my mother bought me windchimes

I got this computer so I could start writing again. now i barely touch it because i’m so fucking afraid. I’m terrified. I can’t. it’s all flowed out of me and i don’t know why but my fingers don’t dance the way they used to. everything is a list. a journal entry. a letter without an address. nothing is a piece of me smashed into stained glass in the window of the church everyone I know goes to pray in. I’m just broken and there’s nothing beautiful about it. 

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The Depression/Messy House Cycle


When I first started Unfuck Your Habitat, it was a housekeeping blog very squarely aimed at lazy people. Mostly because I am one. As the blog gained momentum, though, I started hearing from people who were using the fundamentals to help them battle through something more serious than laziness: mental illness. More specifically, depression.

Now, I’m no stranger to depression. I don’t make it a secret that I have issues with depression and anxiety, just like I don’t make it a secret that I have poor eyesight and a bum knee. Depression, however, has its own set of related life issues that my poor arthritic knee has never caused. And one of those is the self-perpetuating cycle of depression and a messy home.

When you’re in the midst of a depressive episode, cleaning your house comes in on the List of Things You Want to Do somewhere after taunting a hive of bees and tap dancing on live television. Things are awful. It’s a struggle to walk to the bathroom. Making dinner seems more impossible than advanced calculus. Anything that’s not your couch or your bed might as well be hot lava. And so the mess builds around you. I purposely use the passive voice there because when you’re depressed, it seems nearly impossible that you’re contributing to the chaos of your house, because that would require energy, and you sure as hell don’t have any of that to spare.

Then you look around your messy house. And you feel worse. You feel more depressed, because now you’re exhausted and hopeless and can’t pull yourself out of bed, and on top of that, your house is a shithole. Which makes you feel useless on top of everything you were already feeling, and then probably overwhelmed on top of that, and quite frankly, having that many feelings at once during a depressive episode is like being crushed by a ton of bricks. So your depression gets worse, and your mess gets worse, and the two keep feeding on each other and it seems like there’s no end in sight.

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this post really helped me.

here is my before kitchen. it is the worst room in the house, so instead of completely embarrassing myself and posting every room, I thought I would just show this one. yesterday I wasted another day. i didn’t get off the couch. i didn’t eat. i didn’t even smoke a cigarette. i stayed on the couch for over nine hours. every hour convincing myself i would get up, i would go to the grocery  store. i would do some laundry. clean the living room. i would finally start on the check list of things i have had piling up on me for the past two months. i would do anything.

my depression gets worse when i’m alone. i expected to be around people these two days i have off. i’d make the most of them because other people would force me to get off the couch. to get dressed. to be useful. 

but everyone was too busy. plans got cancelled. my boyfriend and i don’t have these days off together (like we have had in the past). it was just going to be me. 

so i ditched myself.

and i felt terrible.

i have been getting sick. no health insurance has left me with a full set of wisdom teeth and tonsils. both of which desperately need to be removed. so on top of my depression and anxiety which keeps me in bed any chance i get to be productive, i get sick every couple months and stay sick for weeks. 

i really wanted to go to the doctor this year. it was my secret new years resolution. to get help. to tell someone. to really make an effort.

but i don’t seem to have many options. 

right now i just want to work on having more good days than bad days. doing something everyday that i can be proud of. knowing that i didn’t waste another day. another day i deserve. another chance to be happy.

i wasted yesterday. today is mine. and tomorrow i just have to try even harder. 

my house will be clean today. because i deserve that.

Off work today
Send me asks and I’ll rate your blog /10 

Looking to fill about 100 follow slots

Just q’d a bunch of old posts. mostly circa 2011. 

no real reason. 


they asked me for a written statement

I want to put you on the stand

have you stand before a jury of my peers

my coworkers

my ex boyfriends

my middle school best friends

my family

i want everyone to see what you’ve done to me

I don’t want to tell them what you said

or what you did

or the way you rolled your eyes at me

I want to show them the blood on my fingers

the dents in my fingertips where i bit away the skin

the pimples on my back, on my face that i grew out of stress

watered with tears

that rise up like the bile in my throat

and the words i can’t say

i want them to see that i can’t look at you

that my blood pressure raised when i see your car in the parking lot

when you walk in the room

when you stand in my face and stare me down

begging me to say anything to you

begging me to stoop to your level

because you know i won’t 

because you want to feel something i can’t understand


bigger than me




I want to touch you

I want you to feel my pressed against you




but you wouldn’t feel a thing

I have to prove that you were mean to me

that you hurt me

every single day

that you treated me different

i have to write down the way you look at me

the way your tone changes everything

how you cut me with your words

slapped me with your eyes

how you whispered and snickered and tore me apart

how “I’m just doing me job” really means “I’m going to keep getting away with this.”

how “I just want you to do your job” really means “no one is going to help you”

how “you can do what I say or you can clock out” really means “you can squirm under my nose, or you can quit”

what happened to you to make you this way?

what’s misplaced inside of you?

you don’t know anything about me

how i cry in the mirror just before i walk in the door

fighting back tears to line my eyes

sometimes i wonder what i would say to you if i were different



if i could say what everyone wanted

to be strong to stand up for myself 

but i don’t know you either

and if you cry in the mirror before you walk in to work

if you lie awake in bed at night

if there’s a piece of you broken 

I don’t want to be what hurts you

i don’t want you to hurt yourself

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.

Kait Rokowski (A Good Day)