I’ve always considered myself independent. Sure, my mom may have made it impossible to ride my bike past my neighbor’s house three doors down (sup, Mr. Arnold), when I was a kid but at 18, I flew to Guam and back myself, navigating currency differences, a missed flight, no cellular service and not quite understanding what was in the ramen I was being served.

When I found it hard to shower by myself, work consistently, or drive myself to Starbucks, that was the girl I thought of. It was a devastating reminder of how far I’d fallen and a lot of work to get back there.

There’s a grief angle to this story. Grief can make it hard to carry on with your daily responsibilities, including seeing friends and working. I won’t argue that, while taking care of my dad, I did a whole lot of self-isolating. When I went to my friend’s house one night to help her tidy up, she mentioned that her husband was surprised I’d even shown up. “Courtney cancels,” if you didn’t hear.

I felt so blindsighted to learn that. It made me wonder: was anybody listening? Was there anybody watching at all?

Depression had hit so hard that, in addition to losing people around me, I started losing bits of my independence. I was suddenly scared to drive – still am. I suddenly couldn’t shower without closing my eyes and being immediately greeted by the images of blood-soaked shark teeth waiting to rip me apart or the ocean-soaked Titanic, bloated from decay on the sandy floor. These images were so scary – still are so scary – that I had to call my husband into the bathroom with me, panicking as if I was somehow going to be my shower’s next victim.

But soon, his comforting presence became a crutch. He had to be the one to drive. He had to be in the shower with me. He had to be in my line of vision for me to work. Hell, there were times he had to stand in for me with assignments – my own personal, unpaid ghostwriter.

My therapist attributed them all to OCD and that’s fair. OCD loves intrusive thoughts. It loves to maintain a level of fright because it creates a cozy environment for it to thrive. It’s kind of like mold. By itself, it isn’t going to do anything, but give it humidity, moisture, and a food source and it’ll grow out of control like a wildfire. And my OCD will be there reveling in the flames.

When I see how difficult things like working, cooking, and touching dirty laundry have become for me, it makes me question my quality of life. Not only do my fears and worries grow out of control, making it impossible to stand with my feet firmly on the ground, but they extend to my ability – and yes, sometimes even desire – to get back on my own. I feel some of its pressure this morning.

My husband is still asleep and in months and years past, I’ve struggled to spend time alone. While some of it spurs negative thoughts, it really boils down to not knowing how to spend my time. The pressure and indecision of it all lead to a spiral and when my husband eventually does get up and greets me in his sweet, honey-coated voice, I feel angry at being abandoned.

But this morning, I cleaned my kitchen and texted back and forth with a friend. I made a cup of coffee and I opened the windows. It’s that early time of morning in Florida where the slight, temporary breeze actually makes it feel like fall.

I have plans today and as I was wiping down the faux marble countertops I pay too much money for, I felt the familiar pull of independence. Today is a day I want to drive. Today is a day when I want to get ready myself. I want to write, I want to work, and I want to relax. Today is one of those days where I’m wondering if I relied on my husband too much through this onset of a diagnosis.

Have I always been able to stand on my own, but somehow maybe just forgot to?