and then it was just me. everything I had to do with no help, such as cleaning, carried a psychological weight in addition to the added manual labor. everything kept screaming at me "you're alone, you're alone, you're alone!" I broke down crying when I had a mouse problem

a few months after the breakup. not that I couldn't take care of it myself, but it carried this strange, heavy symbolism that was hard to shake.

and I hated the place. old, ugly furniture, everything haphazardly arranged, didn't even have a place to work, no desk or anything.

yellow lights all throughout. I *hate* warm white light. it fills me with dread. I don't know why.

changing the lights was the first major step on my path to feeling better. I got off my ass, I swapped them for daylight bulbs, and suddenly I felt... in control of my own life.

suddenly the apartment wasn't so dreary looking, and I felt like I could actually take steps to make it nicer.

so I did. and then, for the first time ever, I was picking new furniture based on *aesthetics* rather than just utility. I put together a place I'm proud to show off.

won't bore you with details, but this apartment is nigh unrecognizable compared to 1-2 years ago. lockdown especially was a big motivator — once that started, I put together an office area for myself literally overnight. then I kept upgrading it. I made it my own.

then a few months into lockdown I got on Zoloft and that's when things *seriously* took off. for months on end I was constantly on my feet, cleaning, rearranging, reorganizing, waving my magic wand and putting sparkles of joy in every corner of my apartment. it was wonderful.

I also learned to appreciate being alone. well, sort of alone. I got 3 cats, which did more for me than I expected.

and now I love being here, and every room here is bursting with my personality, and I feel like I can fully relax. I feel self-actualized. it's a magical feeling.