{This was originally written before the holidays and is brutally honest. Honesty goes a long way and often makes others feel less alone.}

I took a shower. Washed my hair. Shaved my legs. All of this to feel squeaky clean and smooth when I put my sweatpants back on.

Beneath is a new pair of underwear, which really does make all the difference in the world when the rest of you is a ratty old piece of shit.

I’m wearing a 13 year old sports bra complete with holes, old stains from dying my hair and is too stretched to even make a difference. But it does a phenomenal job soaking up boob sweat.

I was going to take a bath today. Put on some music loud enough to hear in my bathroom. Read a book while soaking in the tangerine scented bubbles. But that would mean I’d have to clean the tub first and who the fuck wants to go to that extreme?

There’s a sheet of ice outside and snow is falling. So delicate and serene. It’s a good thing I’ll be staying home today. Alone. With the threatening voice in my head whispering sweet nothings into my ear. So much so that I can’t concentrate on the Netflix marathon of movies I added for this day.

I try to read but I’m not grasping what’s happening on the pages, which sucks because I really want to read this book. It’s peculiar and smart and dirty and one day I’ll get through it and understand what it’s about.

Maybe I should vacuum the house. Maybe I should pour a glass of wine, or better yet, a whiskey on the rocks. Maybe some Klonopin would make me not feel what I’m already not feeling. Maybe I should work on writing the half dozen stories I started and haven’t touched in weeks. Maybe I should try to forget that the voices are reminding me of the fresh, unopened bottles of pills that are still in my purse because I’m too afraid to place them in the cabinet. Within reach.

Depression is a motherfucker. It lies. It steals. It makes you do things you don’t want to do. It makes you say things you’ve been holding in for far too long. It makes you silent. It grabs hold of your throat and gasp for breath. It makes you think far too strong. It makes you stare into the beyond. It makes you scratch at your skin, just to feel something-even pain-leaving fingertips warm and covered in blood.

“They” say people get depressed around the holidays. Funny thing to say to someone who is clinically depressed all the days of the year.