Authentic living is one thing. For me… the truth isn’t hard. It’s telling people I need them, or… I just am in need. There’s where the struggle is.

Most of the time I love my time to myself. I crave space and quiet and slow moments to just sit and read, or just breathe for a bit. Then there are times that I hate that I live by myself.

I need a roommate, or a dog… even a goldfish. Someone or something to TALK to.

Living alone for someone who deals with depression is… like an alcoholic who owns a liquor store. Such a bad idea, and you will ALWAYS relapse.

Depression in my opinion is every bit as addicting as chemicals and substances. You get used to feeling low, it’s more comfortable than trying, it becomes your whole being, your whole person and it swallows you all the way down to your pinkie toes. You don’t have to think about your life from any different angles because depression has rounded out all the corners and made it easy to put no effort into every day. It’s a very selfish way to live.

I’m not in any way saying depressed people can help it, or that it’s something we should berate or belittle them for. The reasons someone ends up depressed are vast and wide. However… it can be habitual.

So, back to me living alone. I am aware of the dangers of quiet and space and solitude to my mental health. I don’t have any other option at the moment for several reasons, the first few involving my son and having a place for him to call his own.

With my progress and successful daily battle against the dark thoughts in my head in mind… I do what I can to make living alone work for me.

Till one of my triggers happens. Then I’m a smidge lost at sea without a paddle.

When I first experienced anxiety it was very soon after the birth of my son. I was acutely aware of my responsibility to this small, helpless, sweet little baby and my anxiety took hold almost immediately after he was diagnosed, 4 days brand new.

To say I had postpartum is a gross understatement and I was ill prepared for the heart racing crazy thoughts that come with anxiety. Anxiousness had never been part of my mental health journey prior to Avery.

My biggest fear came in the form of control over my health. I became sooooo worried that I’d die suddenly and leave this vulnerable baby mama-less. I’d stay up at night fretting and thinking of horrible stuff that could happen to him if I were gone. Any itchy throat or stomach ache became life threatening, and google and I used to fight over which variety of cancer I had.

Instead of savoring every second with my sweet smelling babe… I was frantically trying to check every possible thing for him and I to insure our survival. Keeping us both alive every day was exhausting.

To this day… illness is a trigger for me.

Actually… it was a trigger before if I’m being honest. It just blew up after Av.

You can ask my ex before my husband… I used to ask him if he thought my Boston terrier and my cat would eat my face if I died in my apartment alone.

And my mother will tell you I used to fret as a child about choking on PB and dying.

My fear of illness is part of my medication taking phobia. It’s the root really. The beginning and end of everything.

All of this to say… I’m sick. I woke up really ill. Goopy eye on one side. Congested. Glands the size of marbles.

Ok. I managed to keep Av alive and got him to school. In one piece. Next came filling my day.

I knew sitting at home alone would make me fret, cry, lonely, sad, all the bad feels…

So I drove to Denver to meet a friend for lunch.

Then I wasted time at ikea, and getting gas and… then it was time to go home.

I was good till 15 miles out and then… the crying. I wished for a dog. Or a friend to suddenly need me. A reason to drive allllll the way out to see my kid. SOMETHING.

Nope. Just my empty apartment.

Mind you… I am not well. I spread germs from Springs to Denver. No f’s were given. None.

So, here I am… confessing to you all that I’m a little downtrodden today over my solitary living situation. It’s all in an effort to beat back my crappy mental state at the moment. I wish I could say it was helping.

When I get like this… now is when I really see the holes that all my people in WA used to fill. Including my “boss lady” mother.

I miss my grandma the most when I’m sick. With an ache in my chest I miss her.

So while alone is something we all must face, be comfortable with, soak in till we’re pruney, so that our confidence and self love is complete… sometimes for a percentage of us with different struggles… alone can be a deep dark hole to crawl into.

I do feel like… I just aimed a flashlight at my hole though.

So thank you… to anyone who takes the time to read my ranting about my mental state occasionally. I really do love you all.