It's not you, It's me

Hey. I'm back. I'll probably disappear again, as I appear prone to do. Don't take it personal. It's not you. It's me.
Full disclosure: I've changed.
Shit.
That's not actually true. (Eyes roll to ceiling, pause, sorting through different analogies) Actually, I haven't changed a bit. I'm just going to be me. Not Stella. Me.
By that I mean I'm not going to put on the filter that makes the thoughts inside my head more palatable, more acceptable. But I'm still going to sign off as Stella. Because, that's what I do. I stir shit and let Stella take the blame.
And we're both okay with that.
I blogged quasi-bravely through the divorce but I did so with the filter heavily applied. Stella turned up to 100. You got to see only what you were allowed to see. Only what was socially acceptable and would reflect positively back on your view of me. Grammar and punctuation on fleek. Sentence structure carefully crafted. Font chosen to accentuate the point. F words replaced with something less offensive.
Fuck.That.Shit.
So yeah, maybe I have changed.
(If messy storylines and/or unresolved angst bothers you, this is where you should probably leave.)
Guys, this quarantine thing has got me all up in my head. Which is ironic because it hasn't really impacted my daily routine. I'm a friggin hermit to start with. This virus thing is THE BEST EXCUSE ever to stay at home every night and weekend and do art and paint and drink coffee and not talk to humans.
Except, I can only do so much art and listen to so many podcasts before the monsters in my brain realize they are unsupervised. Once that happens, one by one, they slither out of the drains like cockroaches in a dark and empty room, skittering past my peripheral in subliminal trains of thought. It wasn't great but on Monday mornings when I flipped on the light they disappeared for five days and I pretended it hadn't happened.
That was March.
In April they grew bolder, hanging around longer after the alarm went off, popping their antennaed faces out occasionally during the week. I drank and they left, but eventually I ran out of tequila and they became the uninvited houseguest that stayed late and just never went home.
It's May now and the monsters have taken possession of the sofa.
I didn't realize I was spiraling into depression probably because it wasn't really a spiral. Nothing so glorious. Just a slow, slithering, slump. A decline. A flattening.
Unlike previous iterations, (Post-Partum, Mid-Life) this time the depression did not present itself in a clearly defined manner. I'm not piled into bed for days at a time. I'm not skipping showers or meals. I'm not crying.
Okay, I cry sometimes but not very often. And always for a good reason. Like when I drove past the little white farmhouse and suddenly remembered my dad was dead and life would never be as sweet as when I was six and I didn't know about monsters.
I'm just - God, I'm just faded. Fading? No. Definitely faded. It's not in process. It's done.
After the farmhouse incident, I took a good look at my guts and recognized the territory.
So I did the things. I cut out the sugars. I cut out the drinking. I cut off the Amazon Prime.
Not working.
I hit the treadmill and the walking tracks. I made it a point to go to bed at a normal hour, not 6:00 PM on a Saturday. I colored my roots.
Still not working.
Shit got real. I dusted off my bag of How To Save Yourself From Certain Demise tricks and dug deep.
Downloaded self help books including hypnotherapy. Played them throughout the night because you can absorb a lot when you are asleep and not multitasking. I turned off the news. Reduced the social media screen time. I.Prayed.
Just so you know how desperate I am: For a full week, I started every day listening to Max Lucado.
STILL nothing.
Fuck.Me.
On my way to work last week, Max's podcast ended and the next one in queue started up except it was an advertisement that bounced straight into a free sample of The Hilarious World of Depression which I had considered listening to back in March but at the time it just didn't resonate. Also I was probably drunk.
As stated in the previous post, I laughed out loud and snorted coffee through my nose and damn that hurt but it also felt so fucking good. It … felt.
I felt. 
And so, long story made only slightly shorter, I finally get to the point. I have to either get the monsters off my sofa or move out of this people-house of humanity. And I'm not ready to move. Fight or flight? Fight.
So, cockroach-alert: I am going to drag every one of you little bug eyed motherfuckers out into the light and rip your guts out for the world to see. It may  not make me feel better, but one thing is for sure - it will keep me occupied until the quarantine is lifted and I am free to resume my daily life. Also, I am sick of living with you.
And I want my sofa back.