From October 2020 until February 2022, every Wednesday from 11:00 a.m. until 11:15 a.m., I dedicated my time to taking a shower. My weekly Wednesday ritual also included my virtual therapy session at 1:00 p.m., so I began my day changing out the week-old unwashed pajamas to shampoo and deep condition my hair, shaving my legs, and exfoliating my body. As I undress, starting with my crew socks, I focus on my parent’s medicine cabinet. Although not my bathroom, this is my childhood bathroom, as there is one shared shower. Next, my black sweatpants and long sleeve-stained John Mayer tour shirt from 2017 hit the blue tile. The first shelf within the medicine cabinet includes an overflowing box of cotton swabs from Costco and two containers of unopened Tom’s of Maine tubes of toothpaste. The package of assorted-sized ShopRite brand bandages is on the top shelf next to the pink U-shaped container, which holds my father’s dentures, along with more first-aid supplies.

The mirror from the medicine cabinet faces the closest white-painted wall with blue flower marble tile. My sports bra is still on, as I can’t look at my current appearance for more than twenty seconds. If I look for too long, my gaze focuses on the never-ending road map of stretch marks from the fluctuation of weight gain and loss, starting from my inner thighs to the top of my hip bone. The newly formed acne covering my entire face and upper back is recognizable when the makeup is off and burns whenever I use my exfoliation gloves. My toes lie flat firmly on the cold blue tile. Before stepping into the white porcelain bathtub, I cry because the running water drowns out loud noises. My feet, now wet, display chipped dark green nail polish peeling off one toe into the tub as my nail heads full of calluses made their way off my pinkie, then from my ring toe, then to the middle toe.

My mid-shoulder black hair clumps in my hand after I shampoo and condition it with the non-toxic Giovanni clarifying hair products. I forget to wipe away the shampoo in time from my forehead to wipe away my tears as my eyes become irritated. I pick up the pile of toilet paper sitting on the side of the toilet shelf to collect my thinning hair to avoid clogging the drain. I press my fingers into my oily scalp, scratching and crying harder. I picked up a new Dollar Shave Club razor and cartridge from my biweekly shopping trip to my local Target. As the water warms, I turn it slightly colder. Goosebumps appear on my forearms. I stare at the remaining unscented liquid castile Dr. Bronner’s soap, the only one that doesn’t cause an allergic reaction. I pour the liquid down my chest, falling onto my forearms, naturally arriving on my fingertips as I’m too tired to squeeze the bottle closer. This time, I check my fingers that the soap washed away before rubbing off more tears. 

***

“In the morning, you’re going to take a shower?” My mother asks on Tuesday nights when sitting next to one another on the couch watching another episode of House Hunters on HGTV.

“Oh, right,” I say. “It’s Wednesday tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I mean, your hair.”

“I know,” I say. “I know. I will.”

Three showers per week were consistent throughout 2020, either before starting my remote work in the morning or at night after completing an intense at-home workout. However, in the afternoon on Saturday October 3, 2020, a few weeks before my twenty-fifth birthday, I suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous. I didn’t manage to throw up, but I quickly stopped the water, which was neither too hot nor too cold and stepped onto the blue shag rug. I grabbed onto my eight-year-old Restoration Hardware bathrobe I bought while in college and opened the bathroom door screaming for my mother’s help. I opened my eyes, feeling cold, while lying on my back on the red suede couch in my living room. My wet hair swooped in front of my face as I tasted soapy water. I screamed and thrashed my arms to stand. The room spun as I looked up to avoid throwing up and maintaining my balance. My mother said I screamed for about five minutes, “I’m sorry.” My parents looked at me in shock as I’m yelling, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t have any clothes on. I’m sorry!”

I can’t remember yelling, and the shower is unclear. Despite that, I remembered the hours following as a team of paramedics, cops, and an ambulance escorted me to the hospital ER. I presumed it to be minor and an isolated incident that did not require medical attention. My mother, an ICU nurse, believed it to be a concern enough to call the cops, as others thought of a possible stress-induced seizure. Yet, when sitting in an emergency room bed for five hours on a Saturday night, the attending physician reported the CT negative scans for any seizure activity. I went home, but the weeks that followed were meeting specialists such as a cardiologist and neurologist for further testing to rule out if this was a one-time accident or if this was developing into something more serious. But in a few days, I began working remotely and working out.

***

Although I’d never pass out again while taking a shower or in the bathroom, from November 2020 until February 2022, I’d give the excuse in therapy, to family members, but especially to myself, that my days were too busy to fit in a shower.

“I can be doing something else,” I said to my therapist one Wednesday session in May of 2021.

“You know not showering regularly and not remaining clean is a sign of depression,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

That was the first time my therapist brought up the “d” word. I knew from a young age I’d dealt with my anxiety disorder, but I also suffered from a form of depression. Yet, in the eyes of my friends and family, I seemed to be taking care of myself by working out, showering regularly, and continuing creative ventures. At a young age, my life figured out not only professional and personal activities, but I appeared mentally and emotionally stable to help others around me. However, after passing out in my childhood bathroom on that Saturday night in October, in the bathroom I learned to straighten my hair, to shave my legs, it unraveled the disguise of my depression. It seeped, and it seeped deep. The frequent neurologist appointments to figure out the stand-alone passing out incident, fatigue, and muscle aches caused severe emotional and mental distress. Then, managing a newly chronic autoimmune condition forced me to change my lifestyle and diet to reflect a path of recovery. However, I became unemployed for several months, fearing the dreams I imagined for myself in a creative career were slowly slipping into an unrealistic void.

