The place looked abandoned while I was still living in it.
There were corners I had stopped seeing. Piles that became part of the landscape. Surfaces that quietly testified to how far gone I was. The wreckage was heavy, and it was everywhere.
I was sleeping on the couch because my bedroom had become a place I couldn’t rest in anymore. It held too many bad memories, and even comfort felt inaccessible there.
People talk about advocating for yourself like it’s a basic life skill.
Make the call. Ask the question. Speak up. Push back. Request help.
Simple enough.
Unless you’re deeply depressed.
Then even brushing your teeth can feel like a negotiation. Sending a text can feel like climbing a wall. When depression gets severe enough, self-advocacy doesn’t feel empowering; it feels impossible. The condition itself drains the energy required to challenge it.
I was barely eating. I was sleeping as much as I could, and when I couldn’t, I’d doomscroll until it was time to try again. I was tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.
But one thing never slipped.
My dog was always cared for.
Fed. Walked. Looked after. Loved.
Even when I couldn’t care for myself, I never wavered on her care. I wouldn’t do that to an animal.
And yet, I was doing it to myself.
The Last Stand
I had been through more than two years of esketamine (Spravato) treatments. I had just lost my therapist of ten years. One of the guiding rails in my life had fallen away, and the weight of everything else was crashing down.
I got to a point where something in me said: enough.
Not in a dramatic movie-scene way. More like a final inner whisper that somehow carried authority.
I had told myself enough is enough many times over thirty-five years of torture. Nothing changed then.
But this time, I took the last bit of air I had left in my lungs and I used it to speak.
I talked to my psychiatrist and told her everything. I told her things had to get better. I insisted.
We decided on one more medication tweak.
To someone on the outside, a “tweak” sounds small.
To me, it was the final throw of the dice.
Within a month, something shifted.
Not perfection. Not a new personality.
But relief.
Space.
A little light where there had only been pressure.
Enough change to realize I was still in there somewhere.
Reclaiming the Room
I started decluttering my apartment, but I focused on my bedroom first.
If I was going to keep getting better, I had to reinvent the wheel. I had to reclaim the room I had abandoned.
I took before and after photos to show my friends.
I had a will to live that just smacked me in the face and woke me up somehow.
I didn’t do it entirely in a vacuum.
I have incredible friends who helped just by being there. They took me out to dinner when I couldn’t face my own kitchen. They gave me the space to talk about the real stuff—the heavy, messy, unfiltered reality—without judgment.
Their presence was a quiet reminder that I wasn’t invisible, even when I felt like a ghost in my own home.
With that support behind me, I tackled the physical space:
- One pile.
- One bag.
- One surface.
- One decision at a time.
I rearranged the furniture to make the space new.
I started projects, like putting together my mom’s book of original poetry.
I started wanting to fill my days with being alive.
The Reality of Maintenance
I don’t want to throw false hope at anyone.
I’m not some perfect person now.
I’m still dealing with grief, loneliness, and uncertainty.
I still have moments where my stomach drops and I’m terrified this is a fluke. I’ve posted cryptic messages on Facebook like, It’s okay to have a bad day, right? because I was scared this new version of me was just another failed attempt waiting to collapse.
But I’m still sticking to my routine.
I’ve had really bad weeks where I knew I had to stick to the routine no matter what.
And it worked.
I’m working with a new therapist.
My apartment is still in great shape—I cannot cheat in that area.
I game online playing World of Warcraft with wonderful new friends.
I’m seeing my mom.
I’m getting out more everyday.
And I have the best relationship with my dog I’ve ever had.
She is thriving even more than I am.
Sometimes healing is not a miracle.
Sometimes it is maintenance.
Sometimes it is routine.
And sometimes, that is more powerful than magic.
I’m still trying to take the reins of my own carriage into unknown territory.
I never believed I’d be here, but I am finally at the starting line.
To boldly go...
I’m still terrified sometimes that this progress is a fluke. If you’ve experienced a ‘lift’ in your own life, how do you handle the fear of it ending?
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