the thing is literally NO ONE cares if u dont think leggings count as pants. no one. no one cares. everyones gonna keep wearing them as pants. theyre pants. no one cares what u think
You’ve been afraid to write about it because you don’t know how your depression compares to other peoples’ depression, you don’t know if yours is bad enough to “count,” you don’t want to be an authority on the subject because, from what you can tell, the way it comes on is too personal, too tied up with your particular dreams, neuroses and blood sugar levels to be the same exact affliction as the one that affects more than 14 million Americans.
But then you remember how much time you spend wondering whether you should leave your bed, your pajamas, or your apartment—and you know that you are one of them. You remember that this is not something that just started happening today, or over the holidays, or when your mother died. It’s always been there, waiting, until you’re too tired to go through the extensive (and expensive) set of self-care rituals and routines required to keep you going.