**Depression and the Day I Couldn’t Get Out of Bed (Or Why My Life Feels Like a Netflix Show That Got Canceled After One Season)**
Okay, so yesterday morning—no, wait, actually it was Tuesday, March 12th, 2024—I woke up at like 11:30 AM, which is late even for me, and just… couldn’t move. Not in a *"oh, I’m so cozy under the blankets"* way. More like a *"if I get up, I might actually dissolve into the carpet"* kind of way. My phone was at 8%, buzzing with a message from my boss, Marcos (that guy who always says *"just checking in!"* but means *"why aren’t you working?"*), and I just… left it there. Let it die. Whatever.
I should backtrack. Or maybe not. I don’t know. This isn’t some *"my journey with depression"* essay with a neat little arc. It’s more like… remember that time you dropped a plate of spaghetti and just stared at it? Yeah. That’s me, but for months.
Anyway, back to Tuesday. Or maybe last year? Shit, I don’t even know anymore.
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**The Thing with the Cereal (And Other Mundane Disasters)**
So there I was, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling fan in my apartment in Vila Madalena (São Paulo, because apparently location matters). It’s one of those cheap ones from Leroy Merlin that wobbles like it’s about to take flight. And I kept thinking, *"If that thing falls, would I even care?"*
Then my stomach growled. Great. Now I had to deal with *hunger* on top of everything. I dragged myself to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and just… stared at the box of Nesfit cereal. It was the *"fit"* kind because, you know, *"maybe if I eat healthy, I’ll feel better."* Spoiler: I didn’t.
I poured it into a bowl. Milk was expired. Of course it was. I stood there holding the carton, smelling it like some kind of sad scientist, and then just… ate the cereal dry. Crunch, crunch. Felt like chewing on cardboard. But hey, at least I ate *something*, right? Small victories.
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**The Time I Cried in the Uber (And the Driver Pretended Not to Notice)**
This was back in February, I think. Or maybe January? Whatever. Point is, I was on my way to meet my friend Carla for coffee at this place she loves—Padoca do Mané, near Paulista Avenue. I was already late (shocker), and the Uber driver took some weird route that added 20 minutes to the trip.
And then, out of nowhere, *boom*—tears. Not the pretty, cinematic kind. The ugly, snotty, *"why am I like this?"* kind. The driver—his name was José, according to the app—just kept his eyes glued to the road. Bless that man. I tipped him R$10 even though I couldn’t really afford it.
When I got there, Carla took one look at me and said, *"You look like shit."* No sugarcoating. That’s why I love her. I ordered a cappuccino and a cheese bread, took one bite, and suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore. Carla didn’t push. She just talked about her Tinder dates and how one guy showed up wearing socks with sandals. I laughed. For like, two seconds. Then the weight came back.
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**The Shower Incident (Or: How Basic Hygiene Became a Battle)**
Okay, this is embarrassing, but whatever. There was a week—sometime in late 2023—where I didn’t shower. Not because I was *trying* to be gross, but because the idea of standing under water for 10 minutes felt like climbing Everest. My hair got so greasy I could’ve fried an egg on it.
Finally, my roommate, Felipe (bless his patient soul), knocked on my door and said, *"Dude, I’m not judging, but… maybe a shower?"* in that tone people use when they’re trying *really* hard not to sound like your mom.
I did it. Turned the water to scalding hot, stood there until my skin turned red, and then cried again. Because *who the hell cries in the shower?* Me, apparently.
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**The Therapist Who Said "It’s Just a Phase" (And Why I Wanted to Throw a Chair)**
I finally caved and went to a therapist in November. Dr. Ana, recommended by my cousin. She had one of those *"live, laugh, love"* posters in her office, which should’ve been my first red flag.
Me: *"I don’t feel anything. Like, ever. Except sometimes I feel *too much*, and then I want to peel my skin off."*
Her: *"Have you tried journaling?"*
I wanted to scream. Instead, I nodded, paid the R$300 session fee, and never went back.
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**The Weirdest Part? I Function Just Fine (Mostly)**
Here’s the kicker: I still go to work. Still reply to emails. Still show up to family dinners and nod when my aunt asks if I’m dating anyone (*"No, Tia, still single, thanks for reminding me"*).
But it’s like… I’m on autopilot. My body’s there, but my brain’s floating somewhere near Jupiter.
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**Final Thoughts (If You Can Call Them That)**
I don’t have a *"and then I got better!"* ending. I’m still here. Still eating dry cereal. Still ignoring my boss’s texts.
Maybe one day I’ll wake up and *want* things again. Or maybe not. Who knows?
Anyway. The ceiling fan’s still wobbling. I should probably get up before the neighbors complain about the smell.
Or not.
Whatever.