I am sitting in my office. It's dark because I haven't opened the blinds.
"Open the blinds," I tell myself.
"Ugh. Who feels like getting up?" That's my inner thirteen year-old.
"Open the blinds. You can't just sit here in the dark. You work better when there's light in the office."
"My stomach hurts. I have a headache. Do I have to go to school today?"
"Open the blinds."
"Take more Zoloft."
"Open the blinds, then. OR take more Zoloft. It's one or the other. Now get cracking."
"What is your problem with the blinds?"
"They are ugly. They don't work properly. They remind me that I need to replace them. More work to do."
"Well, you're not going to replace the blinds today. Today, you are going to work. But first, you will open the blinds, or you will go into the kitchen and take more Zoloft, and then you will open the blinds."
"But if I go into the kitchen, I will eat a cookie, not a Zoloft."
"No, you will eat a Zoloft. You do not need a cookie. You need a Zoloft. Or, you need to open the blinds."
It kills me to do it, but I open the blinds. I take more Zoloft. I start work. Something is more wrong than usual. It shouldn't be this hard.