eviction notice

So depression, just curious, how long do you plan to stick around this time? You’ve been here since I returned from The Caine Prize workshop. That’s fifteen days by all accounts, and you show no sign of leaving. We had, husband and I, hoped for an exciting homecoming, but upon finding a rejection waiting in my inbox when I arrived back in Cape Town, I took an uncontrolled tumble down your dark slopes. Now, it seems, you have settled in and have no plans to leave. You’re like a distant cousin looking for a place to doss – you’ve made an indent in my couch and now think that the couch belongs to you. You pay no rent, contribute nothing towards our household expenses, and I keep finding your dirty coffee cups scattered around the place. Your stinking socks and underpants fill my laundry basket. My house is a mess. You behave as if your upkeep and maintenance are my responsibility, as if you are mine to clothe and feed and sing to sleep at night. But the truth is, your presence saps me of the energy to do the grocery shopping, the laundry, the dishes. Brushing my hair is an effort. I have not worn make up all week – like all of us, I have my rituals, those little things I do that make me believe my life is worth while. Lipstick may not seem like an important cog in the wheel – I, a self-proclaimed feminist, never thought it was – but now that it’s gone, I feel I am coming unstuck.

Thing is, the lipstick is still there, lying inert and untouched amongst the detritus of junk I have allowed to subsume my desk. It is me that is disappearing. You cast such a huge shadow I’ve become difficult to see. Sometimes I wonder what the real me is like, when I am not exhausted and apathetic, when it does not feel like my brain is made of alcohol soaked cotton wool, when I’m not heavy, but I can’t imagine being any other way when you’re around.

I’d appreciate it if you’d move on to some other fool in some other city. Winter is almost here anyway, and I’m going to be stuck indoors with an almost three-year-old doing painting and puzzles for the next six months. It will be boring. You won’t enjoy it and you’ll become whiney and irritable. You’ll make life hell for both of us. And when you’re not here, I can at least pretend I have something to look forward to. When the place is tidy, it looks less gloomy. So, depression, old friend, comrade, gather your dirty socks and underwear and boots, pack them into your rucksack and fuck off.