My small apartment reflects my mood all the time. When I'm happy, the curtains are open, as are the windows (in summer), I become aware of the disorder and the dirt and have a natural urge to clean and tidy up, then sit and have a cup of tea or coffee with some pastry and watch the nice little cozy apartment, things in their place, organized, clean, and I feel "at home."

Then other times I don't see the dirt, the mess, the unwashed dishes and closed curtains, the drawers marked by drops of oil and dirt, mugs in the cupboard with spots on them, things that would usually make me shudder. No, the whole thing merges into each other, an outer representation of my inner self, anxiety and anger and depression balled into one unrecognizable intense state that feels like a fog that's blinding and repressive. I don't feel "at home", I don't feel safe, I feel paranoid, anxious, unhappy, and hopeless, and my environment reflects that. Or maybe it doesn't, I don't know, I think I half shut down during those days, just kill time online or in front of TV till it passes, till the fog lifts or emotions separate from each other and I can see them for what they are and I become free again and can breathe.