It was about 20 years ago, I was living on my own in Colorado. I was in my mid-twenties, footloose and on my own. Things were going great, until they weren’t. I’m not really sure what happened, because it creeps in on you, or at least it did on me. It wasn’t like one day I woke up and decided I couldn’t leave the house. But that’s where my depression took me, to the point that anything outside of my house seemed like an impossible task. I was convinced I was too ugly and too dumb to be out in public. That I shouldn’t subject anyone to have to look at me or have any sort of interaction with me. I did have to leave the house for work, which some days would make me sick to my stomach or some days leave me contemplating suicide. It was an all day process trying to convince myself that it would be okay to go, that I could somehow make it through a shift. It helped that I worked at an alzheimer’s home, the residents didn’t care what I looked like or how I acted. In fact, that was probably the best job I could’ve had given the circumstances. I also learned during that time, which was probably the better part of a year, that I could go to Subway and get a giant sandwich that I could use for a couple of meals. Although, I would always feel bad for the person at Subway who had to make a sandwich for me.