Walking that Fine Line of Depression

I was at a party a week ago and a girl with wicked side swept bangs (think Vogue) mentioned that she only washes her hair every three days. A door of infinite possibilities opened. SWUNG open. Hit the wall behind it, it swung so fast. (Ned was probably standing there, knowing Ned.). Showers in the morning are a hurdle (and a half) to me. I can't leave the house without one (or mascara), but wet hair in the winter is sooo time consuming. I'm not even really a hair person, but Ned's very possible reaction to greasy bangs is enough to invest in curlers, round brushes and (now) baby powder. Use baby powder on dry hair.  Works like a charm.

Imagine Ned if I got baby powder
in the house. Hahaha just imagine.

The only problem is that I am constantly aware of the slippery slope that is DEPRESSION. My mom once told me one of her embeds-itself-as-fear-in-your-memory stories about when she was a young mother chatting happily on the phone with her BFF (think me and Kiwi Herman. Showers are a triumph to her. The parallels between her and my mom are nutty, as my mom would say.) My mom's friend mentioned her "daily shower", and a lightbulb went on in my mom's head. It was suddenly clear as day to her that since she didn't take a daily shower, she was depressed. (She's fine, now. Takes 4 a day.) It must have struck a weird chord with me, because since I was, like, 8, I've had to take a shower every day just to prove to myself that I wasn't slipping.
My whole life seems to consist of proving to myself that I'm not slipping. It ain't easy, the tightrope of mental illness. Especially when you've got Ned, looking at me from farther and farther away, his eyes getting meaner and meaner "You're crazy. I like you, but you're crazy."