The last thing on my mind was undressing myself to scrub away any smells or sweat because it seemed pointless. I didn’t want to see my peeling nail polish or new stretch marks. Avoiding taking a shower forced someone, mainly my mother, to remind me, “Oh, it’s going to be Wednesday. I should take a shower.” But I was terrified of taking a shower and terrified to be alone. My mother, father, or one of my sisters had to be home as I’d set a specific playlist from Spotify to play on my phone, a John Mayer greatest hits, which lasted around fifteen and a half minutes. When the playlist finished, I would grab my gray cotton towel, dry off my lower body, and put on new clothes.

“I mean, it’s Wednesday today,” I said. “I have to take a shower before our session.”

“That’s good,” she said.

“But taking a shower tomorrow,” I said. “I just can’t seem to do that. The thought of taking a shower tomorrow, I won’t be able to. It’s never been this bad.”

I hated taking too many showers in one week. What if I got the sudden energy to work out or walk after a shower? Then what would be the point of showering if I sweat? The last time I remember taking two showers is never. Maybe when I was a child, and my mother forced me because taking two showers in one day is something, as an adult, I’d never done.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“My life,” I said.

“Have you managed to brush your teeth today?” she asked.

The clock read 1:30 p.m. on my MacBook Air.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Do you look at yourself in the mirror?” she asked.

“Like when I’m getting dressed or before taking a shower?” I asked.

“Both,” she said.

“I got rid of my full-length mirror a few months ago,” I said. “I didn’t find the point in having it around, so, I guess no.”

“Aren’t you curious what you look like?” she asked.

“I don’t want to be reminded of how I look,” I said.

I knew I did not deserve to feel or be clean. I was avoiding my depression before by not acknowledging its existence. With the depression running in place, what was the point of trying to look halfway decent? There was no physical or mental way I could pretend to anyone that my life was not falling apart because it was. Everyone saw my appearance, and it was the appearance of someone dealing with depression. I could not remember to wash my hair or brush my teeth.

“You said earlier you have to take a shower,” she said. “Not that you need to.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I didn’t notice. I guess, if I had it my way, I’d be magically clean. It just takes a lot of effort to take off my clothes and be in there. I’m afraid I’m going to pass out again.”

“Do you feel better when you’re done taking a shower?” She asked. “Like when you go for a walk, you always say you feel not just mentally but emotionally healthier. Do you feel better after a shower?”

“Not all the time,” I said.

“Huh,” she said. “Does your family have to remind you to take a shower?”

“Every Tuesday night, like clockwork,” I said. “My mother isn’t afraid to remind me that my hair looks greasy.”

“I figured she’d be honest with you,” she said.

“She always is,” I said.

***

Wednesdays were known as my catch-all days in 2021. Not necessarily a catch-up day because I’d wait to do everything I was supposed to do during the week on Wednesdays. I’d open my mail, answer emails I’d open and forget to reply to, and call and text friends on how they managed their mental health with the ongoing pandemic. But when I saw 11:00 a.m. hit my Amazon Alexa, it was time to find my clean robe. I continued working through my emotional stress, body image issues, and autoimmune conditions in therapy. Yet, with positive improvements to my mental health, my familial relationships, and my relationship with food, the relationship with my shower head became one I’d avoid. It was me in this situationship.

Without the advice of my therapist, or anyone close to me, I promised myself that starting in 2022, I would maintain two showers a week. A goal that seemed simple years ago thought to be now overwhelming. But by breaking down a shower, into the first step, I hoped it would positively change my mental health. I’d walk up the stairs and remind myself that if I take my clothes off in the bathroom, I’ll step into the shower. When I step in, the water temperature will be warm, and I will feel and be physically clean. Whenever I am physically clean, I feel emotionally and mentally happier. I wanted to be clean. I wanted to take a shower. Yet, being paralyzed by turning the shower faucet on any day other than Wednesday, showed me how my depression encompassed even the easiest tasks. If I choose a second shower day, if my feet are wet, I will feel capable of taking better care of myself because I tried. I can do it as long as I try.

***

In February 2022, and up until today, I incorporated two showers a week; one shower on Wednesday and one on a Saturday afternoon after a long two-hour adventure and walk in Upstate New York. My therapy sessions are now twice a month instead of once a week. Rarely am I reminded by my mother on Tuesday nights. Every Saturday is another weekly ritual. The showers are thirty minutes longer, but the music playlist still consists of John Mayer’s greatest hits. No one has to be home while I shower since I feel secure while home alone. My creative ideas are back and flowing within the blue and white walls of the porcelain tub. My facial acne cleared with a more intensive skin routine. I remember to pick up more of Dr. Bronner’s liquid soap. But the biggest fear I conquered was looking at myself in the medicine cabinet mirror without any clothes on or without a time limit. I still don’t enjoy showering, but my two weekly showers on Wednesdays and Saturdays saved my life. Thank you, blue tile and white bathtub. I am proud of how far we made it.

-Ariana Gavriilidis

Ariana Gavriilidis is a freelance television producer and photographer based in New Jersey. She’s worked on documentaries such as Girl in the Picture on Netflix, Murdered and Missing in Montana on Oxygen, and more. Her first published essay, The Year of Discovery; One Dish at a Time, was published in Digest Mag, based in Brooklyn, New York. She’s worked alongside her mentor Melchior Di Giacomo, a photographer inducted into the Tennis Hall of Fame, as well a shown her photographs at International Center of Photography in New York City and in other galleries in New Jersey. Find her on Twitter @arianagav18 and on Instagram @ag_curate