A year ago, I gave away my bed. I needed less clutter, in my home and in my mind, which to me meant sleeping on a cot for three months until I bought a futon and tatami mat. The cot was so narrow that one night I rolled right off it, in the middle of a dream in which I struggled to open a stubborn attic door that abruptly gave way. I went crashing to the floor, in the dream and in real life.

Still, what I missed most about my old bed wasn’t its size or comfort. What I missed most was the daily routine of making it, that satisfying, soothing morning ritual of smoothing the bottom sheet and resecuring any elasticized corners that might have released their hold on the mattress during the night and slunk into themselves. Next, I’d shake out the flat sheet, letting it drift downward, onto the mattress. Even my cat, who is annoyed by most household chores and the noises or disruptions they create, enjoyed the ritual. Granted, his enjoyment came from interrupting the bed-making — tail twitching dangerously, he pounced while the sheet was still hovering, then attacked it with startling ferocity, all teeth and claws.

Personal EssaysHeather L. HughesSeptember 30, 2020Depression, Self-care

Making Myself Up After My Mental Breakdown

Four months after my slide into depression became a freefall, I bottomed out in a psychiatric facility.

I barely recognized myself in the facility’s bathroom mirror. My eyes were startled, and my lips were unable to smile. Any attempt at one resulted in a rictus, a twisted grimace, as though I was trying and failing to replicate what I thought a smile should look like. For me, this is what depression feels (and looks) like.

Despite my brain’s inability to do much more than grasp where I was and race around the confines of my skull, desperate to escape, I noticed how colorless my mouth looked. I wasn’t wearing any lipstick.

Personal EssaysHeather L. HughesMarch 10, 2020Depression, Appearance, Recovery, Makeup

12-Step Groups vs. Group Therapy

My name is Heather, and I am not an alcoholic.

That may sound like the punch line to a hackneyed joke mocking 12-step groups and the people who attend them, but it’s actually the introduction I made with all seriousness — and initially with more than a little trepidation — at the Alcoholic Anonymous meetings I attended shortly after my discharge from a psychiatric facility. I didn’t have a drinking problem but I did need a place where I could go for an hour or more a day and not feel judged or pitied, one where I was free to talk or to remain silent, one where I didn’t have to put on a performance that I was doing better.