Living in the Happy Moments During My Depression

I lie awake for hours. Suddenly, I think I should go and clean the kitchen floor. It’s important I do this now, while I have energy, because I have no idea what tomorrow will bring in the “energy” department, and if I don’t clean that floor now, it may be weeks before I get to even look at it again.

It’s a small miracle I even care about the kitchen floor. I haven’t cared for a long time now.

As I lie in the dark not yet moving, I think of how exciting it’ll be to take the mop, put hot water into the bucket and make that old floor spotless. I can see myself bent over mopping away. Imagining mopping the floor brings a small smile to my lips. “A smile! There’s a break!” I silently squeal to myself, “Maybe, just maybe, it’s letting me free?” With hope and a modicum of excitement, I clench the duvet tightly. However, I’m afraid if I get too excited, it’ll hear me and it’ll lock me up again, so I calm down, unclench my hands and breathe deeply, pretending I didn’t smile.

I can smell the floor cleaner. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind that smell remains from the last time I mopped the floor…if only just a hint.

“How sticky is that floor?” I wonder to myself.

My husband lying next to me is fast asleep, oblivious to this conversation my broken brain is having all on its own. I wonder if he’s even aware of how much meaning this has for me?

To be able to go downstairs, albeit at 4 a.m., and physically mop the kitchen floor — a feat that has been beyond my reach for the longest time-feels like heaven is raining gold dust on me.

So I quietly get up, seizing the moment, careful not to wake him and tiptoe downstairs. I’m wide awake now and my excitement starts to rise. The kitchen floor is clean of course. My husband made sure of that, but I say to myself, “If he wakes up and this time I have mopped it spotlessly clean, he’ll be so relieved!” I feel as though I’m lifting a huge burden off of his shoulders by mopping the floor. He won’t keep seeing me as a someone who can’t function, which means he may find me attractive again. Maybe. “Why do I think he doesn’t find me attractive?” I wonder. “Well,” my mind answers, “How can he, you’re useless.” That makes sense I guess. Then I remember the floor!

“I better hurry,” I say to myself. ‘This feeling is going to pass; it always does, so get going quickly!” Mopping the kitchen floor is now a matter of urgency. I get the bucket, fill it with boiling hot water and pour twice the amount of floor cleaner in so that it smells really fresh and the floor will be extra clean.

Ah, mopping! I love it. With every dip of the mop into the hot water, as the pine scent of the cleaner rises up to greet me, my heart feels a little warmer. My smile cannot contain itself. I’m so happy to be mopping my kitchen floor, I want to rush upstairs and wake my husband to show him, to share in my joy, but I know that’s the wrong thing to do. I’m sure that will annoy him. For a moment my heart sinks with sadness because I have no one to share my massive achievement with. If only someone knew what it feels like to me, to be mopping my kitchen floor, after weeks confined to bed, filled with confusion and a desperate wish to be somewhere else. Like on another planet perhaps or nowhere at all. Just not here. Not me. In this skin. Who am I anyway, and does it even matter?

How I long to share this moment with him because it means more than anything to me.

The floor is spotless now. I mopped it five times to be certain I didn’t miss a spot. It smells so fresh.

“I did it.” I say to myself as I peruse my kitchen floor with a tiny feeling of pride. “I’m feeling happy and I’m not going to pretend I’m not. I’ll probably be locked up again.” I murmur quietly, but right now, the joy of my efforts matter more.

I go outside and throw the dirty water away, put the bucket and mop back and trudge upstairs again, praying with all I have that I’ll wake up in a few hours’ time with the energy and joy I now have right now to jump up and make us morning tea. Right now. This moment. This moment is all I ever have with depression. It gives me no warning as to when it’ll shackle me again, so I live moment to moment. But often, I just want to fade into oblivion so that the wondering “when” will stop. I want to be free like everyone else seems to be.

I cannot wake up and somewhere far away, I hear my husband’s voice calling me to let me know my tea is next to my side of the bed. I struggle to wake up. I feel as though I’ve been drugged, so I force myself awake. He doesn’t mention the kitchen floor. It’s not his fault. The smell of the pine scent is probably gone and I put the bucket and mop away. With a sinking heart, holding back my tears as my heart begins to crack again; I thank him, feign a smile and look for painkillers because my head is throbbing. My husband sits in the bed next to me and turns on a story we listen to every morning before he gets up.

I want to tell him about how I mopped the kitchen floor. It’s so childish I realize, but I honestly want him to laugh and be happy with me. However, the story has started and I don’t want to disturb him. My heart sinks further into my chest; I sip my tea and with surrender, I wonder which mask I should wear today? Or should I just lie down again, pull my duvet over my head and pretend it was all just a dream because it’s found me again and again I’m shackled.

Who knows if I’ll ever mop the kitchen floor again?

“Are you OK?” my husband asks.

I lie and say, “Yes, I’m fine, why?”

“No reason,” he answers.“You just look a bit down.”

I slowly turn away from him and lie down, the fetal position has become my “go-to” and my tears flow freely. I tried.