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Two days ago, my dad came up to my room. I have been trying to clean my room for as long as I can remember, but I am seemingly incapable of completing this task. I've tried different organizational methods, i've thrown out countless bags of random detritus, i've donated more jeans than any person should own in their life, i've taken more adderall than i should have needed. But the vile blight of filth can never be scrubbed from my room.

I have no idea why my dad came up to my room in the first place—a rare occurance as we all try to live in denial of its existence—but when he saw it, whatever agenda had brought him there fell to the wayside. The state of the room demanded addressing. He reviled the mess, and admonished me for allowing it to exist and allowing myself to live in it. "It's like theres something mentally wrong with you," he said, "like a hoarder." He demanded immediate action and fled the gorey scene.

I slumped back onto my bed, in my unwashed sheets covered in laundry, books, and loose wires, still in my nightgown despite it being nearly noon on a weekday. Emptiness resonanted through my body, trapped in its place by exhaustion. Surverying my mess, I tried briefly to bargain with myself about its severity, but who was I kidding. It is and has always been a monstrous prison of my own creation, and even the most deluded psycho in the world couldn't deny that.

For the past month, approximately, I have been sliding into despair. It started with a "girls" trip—a situation I am not well adapted for—in which there were several comments made that were offensive to me (the girls being tentative, as gender was a recouringly questioned theme). For the sake of the trip, I let these go unremarked upon, opting instead to stew silently while pretending to enjoy myself. My ill-will accumulated as the trip continued, and followed me home, along with two of the members of the trip.

I attempted to remedy the situation as best as I knew how: with time and distance. So I returned to my room. I slept and worked and swam in isolation. I remained in my dark, decaying room, not uttering a word to any of the friends I had just left until I absolutely had to. My heart softened somewhat, but I couldn't forget the disrespect i had endured, and while I tried to forgive and forget, instead I began stewing more fervently in my frustration. The time i believed would be enough to calm down proved to be inadequate, and I was thrust back into a non-stop party weekend with figures I could barely meet the eyes of. I left my room to rejoin friends who my malice had turned to enemies without their notice.

My anger and frustration spread through me and my love like an infection; misscommunications and mishaps turned into paranoid delusions and betrayal, and innocent bystanders were silently sucked into my spiral as collateral damage. I felt myself stretched thinner and thinner as annoyance destroyed my grace and patience, and as the wrongs against me accumulated, I became more incapable of addressing them. Each moment of silent reprieve, I deluded myself into thinking I would recover and forgive, which culminated in my descent into rage in the middle of a friends birthday celebration and abrupt departure.

Again and again, I tell myself that time will heal all wounds. I gave myself a week, one full week, to let silence clear the slate that only I saw, while I was away in my homeland (Michigan). But again, my delusional solution failed me; without even seeing them, I found ways to be slighted by almost everyone I love. By the time I returned to my room, I was ignoring every person I had seen in the two weeks prior. My mess was expanding, encroaching, and suffocating me.

Since my return and my dad's visit to my room, I have barely been able to drag myself out of bed. I try to create structures to help myself function, to do lists and whatnot. But I don't have the drive to function on even the most basic level. I stop in the middle of the staircase, unable to find the will to make it to the end. I am utterly incapable.

It is painfully obvious that there is something mentally wrong with me. I have the bedroom of a schizophrenic and I'm not on speaking terms with many of the people who love me over a one-sided unspoken feud about nothing. And I let these things linger and decay around me until they are, apparently, irreparable. Maybe if I had made my bed when my parents told me in elementary school I would be sitting at a neat desk right now, working, not watching videos of people smashing CRT TVs surrounded by trash and dried contact lenses. I would not be failing, functionally and morally, to care for my things, and they would not be falling into decay. But it's gone too far now.

I might as well become an alcoholic at this point; at least that would be a little more interesting than whatever this is. If anyone wants to come over for a beer, don't text me. I won't respond anyway.