A darkly funny survival story of eviction, isolation, and unexpected rebirth.
The notice came taped to my door
like a middle finger in 12-point font.
I hadn’t even finished my cereal.
“30 days to vacate.”
Cool.
Because being mentally unwell during a pandemic
wasn’t hard enough already.
The world was on fire.
Jobs vanished.
Shelves emptied.
Therapists stopped answering.
But rent?
Still due.
And apparently, so was I.
Lockdown turned my apartment
into a pressure cooker of silence,
regret,
and existential screaming into the void.
I rearranged furniture
just to feel in control.
I talked to spoons.
I danced in socks.
I spiraled.
Then I cleaned.
Then I spiraled again.
I couldn’t cry loud
because the neighbors might hear.
I couldn’t scream
because the walls were thin.
I couldn’t afford groceries
but kept getting emails
about online yoga classes
and “embracing this time of inner stillness.”
Inner stillness?
I was two breakdowns away
from naming my pothos plant “Rock Bottom.”
But then…
somewhere between the eviction
and the echo,
I let go.
Of the idea that stability
was tied to a lease.
Of the lie that healing
required calm conditions.
Of the shame of starting over—again.
And what I found was wild.
Without furniture to rearrange,
I rearranged myself.
Lockdown took my space—
but it gave me clarity.
Eviction stripped me down—
but I saw what was still standing.
Me.
F*cking me.
🧠 Emotional Takeaway:
Healing won’t always happen in ideal conditions.
Sometimes it happens
while you’re packing boxes
between panic attacks
with no clear plan.
But sometimes,
freedom starts with losing everything
you thought you needed.
🪞 Reflection Box:
The world locked down.
My landlord locked me out.
But somehow…
I unlocked something in me
that nobody can take away.
🎤 The rent was late, the world was shut,
My faith in humans? In a rut.
No safety net. No couch to crash—
Just me, my grief, and budget trash.
But still I rose, unpaid, unplanned—
Evicted, broke, but still I stand.
They took my keys, but not my spark—
I found my way inside the dark.
