When the pandemic hit, I, like many people, totally crumbled. At first, I liked the freedom to not be all things to all people. I could be a little more curious about myself. The pressure was off. And the lack of pressure totally unmoored me. It’s well-documented that people with executive function disorders struggle when there are no external boundaries guiding them, and my external boundaries totally disintegrated.

I set up my new year’s resolutions in such a way as to foment better habits over the course of 12 months in order to fight this disintegration. Some habits are not designed for long-term use (wearing skirts and dresses every day is difficult in a Colorado winter when fleece-lined leggings and snow pants are available). But in general, I wanted to be the kind of person who springs awake each morning, takes my dogs on a vigorous walk, can feel grateful most of the time, takes care of herself, and just lives a life closer to the one that I want – a more organized, focused, fulfilling life.

The rational first step was setting up a good morning routine, including making my bed. According to General William H. McRaven’s bestselling speech-turned-novella: “making my bed correctly… would be a reminder that I had done something well, something to be proud of, no matter how small the task.” I wanted to have that small sense of accomplishment every day. I wanted clear, daily evidence of impact on my surroundings.

As much as I hold my night-owlishness high, as a banner of my unique perspective (did you know night owls have, on average, higher IQs and are more creative?), I have deeply internalized the idea that in order to be a “real” member of society, a productive and therefore valuable person, I must have a productive and therefore valuable morning. And truly, despite my hatred of waking up, I love mornings. I love the way the sunrise catches us in its slow embrace. I love watching the inertia of a new day take shape in quiet, early-morning airports. I love the unbothered potential of a day not yet realized.

So for the month of January I vowed to do 3 things every morning that I had not done with regularity before: write in my journal, eat breakfast, and make my bed. I knew simply trying to wake up earlier was a fool’s errand; I now work for myself and set my own schedule, and everything in my biology revolts against forcing myself awake before 7 a.m. But I was ready to feel more in control of my life. Only, I forgot something important. I forgot about Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Colorado winters are long, cold, and tempestuous. Snow starts in September and threatens until May. There is no gentle transition into spring. Instead, tulips and irises bloom in optimistic defiance of the chilly temperatures, and then all of a sudden, summer arrives. I live in Colorado, and every winter I have lived here, I am plagued from about October to May with a brutal, crushing depression. This is on top of my ADHD and the regular anxiety that is likely tied to my ADHD.

Even though I know the cause, and I do my best to alleviate the symptoms (making sure I get enough vitamin D, going to therapy, making sure I go outside every day), usually the most I can do is grit my teeth and ride it out.

For those who do not struggle regularly with mental illness, the prescriptive is almost comically obvious. Make your bed, take a walk, call an old friend. And generally, when you’re feeling a little circumstantially depressed, these things do help. For those in the throes of an illogical, seemingly rootless depression, we want to believe it really is that easy. That the monster on your back can be shrugged off with little more than a sheet pulled tight and a full bottle of water.

But sadly, it doesn’t. I’ve held to my resolution. I’ve journaled, made my bed, and eaten breakfast every day this January; the first time I have held such routines in my entire life (ask my mom how often I ate breakfast under my own inclinations as a kid). The hard truth I must swallow is that sometimes, it simply is not enough. It’s better than nothing – don’t get me wrong. It’s a little easier to go to the grocery store when you are aware you don’t smell like a rhinoceros. But it’s not easy.

Depression sets up a thick wall of fog around the real you – the one who loves your friends and family and takes joy in your hobbies and interests and wants to better yourself and be a part of your community – and all the things you love. You can shed a little light on the fog but it’s not easily cleared. This is the insidious mechanism of what is termed “high-functioning depression”: you can still carry out your day-to-day tasks and responsibilities, but it is no match for the emptiness within you. It merely covers it up, like pulling the shower curtain on a moldy bathtub.

We should not be telling our depressed, grieving, drowning loved ones they can do anything they set their minds to. Because sometimes, they cannot set their minds. Depression is literally a chemical imbalance in your brain. You aren’t functioning the way your brain thrives. So why on earth should we be able to think our way our of it?

I miss the real Blair. I miss her so badly it makes me angry. I can feel her raging against the inner monologue of “who even cares, this is terrible anyway, why would I spend my precious, fleeting energy on a worthless activity.” She screams, “I do! I care! Let me out! Let me breathe!”

In the meantime, I will keep making my bed. One day, the real Blair will emerge again, and she will appreciate it.