Falling off "the bus"

Depression has a way of overtaking my life in waves. When it hits, everything slows down. I stop showering, I lose my appetite, and I begin to neglect the basic ways I care for myself. It’s not sudden, it’s gradual, almost quiet, but before I know it, I’m deep in it.

During these times, my mind shifts its focus. I fixate on what’s wrong instead of what’s going right. The good things in my life don’t disappear, but they become harder to see, almost quieter somehow, drowned out by the noise of everything that feels heavy. My struggles feel loud, constant, and impossible to ignore. And in that space, I start to feel like I’m failing, like I’m falling behind in my own life.

One of the hardest parts is how I begin to isolate. I pull away from the people around me without even realizing it at first. The connections that usually ground me start to fade into the background. I stop reaching out, stop responding, and slowly retreat into myself. At the same time, I drift away from the things that help me feel most like me: writing, creating, expressing. You might notice it in the silence, in the lack of posts, in the absence of the parts of me that usually show up.

At some point, my family and I came up with a simple way to describe where I’m at mentally. We call it “the bus.” When I’m doing okay, I’m on the bus, moving forward with everything else in my life. When I’m struggling but still holding on, I’m hanging off the side still there, but barely keeping my grip. And when things get really heavy, I’ve fallen off completely.

It might sound simple but having that shared language matters. Because when I’m in that low place, explaining how I feel can take more energy than I have. Sometimes I don’t have the words for it. But I can say, “I’m hanging on,” or “I fell off,” and they understand. It gives me a way to stay connected, even when I feel like disappearing.

What I’ve come to understand is how deeply my sense of self is tied to the small, everyday acts of care. Not showering, not eating, not tending to myself, it doesn’t just affect my physical state. It creates distance between who I am and how I feel. I don’t recognize myself in those moments. And the longer it goes on, the harder it feels to find my way back.

But I’m learning that coming back doesn’t have to be dramatic. It doesn’t require a complete reset or a sudden burst of motivation. Sometimes, it starts with something small, standing under the water for a few minutes, eating something simple, writing a few sentences instead of a full post. These aren’t just tasks; they’re signals. Reminders that I’m still here, still capable of returning to myself.

Depression can be convincing. It tells me to withdraw, to wait, to do nothing. But I’m starting to see that even the smallest act of care is a quiet form of resistance. A way of interrupting the cycle. A way of choosing, even gently, to come back to life as myself.

I don’t always get it right. There are days when the weight wins. There are days when I fall off the bus. But there are also moments, small, almost unnoticeable, where I reach out, where I hold on, where I take a step back toward myself.

And I’m learning to count those moments, too.

Because maybe healing isn’t about never falling off.

Maybe it’s about remembering that I know how to hold on, and that there are people who will help me climb back on when I can’t do it alone.