when my mind shuts down

I do this...

I can always feel it, you know? I can tell when it’s starting to settle in, when it’s about to take over me. I’ve always been a sensitive person. Hyper-aware of my surroundings. Hyper-aware of the people around me, what they’re doing, what they smell like. Which meant I was also hyper-aware of myself.

I like to study my body. I like to know what is causing me pain and where the pain is emanating from, and what I can do to take the pain away. So when I started having these episodes and no one around could explain in literal words what they meant, I took to reading on the internet, and researching my body and mind. To make sense of it all.

At a young age, learning and understanding what depression was, also meant learning how to get out of it. Learning how to let it consume me, but making sure it doesn’t go past a certain level. A level of no return.

I’m a clean freak and also someone who tries to find happiness in everything. When I’m not wallowing in sadness, I avoid anything that’d drive me into that alley. The sad and depressive alley. And so, I always know when it’s happening. My mind shuts down before my body does. My room becomes a mess. My clothes go unwashed. I watch the kitchen, which is like my sanctuary in the house, turn into a dumpster. My texts don’t go unanswered, but my replies always betray my state of mind. I stop brushing my hair or applying my skincare.

That’s how I know I’m back in that place. The low place. The quiet place. The too-heavy place.

A place I’ve somehow found comfort in.
Because it’s familiar.
And no matter how much I struggle to get out of it, how much I stretch my hands toward the bright light drifting off somewhere far away, trying to hold onto it, trying to feel it on my skin, trying to remind myself that I’m still here and I don’t want to be here—my body and mind disagrees with what I want.
And slowly, they drag me into the void.
A place that has long screamed comfort.
A dark place that has somehow become my peace.

But the thing about every depressive episode is my ability to come out of it.
I’ve lived in this body long enough to understand what it wants and how it wants me to respond to it. And when it says it’s done feeling down, it really is done feeling down.

It may be a little draining, it may take everything in me, but I love that I can drag myself out of it. Slowly, some days. Other days, faster than the wind. I lay in the dark corner and watch the light above get brighter and brighter, showing me, almost in a movie-like way, the things I love and the things I fight for. The reasons I love life.

And so I crawl out. I hold on to the tiny bit of hope, to that light and happiness I crave. That futuristic life that is being displayed in front of me, and I find my way out.

I always start with one stupid little thing. Because that’s how it begins. With one thing. Something small. Something comfortable. Something I’m familiar with. Like a crack in a wall. An opening.

Here’s what my “stupid little things” sometimes look like:

I sit somewhere else

I leave my bed, the comfort of my duvet. The scent of my room candle, one that has long since been my depressing go-to scent, and just go sit on the couch in the living room. I don’t force myself to be productive. I just change locations. That’s all. My mind knows what it means. It’s like telling my body, “We’re moving. Even if it’s just a few steps.”

I open the curtains

I let the light in. Even when I don’t want to see it. Especially when I don’t want to see it. The sunlight that flows in feels aggressive at first, like it’s finally free. Like I’ve finally let it free. And my room welcomes it. So does my body.

I do a small physical task

Nothing physically draining, but something that needs doing, like throwing out the trash or sweeping the kitchen, or my room. I don’t try to “clean the whole house.” I just do one thing. One visible improvement. And that visible shift helps my brain believe that more is possible.

I eat something I made

Sometimes it’s just noodles. Sometimes I go as far as cooking my favorite jollof rice, if I have the energy. Or making a weird pasta I saw on Pinterest. It’s like feeding myself, with care. Like I’m reclaiming my body.

I romanticize my environment again

I play music, light a candle, or change my bedsheet. I make a basic task feel like a scene, like I’m a main character. I take a walk around my estate to feel alive, to watch people, how they are going about their business, laughing, working, existing, like they’re untouched by the weight life is throwing at them.

I check in with things that make me happy

I look at the things that make me happy, and I wonder if they still do. Am I still crazy over my favorite boy band? Or my favorite movies? Does that one YouTube vlog still make me feel safe? I revisit them, not to fix myself, but to reconnect with what’s still there. What hasn’t died inside me.

And that’s how I get out. By slowly picking my broken pieces back up. Until my body starts remembering what it feels like to want to live again.

Healing looks like something dramatic, like a breakthrough moment or some loud declaration. But it’s not. Not for me. Healing, for me, looks like a new day where I just sit and remind myself how beautiful life is. It looks like getting up to function again like a normal human being and not feel like a broken piece.

It looks like forgiving myself for not being consistent. For slipping. For falling back. For spiraling even after doing all the “right” things. Even after winning in life.

I love that I can always find my way back. Even when my thoughts are loud and my body is tired and everything feels dull, I still try. I still stretch. I still look for that light.

I’m not here to tell you to fight. I’m just here to say: no matter how deep you fall, just make sure you get to rise again. And I hope you know, you don’t have to come out of it gracefully. You just have to come out.

Even if you have to drag yourself out.
Even if it’s one stupid little thing at a time.

Just don’t forget to come back. Your mind knows your way back. So does your body, so always find your way back. Even if you need a minute to remember.

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