About two months ago, after living among the mountains and Mormons for a year, I returned to my friend Amy’s house, my very familiar ever-home in Portland. Back to living with another one of my besties. Back to a menagerie of animals (three dogs, four cats, six kittens and eight chickens). Back to long daily hilarious walks, always with the goal of giving others cause to say, “Guess what I saw today?” And back to the incredibly green Pacific Northwest.

I wasn’t planning to leave Utah. In fact, returning to the land of all things green – including weed – wasn’t something I anticipated or expected at all. I made the decision, packed up my room, and left town within 48 hours. I had committed to eight months in Utah; I stayed a year. And I had intended to stay almost an entire additional year. So, wtf?

What brought me home is a Big Ugly, one so many of us can relate to, and one that creeped up on me like a Mother Fucker. That Bitch Depression showed up early summer, rearing her gnarly head, and as she tends to do, calling on an all out internal war. I responded in kind, privately fighting my battles, tossing grenades into my psyche, whipping myself for everything and anything. And for the first time in my life, the suicidal ideation I was carrying morphed into something more concerning: a possibility – a likelihood, even.

I was done. I wanted off the ride, to stop playing the game. I wanted to escape the ant farm we live in that sits in the fourth grade classroom of some omnipotent being. We’re just a science project, a petri dish left to stew, a spawn of the stars. Nothing matters. What’s it all for? Who cares?

I checked into the Utah Valley Hospital on a Wednesday morning, after a particularly difficult night. Insomnia had accompanied a weeklong binge of loathsome self-talk, as I called myself out for all of my supposed fuck ups and failures over my 52 years. I cried myself to sleep and again as I woke, and I drank myself to oblivion every night ala Hasselhoff pre Carl’s Jr. burger love-making sesh.

I spent five days in the hospital, a grippy socks vacation, as it’s been called, and it was the best thing I think I’ve ever done for myself. More expensive than a bougie spa – and certainly subpar food by comparison, but those days locked away from the real world were a literal life saver to me.

And why not? Five days with constant medical care, scheduled meals and snacks, daily group therapy, daily visit with my own therapist and every-other-day with my psychiatrist, who assisted me in finding the best medications for me. I had no makeup, wore no bra, and stayed in slippers and pajamas the entire stay. I watched funny movies. I did art. I read books. There were no drawstrings in my pjs, no notebooks with coils, no pen to write with. And I had no phone.

Two ketamine treatments and a fuckton of rest later (that’s a medical term), I left the hospital. I was feeling better – if not optimistic, even. But just one day of real life later found me ceremoniously headlong in the ditch again, unable to escape my very comfortable and very, very sad bed. And then my kids stepped in.

Those kiddos dropped everything in their life to take care of me, heading out on an unexpected 11-hour drive to pack me up and turn & burn back to Portland. How grateful I am to be loved. And while the last year has been a pretty fantastic time living with a bestie in a different state, I’m also so very grateful to be home.

PLEASE NOTE: I call my time in the hospital a “grippy socks vacation” with tongue firmly planted in cheek, but the truth is, mental illness is no joke. I didn’t voluntary lock myself up in the psych ward for some grand holiday away, but to get well. Please, please, my friends, if you or someone you know is struggling with depression, help is always available. Reach out to 988, the suicide prevention hotline, and if it ain’t for you for whatever reason? I got you here.