I wrote this entry in my journal almost a week ago at the tail end of a particularly debilitating depressive episode. For my fellow writers who struggle with mental health, imposters syndrome, or are going through a rough patch, I hope that this speaks to you.

January 18th, 2023

I folded the laundry today. I am aware that does not sound impressive. But I am pleased with myself, and I would like to offer an explanation. 

When I say “the laundry,” I suppose I mean “The Laundry.” The veritable mountain of bedding, towels, and clothing covered a four-by-five-foot rug in a two-foot high heap. Like mineral deposits building up on a cave floor, the lavender-scented material created a new, seemingly immovable formation in my bedroom.

My bedroom was similarly transforming into a cavern-like state. Curtains stayed drawn, remnants of past meals such as coffee mugs and dirty plates piled up on my nightstand—never there for more than 24 hours individually, but replaced so often as to avoid distinction. I watched it all happen, paralyzed in my bed for the hours my children were away at school and promptly resumed once they went to sleep at night. 

From my place in the bed, I felt a pull. Gentle as a child’s touch, the internal voice a nearly inaudible whisper. Do one thing. Just one thing, and then you can go back to bed. I groaned a heavy, gravelly sigh to rival Rockbiter from The Neverending Story. But I sludged out of bed, an ooze of residual human responsibility, and picked up one of my daughter’s shirts. 

I slowly creased the sleeves and made a tidy square out of pink cotton. I set the shirt down in one of the few sections of the floor left uncovered. I rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck, and pushed out the thought: Does that count as one thing? I folded a second shirt. Then I handled a pair of pants, a pair of socks, a jacket, a towel… 

Finally, I sat beside ten distinct piles of folded laundry. Discarded dryer sheets lay crumpled and defeated on the now-visible carpet. I almost smiled. Then I stood and carried each stack to its destination before crawling back into bed. 

I pulled my laptop onto my lap and used the dregs of my mental energy to write. I was exhausted but sleepless, the awareness of my consciousness consuming me. My dog slumbered at my feet; truthfully, I envied my furry companion. I restlessly, furiously, typed out poems and chapters and pieces of prose such as this. Even so, I only chose to write because when I am this low, it is one of the few lifelines I have left. 

Writing provides an external representation of my internal dialogue. It reveals to me in vivid print the inconsistencies in my flawed logic. It shows me where empathy, compassion, and love still reside within the foggy fortress of my solitary mind. It offers me a chance to escape into a fantasy world that does not so much come from me as it does to me. Writing provides pleasure and hope when all I feel for myself is numbness and despair. Writing is a task of sorting through my thoughts: disentangling, organizing, putting to order, and placing within a formatted vessel. 

As I clicked away, I realized something: writing is folding The Laundry in my brain. It is an act of catharsis, grace, care, and necessary structure. It allows me to see the floor and touch down on reality when I am trapped in my bed of depression. And while it may not seem like much on the outside, what a difference it makes on the inside! I am grateful to have accomplished two tasks today: the laundry and the recalibration of my purpose.

My dears, I finish this piece firmly in the present and not quite so despondent. I intend to start another load of laundry the instant I close out this paragraph. But first, allow me to encourage you. Dear readers, try to fold your laundry. It may seem insurmountable. You may cry when you pick up that first article of dozens. You may ask, “What is the point?” as you wade through the mire of material covering your space. But, piece by piece, you will get it done and accomplish something good for yourself. When it happens, I hope you, too, can take pride in folding The Laundry.