“I’m in a strange state of mind.It’s a strange old state of mind…”

“Memories, they mess with my mind Who am I to deny? She was so good at being in trouble”

I’ve never realised before how much I hate peeling boiled eggs. It’s only four eggs. And I’m obligated to feed my children but I consider taking a power nap after egg number two, such is the level of effort I’m having to invest just to complete such a menial task.

Menial tasks are feeling a bit insurmountable today. I’ve already been beaten by my printer when trying to print out a returns label and I don’t have the energy to face anything else head on.

When I say these things feel insurmountable, I mean it in the literal sense. My brain all but shut down during printer gate and I could feel the hot tears springing over something that I could have done with my eyes closed a few weeks back.

I should not be crying over a printer. I should not be crying over my son’s tiny hands struggling to open his advent calendar. I should not be staring at four goddamn eggs feeling more fragile than the remnants of the shells scattered in the bottom of the pan.

But I am.

The wretchedness of ingratitude is crawling all over my skin today. I have a beautiful family who are all excited for Christmas. Our attic is stuffed to the gills with gifts my children don’t need but that they’ll receive anyway just because we can. And because I’m trying to make up for Christmas last year where I don’t recall a single moment of the day.

Those moments can’t be replaced with material items, I know this yet I bought them anyway. This is another thing I’m beating myself up over today – the privilege of being able to paper over the cracks with money and toys doesn’t sit easy with me. Neither does it align with my morals. I could donate them to less fortunate families but is it really altruism if you’re just trying to assuage your own guilty conscience?

Shaun has been up since 7am, and in that wonderful proactive way that he has, is assembling a new bed for our daughter and has already attempted to make a dent in the housework that I’ve been neglecting this past couple of weeks. Meanwhile I’m trying to give myself a pep talk and force myself into the shower.

I have showered precisely once this week. Which is all kinds of minging but that one shower took hours of mental negotiations. My skin feels gritty from too many days of not removing makeup that I’m still just vain enough to apply, my hair is so slicked with grease it’s become just another layer of skin stretched across my skull.

It all feels too hard and too much. I berate myself endlessly for being so weak minded and incapable.

This should not be happening. And it’s not fair. I’m painfully aware of how petulant that sounds but I think I’ve earned the right.

I feel like a hypocrite. I feel like I’m somehow actively inviting depression over my threshold despite having run the gamut of the “How Not To Be Depressed” playbook.

I am doing all the things I should be and none of the things I shouldn’t and yet somehow here I am. I feel cheated and resentful. And I hate myself just a little bit more for feeling that way.

I could go for a walk. I could just have that shower. I could go see friends. I could do any number of things if I could just get dressed.

I feel like my life this week has become a series of finely balanced calculations. I know that I’ve arranged a theatre trip with family tomorrow that will require a presentation of myself that is at least vaguely gregarious or sociable so I’ve had to mentally stockpile some of my motivation to ensure that I don’t back out at the last minute. The thought is tempting.

But then so is just the idea of just lying in bed until whatever maelstrom of mess this is passes.

That’s the dangerous bit isn’t it? The allure of nothing. Nothing requires zero effort on my part. I could just lie there, inert, sucking air into my lungs and I know the world will keep turning. I will not be notable in my absence because I’ve moved through 2023 like a ghost anyway. There’s a vague romanticism to it all that might just be appealing if I was Hemingway and not a middle aged mother just trying to stay afloat.

All of these thoughts feel selfish and indulgent. I feel a responsibility to the people who held out their hands and guided me out of the pit this year. I feel a responsibility to myself to grab my own bootstraps and give them a good hard yank.

The irony is that I’m not sad. My body just hasn’t got that memo yet because it feels all lead and lumpen.

All of these things point towards needing an added layer of pharmaceutical support for the next wee while. Which means a phone call to the doctor on Monday. Because try as I might I simply cannot fix this myself and settling into a front row seat at my own unraveling isn’t a viable alternative.