea what you were dealing with.

 I think about how bad things got for her, how afraid she was every day, and I truly marvel that she ever got out of her pajamas, or even out of bed.

 Laundry?  Are you freaking kidding me?

I am grateful now to understand so much more about Cory's illness and symptoms, but I so wish I'd known a little more first hand about them back then, so I could have been a little more understanding.

Some things I'll never really be able to fully grasp.  The first time she was afraid to stay home alone while I dropped Jake off at school around the corner, I was puzzled.  A few minutes later, crouched down in the car like she was hiding from someone, she whispered, "I think he listens through the vents."

Gooseflesh.  Everywhere.  He?  He, who?  What is happening to my child?

"The squatter that lives in the basement."

Can you even imagine?  It breaks my heart all over again just remembering it.

By that point, Cory had stopped staying in her bedroom anyways, but I remember being so shocked when I went through it the first time she was hospitalized.  It made no sense to me- what she'd saved, and what she thought was garbage.  There was no organization whatsoever, not even the meager sort that a teenager puts forth to keep their privileges.

I thought about her room this morning, when I finally crawled out of my bed for the second time this weekend and took a really good look around my house.  Disaster would be a fair descriptor.  Dishes are clean, thanks to my husband, but the dust bunnies and general clutter have gradually claimed every surface.  Combine two depressed adults and a withdrawn, slightly depressed twelve year old, and you will create an immediate environment full of dark corners and disorganization.  I've had a set of broken blinds at one set of windows for probably three months.  Where's the logic?

The day after the accident, Cory's nurse from the Clozaril clinic said this, "She never stopped trying to have a good day."

I wish I could say the same about myself, but sometimes, I find, it's easier to just float.

Cory, I'm coming up for air, baby girl.  I don't have any socks left.