Of all the years of my 20s, this one I remember the least. There were no mind-altering substances I consumed, or any sort of binging save for what I stuffed my face with. I simply did so little of worth, and had such a crushing sense of helplessness that on a psychological level, I must have opted to disregard experiences during this year. I didn’t even engage in my habit of hoarding files and documents. My academics folder ends at 2016, and doesn’t resume until 2019, when I returned to university.

The best I can surmise is that, after quitting work and university, I attended either the spring or fall semester at the community college I first went to. After flunking that entire semester, I gave up. I only left my room to buy groceries with my mother’s money, or to use the bathroom. I am pleased to inform you that I never stooped so low as to engage in pissbottle or shitjug usage, nor did I give up ENTIRELY on bathing. But I’d still go weeks without it.

I feel for my mother, for having to put up with me in that state. Granted, I usually didn’t come out of my room during the day and my door was always closed, so she could probably still pretend I was living elsewhere if she tried hard enough. But no good parent wants to see their child fail, let alone wallow in their failure. Sometimes, I think back and wish she would’ve said something, or given me a reason to care—even if it was a threat. She didn’t though, and I can’t blame her. I was in my mid-20s and she was helping me the best way she could think of—by making sure I didn’t end up on the street.

Still, life continued to go nowhere. I existed, I passed out, I continued to take up space and not care for anything but jerking off, eating food and living in my fantasy. Then, one day in December, I woke up. That day, I felt queasy. At first I thought it was due to the entire bag of frozen chicken nuggets I ate one hour before passing out. It was, but there was more than intestinal distress this time. My soul ached, and I felt it. I, for the first time since perhaps I quit my job months after turning 22 acknowledged that I was a failure. Not in an accusatory way, but in a simple acceptance of the truth.

I didn’t want to keep being a failure. But who could I talk to? My friend, who was even more inexperienced in life than I? The people I would write smut with, who only knew me by my adopted, hypersexualized personas? My mother, which would mean confronting the biggest elephant in the room since Dumbo?

I chose my father, who I hadn’t spoken with for almost a year. Until I fell off, I’d call him and my stepmother on average, once every two weeks. It was smalltalk, but it was nice to keep up. A few times, they tried calling me after I stopped. I suppose they didn’t keep trying because they figured if I had died my mother would’ve reached out, so it meant that I didn’t want to talk.

I did want to talk, though. If they called I wouldn’t have answered. I was ashamed of myself, and thought with all my being that I didn’t deserve any kindness. When I called my father, I didn’t know what to expect. Would he answer? Or had he given up on me? It would’ve made sense if he did, I thought at the time. I would’ve given up on me. Instead, he hadn’t given up. He was worried, he said. He didn’t know how I was doing, and when I hadn’t answered the phone he didn’t keep trying because he figured it would just make me feel worse if I kept having to reject his calls.

I started tearing up, because he was hitting all the marks. I told him the truth, rather than the times leading up to my silence when I lied. I told him I wasn’t doing well. That I wasn’t in school right now, or working. I said that I was lost.

He agreed. We talked for well over an hour, discussing options. The military was one option raised, and I didn’t turn it down immediately because I was truly desperate. Never mind the fact I have as much respect for authority as one of my grandfathers, who during the Korean War spent his enlisted time either selling black market cigarettes, sitting in the brig, or causing trouble on deck. Let’s also ignore the simple fact that I was so out of shape and huge in body that I likely was too fat to physically complete basic training, even with a two-month starvation headstart.

In the end, Dad invited me to come and stay with him so I could get my life back on track. I had never lived with him before, for more than a few weeks at least. It was unknown in every sense of the word; something new. I said yes without hesitating. Anything would be better than more of this. So I told my mother, who naturally agreed with the plan. I packed a suitcase and a backpack, and got on a one-way flight to the second chance I needed, yet still felt I didn’t deserve.