The past few days have been a whirlwind. For the past two years, I have been in survival mode. Between chronic illness and my mental health, I've reached a point where simply looking after myself and my home has often taken every ounce of energy I had.
When you're trying to choose between having a shower, eating something, getting out of bed - cleaning an entire home, it doesn't always make the list. Slowly, my apartment has stopped feeling like home, and I haven't been able to keep up. I kept telling myself I'd get on top of it next week. Then next month. Then when I had more energy. Unfortunately, that day never seemed to arrive.
There is something I've realised through all of this: I am incredibly bad at asking for help.
Lasse has asked me more times than I can count if there was anything he could do to help. His family has as well. My best friend offered to help out. Yet I struggled to say yes. I worried about being a burden. I worried that I was asking too much. I kept thinking that if I just held on a little longer, I'd somehow find the energy to fix it. Instead, I exhausted myself trying to carry a weight that had become too heavy.
Accepting help is something I've never been good at. It makes me feel uncomfortable. There's a part of me that still apologises for taking up space, even when the people around me have made it abundantly clear that they want to help. That's a difficult mindset to unlearn.
On top of all that, the apartment suffered water damage. A leak from the washing machine. What started as a practical problem eventually became much bigger, and despite trying to manage the situation, it has become clear that my tenancy is coming to an end. As difficult as it is to admit, I understand why. A home needs looking after, and I'm simply not in a position to do that right now. Writing that makes me feel incredibly vulnerable because there is still so much shame attached to not coping. We live in a world where struggling is often mistaken for laziness, when in reality there were days where just walking across the room felt like an achievement.
The truth is I wasn't living. I was surviving. My physical health has declined to the point where I am incredibly deconditioned. I spent far too much time sitting still because I simply didn't have the strength to do more. The less I could do, the harder everyday tasks became, and before I knew it, everything had snowballed. It isn't the life I want, so I have made the decision to move.
I'll be staying with Lasse and his parents at their house while I search for somewhere new to live. Their kindness has honestly been overwhelming. They've welcomed me without hesitation, encouraged me to focus on resting and getting stronger, and reminded me that accepting help isn't something to be ashamed of. That has probably been the hardest lesson of all. I've spent most of my life believing I had to deal with everything on my own. Asking for help felt like failure. Accepting it felt worse. Maybe healing sometimes begins with letting other people carry a little of the weight.
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