In 2019, I was 30 years old, living in Los Angeles, sharing an apartment with my two cats, and working remotely as an artist. Most of the people my age I knew at the time were setting down roots: getting married, building families. Meanwhile, I spent almost all my time alone, surrounded by plants, animals, and murals. I had no desire for anything else. I enjoyed having a space where I could keep the world, and other people, at a manageable distance.
This had been the case for most of my life. From childhood on, I struggled to make friends, which took a toll on my self-worth. By adolescence, my mental health had deteriorated, and I spent close to a year cycling through multiple psychiatric hospitalizations, outpatient programs, and group homes for depression and self-harm. At age 15, I was groomed online by a much older man, culminating in a traumatic sexual assault. Immediately afterward I tried to end my life, then spent a year in a youth residential treatment center in Utah.
