I was in the corner shower, the one that has enough room for one person to stand in. If you want to turn around, you place your arms either straight down in a straight jacket or above your head like a ballerina and turn between the shower nozzle by your nose and the scrunchy behind your head. It is a true feat to bend over retrieving the shampoo bottle without touching your sensitive body parts to the chilled shower wall.
Our shower is so luxurious that is has a glass door and side wall, so all of the minerals in the campground’s unsoftened water can collect in a decorative dripping of scum. Some of my people “forget” to spray the walls down after they shower which can lead to a Saturday chore of them understanding why we squeegee and spray the shower as they are passed the baking soda and scrub brush. Most come out with an understanding.
So, I was in the mood to chit-chat with Jon and used the magnetic strip on the bathroom door to hold it in place in the hallway, creating a huge amount of space in the bathroom, now that the door was open it felt like the hallway was also part of the bathroom. There was so much more space, almost 1 foot.
Random thoughts come into my head when I am in the shower. Today, I was thinking about my depression. Jon was in the bathroomway (bathroom plus hallway) listening to my randomness.
“So, when we recorded that podcast on depression, you said I had a mental illness. And I remember thinking, I have a mental illness? That’s why I was staring at you with my stink eye while thinking, how dare you say I have such a thing! Stop making up such a thing! Truthfully, I had never thought about it until you mentioned it on the podcast. I mean, I know I have depression, but it is just depression. It has its own little box. Filed under, well, depression.”
“And then I just said it on the podcast and published it to the world. Oops,” said Jon.
“I would have asked you to edit it if it was a problem. I have been thinking about it more, though,” I said.
And I had been thinking about it instead of stuffing it away in my Secret Room – the place I put unwanted thoughts, repressed feelings, shame, and other amazing things to hide from the world until they bubble up again in my depression or obsessive thoughts.
Mental illness, mental illness, mental illness. If I say it a bunch of times maybe it will sink in?
Jon knew from the beginning of our love story that I had mental illness and he was cool with it. How he has accepted all of my random thoughts, freakouts, obsessive thoughts. Just like how I woke up yesterday still upset and obsessing that the neighbor in this retirement park had a drunken Karaoke fest next to my cardboard walled home.
I am all for gathering with your friends to party, but to set up a speaker and point it at my RV? At least invite us over if you are going to invade our personal space. Especially if your four guy friends stand up to sing “You Are My Sunshine” a measure behind the music in slurred lyrics and all in a different drunken key.
I mean, I guess I accept Jon too. Like right now, I have accepted that he stunk up the room with his macchiato from last night and now I have to type with my shirt over my nose. That’s how relationships work I guess. I made a disgusted face and insisted he open the bedroom window. He has to do his part. Especially, when he invaded my writing space. We compromise on our faults.
So, I am working on accepting me. The more I can accept who I am, the more I can accept who my husband is, and accept my children.
But please, if you are going to scream-sing Elvira into my bedroom, make it on key and invite me over for some drinks so I can suffer through it.
Giddy up oom poppa omm poppa mow mow
Heigh-ho silver, away
P.S. I have a mental illness.
(Photo by Elizeu Dias)