External Warmth: The Importance of My Shower

Portfolio: Nonfiction Personal Essay

The shower in the house we are renting in Coburg is one of those bath tubs with a shower head, with a glass door rather than a shower curtain. The tiles are soap scum squares, some appear to be randomly distributed tiles with faded roses. When I think I see a pattern, a contradiction appears. Are they mocking me? It’s hard to say for sure. It’s hard to say why I like it.

I’ve had concerts and competitions all within the three and half walls of the shower. I’ve had arguments that have lasted a minute, and emotional breakdowns that have lasted a lifetime. I’ve cried the equivalent of the bathtub’s volume. It is my home and the place I sometimes fear. It is the place that confuses me most, but also the place I arrange my thoughts and drive away my internal darkness.

Apparently, dopamine is released when taking a shower, something sorely craved by my depressed mind According to a study conducted by cognitive psychologist Scott Barry Kaufman 72% of people surveyed came up with their best ideas in the shower. The concept of thinking in the shower is captured online, as patrons of Twitter and reddit freely share their absurdly profound shower thoughts.  It makes sense that I can feel happiness in the warming environment of the shower, compared to the cold reality beyond its glass. The freedom that comes with the absence of my melancholy allows for beautifully uncompromised thoughts.

Today I took the shower to think about the shower. I place one foot in the elevated tub and throw the other over as if mounting a horse. In my nakedness I am vulnerable, but truthfully, I feel protected. I tried to figure out what about the shower that makes it a great place for constructing thoughts and ideas. I feel the flow of thoughts slowly pour, warming up. I realised there is no distractions, no replacement for thoughts you can hide behind. Modern living is a distracted life; businesses pay top dollar just to distract you, to fill the void. In the shower there is nothing to take your concentration or steal your ability to form new ideas instead of consuming old ones. But now exists waterproof speakers, watches, and even waterproof smart phones. 

I pump liquid soap into my small hands. I wash the underside of my arms reaching my armpits. The presence of little hairs make it feel like a buzzcut. I think about the fights I’ve had with my sister. She’s fourteen, but is adamant against women having body hair as it’s “just gross”. What made her this way? The hair is natural. The stance must be pre-packaged for her consumption. I think about the many arguments we’ve had over the last few days over the kitchen island as she scowls, telling me to “just stop talking about it”.

But sometimes instead of thinking you end up singing a song you haven’t heard in years, an ear-worm in the inner crevices of your mind. They are sometimes more than what they appear, having meaning that sits under the surface level annoyance. Suddenly, I was belting ‘One is the Loneliest Number’ by Three Dog Night, as water pelts my head and I become aware of my body. I am facing the shower caddy; my feet are centimetres from the drain, parallel to it. One hand is curled up against my chest holding my chin up, while the other hovers over the tap ready to gradually increase the heat. My head bows, my neck which plunges downwards. How did I get to this posture?

Over the last week I’ve cried in the shower twice. It seems like the cleanest way to snottily sob and feel refreshed afterwards. I started thinking too deeply about the lyrics of ‘I’m Not Like Everybody Else’ by The Kinks. “And I won't say that I feel fine like everybody else”. I melted into a puddle facing the shower walls.

During today’s shower I do not cry, but I crave the heat. After becoming aware of my posture, I realise the water has cooled. Has it gotten colder or have I gotten used to the temperature? I turn the handle 2cm warmer. It burns my skin, but I enjoy it. There is something masochistic about a scalding shower. I feel like the warmth makes a viable substitute for the warmth of humanity missing in my life. I feel who I was before entering the shower wash down the drain. It’s said that having a shower can be the hardest thing to do in the morning for people with depression, but it’s a big accomplishment.

Guilt cut my thinking time short, each drop of water after four minutes steals from the water pool we all share. But I bargain with myself for an extra minute remembering that the biggest waste of our resources is from the top ten per cent, the now trillionaires. I also bargain for my health, if I feel the need to process my thoughts and release emotions. Isn’t it okay if I take just a little longer in the shower?

I disembark and cut the water off. The steam swims around me towards the fan and with it my angst has left me. I quickly dry myself, ready to tackle the day ahead as the tiny room is left swept up in the fog I created.