For one whole week, I’ve had my own apartment. The grown-up apartment, with multiple rooms to furnish, and a one-year lease. And monthly rent that is more than my parents have ever paid on a mortgage. And in that week, I’ve accomplished the following:
• Spent a ridiculous amount of my parents’ money at Ikea, Target, Best Buy, and WalMart, all towards properly furnishing this lovely little place
• Arranged/decorated most of that lovely little place, to rave reviews on Instagram and Facebook
• Decided on a television and internet provider
• Absolutely zero job hunting and close to zero writing, because the aforementioned internet won’t be set up until this Thursday (Is this the functional definition of a millennial, that they don’t know what to do or how to accomplish anything meaningful without high-speed internet access?)
• Had my car booted and then paid $150 to have it unbooted
• Halfway put together a final piece of furniture before I had to go to a party
• Been on the receiving end of a particularly vicious hangover, brought on not just by drinking but also by seriously questionable decisions (though that is what brought me to the modicum of writing I’ve done, so it’s clearly not that bad)
And, just today, slept til noon, when I got up, made a to-do list, watched some Property Brothers on my phone, and then went back to sleep. And apparently missed a delivery of something. I should really figure out my buzzer system and then label it appropriately.
I’ve struggled with depression before, and though I despise using such a cliché, struggle is really the only appropriate verb I think there is for it. I considered “dealt,” but that implies a following clause, as in “I dealt with the problem, and I moved on.” And that would be a complete misrepresentation of the situation that ignores the heft of what depression is, the way it sits heavily on every part of your life, making everything difficult and clarity impossible. It’s a thick smoke whose stink lingers, whether on a resume, explaining a long gap of unemployment, or on a bank statement, justifying debit card use that is clearly characterized by doing things alone. Single movie tickets, fast food meals for one, late night wine purchases – all of these populate my bills from years ago. I say all of this not to get on a soapbox and direct people not to use the word depressed lightly, but to preface the following: I’m afraid I’m a little depressed.
Admittedly, today was a rainy day, the kind the Mamas and the Papas sang about, and the kind that gets everyone a little down. I have to wonder just how many people in the NYC area booked late-summer beach vacations today out of sheer impulse to eventually escape today’s wet, dark doldrums. And also, one could easily call my behavior responsible. I have no job, and have taken on an enormous amount of financial burden in the last month, and have been cut off from my former means of support. In theory, putting as little money out when none is coming in is a good thing. But there are ways to minimize spending without sleeping through the day.
I eventually got up, put clothes on, and made it to a coffeeshop to use the internet. So I guess that’s a step.