I talk to my depression and anxiety. I have to live with them in my head, I can talk to them. That's fair. They moved in without asking.
Depression and anxiety informed me we were staying in bed today. Informed them that we did that yesterday, and we had stuff to do. They told me to die in a fire and laughed maniacally. (Actually, my mental voice for them sounds like Ursula, but I admit to being weird.) I told them to meet Mr. Xanax, and I successfully got up, paid all the bills, went grocery shopping, cooked the remaining leftovers in my fridge in to various things either for lunch this weekend or froze them. Laundry running. Calling it a success.
Still can't find anywhere that will let me consign the plethora of stuff to auction, but there's a few more places to call yet. I did manage to get everything out of the dining room, so that's back to a normal space again. Well, its new normal, anyway.
I got some of the wallpaper goo off the master bathroom walls. That was always Howard's bathroom, and I've traditionally not gone in there. Because you didn't go in his bathroom if you knew what was good for you. Looked around, decided that I'm NOT dealing with that, and I'm going to get a contractor friend to clean off the walls, finish getting the wallpaper off, and then repaint the walls to blue.
It's been a weird week. Emotionally kind of all over the place, but new antidepressant, so that's to be expected. Managed to work past enough anxiety to invite two friends to dinner. Neither even responded. That... didn't help.
Three months tomorrow.