The Shower Clock
With my depression, self-care is a race against time
00:00:01
The second I step out of the shower, I hear the clock restart. I catch myself wincing in the mirror. The first second is a thunderclap, and each second after clangs in my head, reminding me I’m not free.
The joy of being clean is gone. My bergamot-scented steam only serves as a reminder of the battle to come.
12:00:00
Twelve hours after my shower I can almost forget I’ll have to take another one. I feel human, finally. If I’ve slept and woken up, I feel I’ve been blessed by an angel who declared “You pass as normal.” If I’ve worked all day, my body is excited to sleep, I crumple my clean body into the sheets.
24:00:00
I won’t lie and say I’ve worked up a huge sweat. I’ve probably walked the dog a few times. When I see other people I think “Ah yes, I am one of you,” even if their hair is styled smartly where mine is beginning to go limp.
48:00:00
My less-depressed routine includes a shower every other day. But the catabasis begins with a single downward step. Perhaps I’m running errands until late, perhaps I’m impressed with the way my hair dances on my shoulders.
I’ve got time, I think. I’ll do it tomorrow.
72:00:00
I do not do it tomorrow, which is today, which is the day I should get back on track. I can still course correct! My hair is only a little shiny!
Hmm, isn’t shiny good? Why would I shower, dry my hair, and then add something to make it glisten? Ignoring the blade of time swinging above me, I put on extra deodorant and go about life.
96:00:00
Four days after my last shower, the system is breaking down. The clock has amplified, every tick is a shriek. I can’t think over the noise but I can’t make my feet walk to the shower. I spritz Febreeze and jaunt through the mist like a model, hoping for an osmosis of cleanness.
According to my every-other-day routine, I should be on my second shower by now. A more successful version of me has lapped myself. I decide I don’t like the version that can take two showers in four days. She’s probably a jerk.
96:01:00
At this point, every hour counts. My shiny hair looks wet. I can smell body odor without sniffing my armpits. I feel like Pig Pen from Peanuts, a haze of dirt forming a shield around me.
I remember every conversation I’ve had about showering. “It’s not a big deal, I just wake up and hop in,” a coworker used to say. “I don’t get people who say it’s difficult. It’s so easy,” exclaimed my friend. But it isn’t easy.
96:02:00
My block around showering affects my clothes, and more importantly, my sheets. If I go to sleep now, I’ll be transferring grime to my pillowcase. It will darken where my head lies, absorbing plentiful oils. It will make my next clean sleep dangerous–as soon as I put my clean head down, it will soil quickly, hastening the vicious cycle.
96:10:00
I went to sleep anyway. I wake up feeling my face somehow oily and dry. Scrunching my nose finds gentle resistance as if the coating of failure hardened while I slept. Everyone will know if I leave the house.
96:10:15
Grabbing another clean shirt, I reason I can go a bit longer. But my ripe aroma reaches me before the shirt, and I falter. My clean shirt doesn’t deserve this fate; to be bedraggled so early in the day, ruined when its work has just begun.
I throw the shirt down in protest. Part of why I don’t want to shower is I know this will repeat, and keep repeating. It’s the impermanence that grates on me. This is a system I will never beat.
96:10:20
I turn the water on. I strip down, defeated. This isn’t even the longest I’ve gone, and I regret feeling how long I can hold out is some source of hollow pride.
Under the spray, it’s not so bad. The warm water doesn’t mind that I went too long again. The soap bubbles happily whether I lather up once or twice. The shampoo foam slides down my body into the drain with a wave. All is good. I haven’t screwed up. I’m allowed to struggle, I’m allowed to fail. In the shower, I’m allowed to exist. I breathe in deeply. I’ve cleaned more than my body, my aura is softer, brighter.
00:00:01
I step out of the shower and hear the first tick of the clock.
