Presh Bed

It would be nice to imagine that a mental illness such as depression could remain corralled within the borders of one’s mind. But inevitably, it spreads into one’s life like a creeping contagion — and that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? We barely take pain seriously if it can’t be seen on the surface, if it isn’t butting up against someone else’s happiness and ease.

I notice the onset of a depressive episode in my lowercase texts, my overburdened takeout budget, my unshaved and unshowered skin. But I also notice it in my bed, where I spend almost all my time when depressed. All impulses toward tidiness are sapped from me then, because even sitting up in bed is an onerous struggle. So my bed collects debris like an unattended spider web: half-read books, discarded clothes, dirty sex toys, chocolate bar wrappers.

I began referring to this state of affairs as my depression bed — “presh bed” for short. It felt reclamatory to give it a name, as if it were a legitimate symptom rather than an insurmountable shame.

I know the cobwebs of an episode are clearing when I get out of my bed and start dismantling the filthy nest of paraphernalia my illness has built around me. To sleep in an empty bed is lonely — sometimes agonizingly so — but it is also, at times, a luxury.