My room became my whole world. I would wake up, stare at the ceiling, watch the sliver of light move across the wall as the day passed, and then it would be dark again and I'd failed another day at being alive.
The blinds were always closed. I told people I was fine. I wasn't fine. Severe depression had me locked in a room that felt like a coffin — except coffins are quiet and my head never was.
Six months in, my sister showed up unannounced. She didn't lecture me. She just sat on the floor with me. Eventually she said, "Come outside for five minutes. That's it." I said no. She waited. I said no again. She waited more. I went outside.
The sun felt like an accusation. I hated it. But I stood in it for five minutes.
Three days later I walked to the end of the block. Not running. Walking. Slowly. Like a person learning to use their legs again.
The first run was 200 meters. I had to stop and sit on a curb because my legs were shaking. I cried the whole way back. My neighbor's kid stared at me from his bike. I didn't care.
I ran