I’ve been feeling it this week.

When I mentioned that my mental health had been in a free-fall, my mother-in-law countered by saying, “No one’s mental health can be good all the time.” While I know she’s right, this feeling makes me want to crawl out of my skin. It’s genuinely that uncomfortable.

So what happened?

Truthfully, I think it’s been a buildup of lots of tiny moments.

Weirdly, I’m fine as I’m experiencing the thing: death, birth, doctors. I’ve learned to put on a schtick—a ruse just for myself out of necessity and survival to get through dark periods, and sometimes, just periods where I feel completely out of control.

In the chaos, all I crave is a clear horizon.

And then I get it—and it’s when my mental health starts to slip.

I don’t know how it is for you. But for me, my slipping mental health makes even the most minor things impossible.

I struggle with personal hygiene. I might get a shower, but then nothing more. I don’t do my hair or makeup.

I have a tough time focusing.

I feel lost, only craving the comfort of watching Instagram reels on my phone.

I struggle to make myself food.

This time around has been different, though. Whereas in years past I transformed into a husk of who I once was, this week, I still managed to finish my assignments, not just on time, but early.

Yesterday I made a hot dog for lunch and took the dog out.

I swapped voice memos back and forth with friends. I advocated for myself at work. And, I answered the phone and told my nephew about our new license plates (he’s into that kind of thing, my sweet boy).

These things made me realize that despite my poor mental health all week, I still managed to be okay.

It all started making sense this morning when I came across this photo in my Facebook memories.

This was the hallway leading to my bedroom in the attic. The room had been transformed after I moved back home after my divorce. The hallway was a storage center, if you couldn’t tell by the pile of junk to the left of the wall. If you opened the doors, a sea of holiday decor and 1996 taxes would have washed over you.

One night, I had gotten the idea—probably after seeing it trend on Pinterest—to paint the hallway yellow and add cheetah spots. My parents were beside themselves. They were part of the generation that thought a wall with cheetah spots diminished the home’s value when it eventually came time to sell. As someone who eventually did sell the house, the value hindered more on the condition of the roof and knob and tube wiring then the spots, but I digress.

Dismay aside, my parents still let me be creative within my space. However, the walls were quickly painted over when I moved out.

Point is: painting a wall some ridiculous, unsettling color and a mural to match is quintessentially me. I’ve done it every house I’ve lived in, dating back to my childhood home, then Guam. I’ve even done it here with black and white stripes in the kitchen and thoughts of colorful exploding flowers in the bathroom.

A few days ago, I broke down in front of my husband because I never used to suffer like this. Sure, I’m no stranger to bad days, but back then—13 years ago when this mural was painted—I wouldn’t have felt so defeated. It’s a lot to wrap my head around at times.

But if this week showed me anything, it’s that I can still survive and, for lack of a better word, handle my shit. Maybe I can’t do the extras. Maybe, after work, I needed to just flip on a movie and dunk Oreos into milk. Maybe I needed to get dressed, but choose something comfortable. Maybe I had to order takeout because I just didn’t feel like cooking.

And, as my friend said yesterday to me on the phone, “Not everything has to get done at once.”

It’s quite poetic coming across that photo this morning because it reminds me that despite the loss and the grief that has changed me and the way I experience mental health, I haven’t changed at the core of who I am.

I’m still the girl who likes crazy colors and painting murals.

Life may have taken a lot from me, but it hasn’t taken who I am.