The Armpit of Depression

When celebrities are in crisis, they are often referred to as the “face of” the crisis, condition or difficulty. Michael J. Fox is the face of Parkinson’s, Christopher Reeve was the face of spinal cord injury, Bill Cosby is the face of destroyed childhood sitcom icons, and so on. In the spirit of being the face of what we face, I’m throwing my hat into the ring, but not as the face of depression.

Instead, I’ve decided to be the self-appointed representative of my people as The Armpit of Depression,  because that’s where the tale of my struggle is more easily read.

The Armpit of Depression

As you can see, what was once smooth and well-maintained area is now overrun with a wild thatch of surprisingly downy fur that’s been nestling there, warm and safe, for the better part of two years. In fact, all of my parts that were once so meticulously manicured now more closely resemble Bre’r Rabbit’s briar patch.

When one rarely leaves the house …. Wait. Let’s back up. When one rarely showers because she rarely leaves the house, there are far fewer opportunities to euphemistically trim the shrubbery. And as I further isolate myself from people, the chance of anyone seeing me naked is holding strong at zero percent.

So what’s the point of going to the effort of removing something that no one but me (and now you) even knows is there? And how many fewer showers would I take if I knew extra work would be involved?

When participating in basic hygiene is a banner day, you don’t mess with it by throwing in unnecessary chores.


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