Dawn and Dusk and Dawn Again

The Hit

    When I got home, I went for my usual routine of taking a shower.
    I knew, just when it was about to hit me.
    It was like a rock suddenly materialized in my heart, doing its very best to drag me down to whatever dark pit it came from. It was like a filter that didn't change how things looked, but how things felt. It was like a filter that bleached out all the colors of the world, and left me only a dim replacement. A sense of hollowness nagged at me, making everything out to be just as depressing as the feeling itself.
    I continued showering like it didn't exist.
    I've getting this sort of thing for about three years now. It's no biggie, really. Usually, it just went away as soon as I took one step outside the bathroom doors.
    It's kind of confusing, the fact that it almost only happened in the bathroom. I've speculated about it every day, of course - how can you not? - but I haven't found a definite answer.
    Right now, the best theory I could come up with was that it was some "aftertaste" of the frankly quite traumatic incident that happened when I was ten years old. I won't go into details. Trust me, it would be too dark and horrible for both you and me. I had yet to find a name for it, and I doubted I ever would.
    It was fine, though. I've grown accustomed to these moments in the bathroom, and it wasn't like it did any harm. Actually, the bathroom was a pretty private place, so it was better there than anywhere else, right?
    I waited it out, and true enough, I felt loads better when I got out of that room.