Shortly after leaving my job in the city, I moved back to my parents house. They live in a small town about an hour from the city limits. I grew up there, and it was definitely weird going back. I had only ever visited on the odd weekend since I left home years ago.

It was depressing at first, since I knew that this was no weekend visit. This was where my life ended up – and where it would remain, unless I did something drastic.

It took about a month for the dust to settle. I was sick with depression and to make matters worse, I had to deal with the backlash from my siblings and their spouses. In fact, as my brother was helping me pack up my apartment, I overheard his wife saying (in a low, but firm tone) that there was no way I was staying with them. This completely drained away the last bit of energy that I had. I was numb.

No one would have understood how social anxiety can completely incapacitate an individual and lay waste to any shred of normality – so I didn’t bother trying to explain myself – I didn’t have the energy. I let them think that I was lazy and wanted to sponge off my parents, or that I had suffered a complete mental breakdown. Nothing I could say would change their minds, so why bother trying?

For the next six months, I suffered through major depression, and at one point, I think I lost my will to live. I feel embarrassed talking about it now, but at the time it was definitely a reality. I was being consumed by an overwhelming blackness and felt only depression, fear, anxiety and hopelessness, 24/7. I slept until noon everyday, not because I was lazy, but because I didn’t have the will to carry on.

I didn’t talk to anyone except my mother and father. If someone was visiting, I would stay in my room – even when my brothers stopped in. I simply couldn’t bear the thought of interacting with anyone – at any level.

This was my lowest point. I actually convinced myself that I had lost my mind.