Food is the thing that makes me happiest. Close behind is mail from my friends and Harry Styles in a colourful suit, but food is much more reliable. Staying at my mom’s house means never being hungry. She has three fridges, two freezers, and groceries stashed away in nearly every cupboard and closet.

“You’ll be happy to find, under the stairs,” she said before they left, “a bag of potato chips.”

I was happy. I did find. But two nights now, I’ve sat down with a bowl of chips, then barely eaten them.

When I started my current medication, I felt hungry. Granted, I’m pretty broke these days; I’m often hungry. But it felt like a side effect, a fairly common one that comes along with antidepressants. My doctor asked if I was managing it.

“Well,” I told her, “it’s easy when you don’t have any money.”

But now that I’m in this house where I don’t have to think about money, where I can cook and bake and eat whatever I like, I don’t need a whole bowl of potato chips. I don’t even want them.

I have to believe this medication might be working. Those decisions which used to be hard, used to feel impossible, they’re just not anymore. Put down the chips? OK. Clean the litter boxes? No problem. Go to sleep at 10? I can do that.

Turns out, I might not be a lazy, selfish, terrible person after all. It’s these chemicals in my brain which need adjusting. We just need to find the right meds, and I feel closer than ever. Something is working differently this time, but I have to be patient.

I can do that.