There is a Monster in this House

I have spent most of this month (and year) trying my best to be positive about everything. I have a tendency to let the worst five minutes of a day become the whole day. I didn’t want to do that this year. When I fill in a square on the Year in Pixels page in my planner, I trend towards days being generally good.

This went fine until a communication error from Student Loans gave me my first truly bad day of the year, and I spiralled into depression for a good 24 hours. But the next day I bounced back, and I’m still committed to making myself see the good this year.

That day taught me something, however. You see, for the first 20 days of January, I didn’t have house problems. I didn’t feel miserable about my house. I have finally started to feel that something here is lifted, and I think it’s likely in large part to some prayer that’s being done on my behalf by someone I know online, who I often disagree with, but who likely has more experience in spiritual warfare than I do.

Since he started praying that the presence in my house be lifted or prevented from fucking up my life, I have felt small differences. I truly feel the reason I have been able to keep my positive attitude up this month has been because the presence, whatever it is, is weakened through this prayer.

But this week I discovered, the presence is fighting back. And it feeds on depression.

As soon as I let myself give into depression, things went wrong again. The chain in our toilet tank broke and I had to fix it while fighting back tears and suicidal ideation, hand frozen in the waters of the tank. The mini-flood that had happened earlier this year got worse, and now I have to check the storage area under the stairs for dampness. The landlords decided right when my bedtime was was an ideal time to deal with the flood by banging around and making a hideous amount of noise right where my head is when I sleep.

There’s a monster in this house and it wants my sadness.

Well, I’ve decided it’s not going to get it. I won’t feed you anymore, monster. I don’t know how I’ll do it, seeing as clinical depression ain’t something I can just magic away, but I refuse to let you win.

I don’t know where you came from. I don’t know if you were here first. I’m sorry if that’s the case, but letting you win means letting me die, and I have to choose myself first. Find a different place to exist. Find peace.

You won’t find your food in me anymore.


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