So, late 2022 I had what you might call an “episode.”
Breakdown. Burnout. Blackout. Whatever buzzword makes it sound less like I was face-down on the floor for 48 hours with a brain full of static and a heart made of lead.
Call it Major Depressive Disorder if you like.
Me? I just call it losing my shit.
It started, like all good emotional implosions, with a phone call from my ex-wife.
Our daughter was in the hospital. Nothing prepares you for those words. Not grief. Not guilt. Not regret. I told her I’d come. Hung up the phone.
Then I collapsed. Didn't go.
I stayed on the floor of my one-bedroom apartment, face down on the floor, waiting for time to do what I couldn’t: move.
For almost two full days, I didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Barely breathed.
Then came the slow rebuild. Six months of picking through the wreckage of my mind with a pair of tweezers and no manual.
Went on meds. Felt flatlined.
Went off meds. Felt like a live wire in the rain.
My psychiatrist fired me, yeah, that’s a thing apparently.
So I said screw it. I swapped pharmaceuticals for sunlight and weed. Dabs and skateboards over side effects and side-eyes. And weirdly enough, it worked. A little. Enough.
Sunlight and weed, baby.
But here’s the twist: last week I found myself back there again. Four days. Crying. Curled up. Not suicidal. Just terrified.
Didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. Didn’t leave the house.
Everything felt too loud, too bright, too much.
But if you want to know why this time was different, read on.
Because yesterday, I had to go to the hospital.
And unlike 2022, I actually got up and went.
No fanfare. No glory. Just a man putting one foot in front of the other while his insides screamed.
And yeah, those four days sucked. I was scared, furious, lost, but I didn’t break.
So what changed?
Perspective.
In 2022, I let the darkness convince me it was the truth.
This time, I saw it for what it was, a signal, not a sentence.
Instead of spiraling, I stopped. Sat with the fear. Named it. Faced it like a pissed-off landlord asking for rent.
I acknowledged what scared me. I stared at the pain instead of running from it.
And piece by jagged piece, I made peace with it.
That was the shift. That was the medicine.
Not a bottle. Not a diagnosis.
But the truth.
Pain is a motherfucker. But avoidance is worse.
When you face it, when you speak it, when you stop pretending you’re not afraid, it loses just enough power for you to stand.
And when you stand, even shaky, even half-broken?
That’s how you crawl your way back.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
