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In my mind I drew this during a time when my mattress was on the floor, covered in floor stuff by day, looking as depressed as I was at the time. But really by now I had a pretty nicely put together room, a bed I insisted on making, a small but full equipped desk area, and a reasonably streamlined clothes filing system. I had worked through all the things I used to do when, in my mind, I was happier and life was easier, but neither were true. How closely do I tie the state of one's bed with the state of everything else? These days I make mine up every day, in stolen seconds away from the baby and husband, knowing full well I could slide back to a depressed state at any time. I can't afford to be in that state anymore. Having a depressed person's bed is, in itself, a luxury free time affords. The time it takes to make my bed is not free - it belongs to my family, who depends on my own stability. Sometimes I wonder if that simplifies and improves my life, having my time belong to straightforward tasks that, upon completion, make me feel needed and fulfilled. Knowing where to put that time caused me years of anguish.