Not Afraid of Bees

December 2025

My apartment is a disaster. There is just so much…stuff. I’m always amazed at how the hell it’s accumulated. I have no psychological attachments to said stuff – you could throw away 90% of what’s here, and I would not miss it a smidge (just please leave my piano and my grandma’s art behind). But my brain was broken for a long time. C-PTSD mixed with ADHD does not make for high executive functioning or caring deeply for yourself.

It’s not a functioning space. I cannot have my family or friends over. I am deeply ashamed of this; it is the thing I carry the most shame over. It feels like a dirty secret I must hide. I must hide it from everyone, but I can’t hide from it. I live in a studio. Everywhere I look…shame.

There have been points where it got better, and I sustained things for a bit. Then I’d have a slip, and here we are, drowning in Amazon boxes and shame spiraling again.

Things were getting better recently; I was slowly (but surely) making steady progress. Then I hit a wall. Burnout (understandable due to circumstances) came on the scene. And down the slippery slope we are again. Drenched in self-loathing.

I do not want to live like this.

I have worked my ass off for 5 ½ years in therapy. My C-PTSD is generally in remission instead of steering the ship. Every day, I notice little wins with how my brain is doing. I enjoy her company again (she’s very funny and sweet). But then I look at my apartment, and the trauma flip switches. “This is why you deserve everything that happened to you. See this disaster? That’s you. That’s what you are. And one day, they will all find out.”

It’s quite near impossible to quickly flip the trauma switch off. It’s a very specific part of your brain that gets activated, and it won’t shut the fuck up until you’ve convinced it you are safe. Which is hard to do when all she keeps shouting is “DANGER, WILL ROBINSON,” and you believe her.

I’ve named this part of my brain Eloise. I am much kinder dealing with Eloise than I have been dealing with Dana. (This is a true therapy technique, and I cannot recommend it enough). I don’t mind Eloise being around for the most part; we’ve become a solid team. But she will not budge on this.

I look at my relationship with my apartment similarly to how I look at addiction. You can remove the substance, but if you haven’t done the work, you’re more likely to relapse. I go through this with food and my body as well. So, I keep on keeping on with doing the work and hope something will change.

The Crush

In the last few months, I developed a fully formed crush on someone. For the first time in years. If he asked me out, I would say yes in a heartbeat. He’s a great pick. This may seem commonplace for a nearly 40-year-old with an extensive dating history. But that dating history lay dormant while Eloise and I went on some terrifying adventures together and then got ourselves into therapy.

I dreamed of the day I would be in love again…or just in like. That I would feel safe and ready to go to bed with someone again. But now that a low-level of genuine desire has re-entered the scene, I am short-circuiting.

I am standing in the middle of my tornado of a living space, listening to music, smiling about a funny text exchange, when it hits me: if I go on a date (there is no date), I might want to bring them back here. Wait, if I were to get into a relationship with someone at some point, they would need to see my apartment. It would be fucking weird if I had a boyfriend and he never saw my home. And frankly, it would be nice to just get laid again. And you know what else, Eloise, it’d be cool to have friends over. Or make my parents dinner when they are in NY. Or not panic if my toilet clogs and I need to call my Super…

January 2026

I called my mom. She has been offering to help me for literally years, and I have always said no. I didn’t want her to see this. But I did it. I called my mom for help. She and my brother came, and over the course of two Saturdays, I have a functioning apartment again.

We sorted through piles of rubble. Threw out bags and bags and boxes and boxes. We cleaned. We hung up art (okay, that “we” was strictly my brother). I leaned on the people who love me (and Klonopin), and gosh darn it, it worked.

I don’t really know what to do with the relief I feel. The gratitude I have. The space I have. But I am committed to turning this house into a home.

Today

I’ve had the best time nesting, organizing, and enjoying every bit of this lovely studio. I am cooking. I am cleaning. I am working out. I got my fucking piano tuned. I’ve had friends over. I’ve had my family over. I’ve posted pics on The Gram to make it real. And I’ve kept it up for three months.

And while every day the person I am doing all of this for is myself – because I do, in fact, love her dearly and want her to comfortably read in her favorite chair, and practice Chopin, and enjoy her own cooking – and as much as it pains me as a strong, independent, 21^st century liberal woman who loves to piss off JD Vance, to say this…I will forever be thankful to the man who got me to get my shit together.

Because I know you’re all nosy like me: no, nothing has happened with him, and probably never will. But that’s okay, truly, it’s an honor just to be nominated. Most importantly of all, I’m just happy to be here again. And whenever Cupid is ready for me, I’ll be ready too – with a freshly made bed, great art, zero Amazon boxes, and a place I call home.