Lost Journals

“I forgot to put on underwear this morning,” I muttered.

“You what?” Leah responded.

And this is how it started: my slow descent into depression. Isn’t funny how we can narrow it down into one sentence. I stopped answering the phone. The only time I would bathe would be when I could smell my feet even though they were tucked deep in my covers in the midnight hours. I neither left my apartment nor had the desire to.

I would cook my favorite dinner then refuse to eat it, no longer hungry for curry or garlic shrimp or naked pasta. I would spend days organizing my CD collection or alphabetizing my canned goods.