On January 30, 2016, my world was forever changed. That was the day that it came crashing down. This is the day that I tell you how seasonal depression took over my life because of it.
My name is Ashley Blackwell, and I suffer from a severe anxiety disorder. While I do believe that I’ve always struggled with my mental health (to some extent)–dating back to childhood–it took going through traumatic experiences for me to realize how serious it was or could become. What started as a normal winter day ended with fire trucks rushing to my family and my rescue.
Only four months after we moved into our new home, the brick residence went up in flames on a Saturday afternoon. It’s almost as if it were yesterday because I remember (so vividly) sitting in front of my mirror, listening to music, and finishing my makeup when the horrific event occurred. My mother, my sister, and I were getting ready to go out and grab dinner. As my sister rested against the doorway of my room, we engaged in our routine girl talk. Suddenly, an overwhelming burnt aroma erupted from the back of the house. Frantic, she jetted to the area to see where the fumes had come from and discovered that our laundry room was the source. That was only the beginning of this nightmare.
It had to have been instinct. For some reason, I knew (immediately) that our lives were on the line, and if we hadn’t gotten out of harm’s way fast enough, we would’ve been hurt… or worse, dead. I sprung to my feet and sprinted to the hallway, alarming my mother (who had been in the bathroom) of the pending tragedy. Although my mother was uncertain of the emergency upon us, the urgency in her daughters’ voices let her know something was (undoubtedly) wrong. “We gotta go!” I yelled, leaving my belongings behind and hurrying down the (nearly) 20 steps leading up to our front door. My fight or flight mode had been activated, and I maneuvered so quickly that it seemed as if I were skipping. My mother and sister acted accordingly.
After making it to the bottom of the stairs outside, we could hear the sparks flying in a matter of seconds. Prompted to look over our shoulders, we stood in disbelief at the sight of our humble abode set ablaze. The fire raged awfully… at a rapid speed. One of our neighbors was riding through our block when he stopped and noticed the commotion. Instantly, he dialed for the firemen, as we’d been trying to do since evacuating the premises, but to no avail. Still, no answer.
The craziest part of it all? The fire station was located in our neighborhood, merely a few feet away. Determined to assist us, the gentleman drove down the street to see if anyone was in the building. It was empty. We later found out that the responders were (allegedly) tending to a call across town and operating out of their second location that day.
I dropped to my knees, scared and distraught as I watched things sizzle to ashes and debris scatter among the lawn. Extended family members and friends eventually poured in, rallying around us as we waited for what felt like forever for help. By then, there was no saving anything. Everything we’d ever owned, even the clothes that would go on our backs and the rags to wash them… were gone.
The Road to Rebuilding and Recovering: Where My Dark Days Began & How Seasonal Depression Took Over My Life
It was soon discovered that the fire started due to faulty wiring, which produced a massive malfunction. Ultimately, though centralized in the laundry room, it traveled throughout the walls and destroyed just about everything but a few items that were (maybe) 30% salvageable. For the first time, I was homeless, living out of a hotel that the American Red Cross was kind enough to book and a trash bag filled with donated clothing. I was hurt but grateful. Still, what had transpired hadn’t fully hit me yet.
Fast forward to five months later, after departing the hotel and being put into a temporary spot, our new place was ready. The sun shined again. Things were picking up. We gained way more than we’d lost. I’d gotten a job at Parlé Magazine. Life was good again. Well, at least, I thought so.
That was until I was sitting in front of my desk at home, catching up on work, when I felt as if my heart had fallen out of my chest and through my stomach. The room spun. I couldn’t catch my breath. I knew, for sure, that I was dying. Thankfully, that day, I was able to gather myself. I couldn’t understand what had just happened, but for the moment, I was okay. Days later, the same episode appeared, but, this time, I was in Walmart. I freaked out and rushed to the ER. I needed to know what was going on. I was afraid I was having a heart attack.
I was happy to know my heart was fine, but my mind wasn’t. I’d been diagnosed with a chronic case of anxiety that has only worsened since then. November 2021 was when it reached its peak, with extreme (daily) panic attacks accompanying my constant unsettling. All of the wounds I thought had healed–those related and unrelated to the fire–were reopened. Unresolved issues came to the forefront. I couldn’t rest if someone had paid me.
The smell of smoke had become a trigger. My nerves were shattered, causing me to be on 10 every day. I’d always been an emotional eater, so food had become my refuge. My creativity declined. My optimism for just about anything was depleted. I couldn’t find enjoyment. I barely left the house. I didn’t know peace. I didn’t know myself anymore. The symptoms of my condition heightened by the minute, and I fixated on them to the point where I feared going insane. From many trips to the doctor to sulking in my sorrows, I was drowning with no lifeguard to cling to.
The house fire. Losing my father years before. Self-hatred from my adolescence, which stemmed from being bullied for my plus size frame and darker skin tone. Other problems that were embedded in my memory. It all came to a boiling point. I spent many nights crying, wishing I could be who I used to be. I begged God and asked Him, “How could this be? How do I get out of this? Is this really what you had in the cards for your girl?”
As time progressed, the twinkle in my eye that would brighten at the slightest joys of life faded. By 2022, I’d enrolled in therapy, and my therapist told me she believed I had a touch of PTSD, along with depression. At the time, I didn’t know depression could last for years. Her analysis was that the fire had induced a domino effect and woken up feelings I had yet to sort through in other aspects of my life.
I was 25 then; I’m 27 now. I never (in a million years) would’ve thought my 20s would be spent battling my brain. Every day is still a fight, especially in the colder months–when the world has slowed down and isn’t noisy enough to keep me occupied.
In late 2023, I left therapy due to financial troubles. 2024 has been hard. I’m not ashamed to say it. Some days, I fall, but every day, I get back up. However, through it all, I’m learning to give myself grace. I finally realize that it’s true when they say… you have to go through it to grow through it. I won’t let my circumstances defeat or define me any longer. Because of this, I’ve returned to therapy.
My journey to “better” won’t be overnight, but at least… I’m on the path. To anyone at war with their mind, I want to remind you that you’re not crazy, you matter, and there’s a reason why you’re still here. Now, it’s your job to stick around and see why.
Don’t give up. You’ve come too far to bow out of the race. The finish line will be even greater to see when you look back on what it took to get there.
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