Last year, and the first half of this year honestly, delivered a series of wake-up calls, frustrations, terrifying moments of clarity, and downers. It made me realize that I had a life that I had gotten comfortable in, but it was not a life I needed or deserved. I was maintaining, treading water, instead of enjoying it and living up to my potential. I needed to fix myself, and the problem is that I did, and do, not know how to do that.

I came up with a plan anyway. The biggest part of that plan was the imposition of order onto my life, a schedule I try and follow, and reinvigorating my sense of discipline. I doubled down on the work ethic my grandfather taught me and all the hard or annoying lessons about sacrifice and getting things done I was tricked into learning as a kid. I’ll probably talk about that at a later date.

I’ve been steadily working, with breaks for school, since I was 14. My first freelance gig was around ten years ago. I’ve been aware of my depression eight or nine years now. When I was younger, I thought I avoided it by working. I wrote until the wee hours of the morning often, I worked until I got bored, and I slept a lot because I was tired all the time. When I got a salaried job, it took a lot of time for me to change gears, but even that job required unpaid overtime at a few different points over the calendar year, so any time I switched gears, it was all too easy to fall back into old habits.

I moved to San Francisco in 2007 and had to figure out how to live on my own, be an adult, get used to a new city, and build a social life. It was stressful, but fun, because it was new. I made mistakes, I had fun, and it was worth the time. But last year, in the throes of the blackest mood I’d felt in a while, I realized it wasn’t enough. I don’t do enough. I don’t like enough. I wasn’t happy enough.

As part of my vague plan to fix my life, I decided that I needed to enjoy more. I try to say yes when friends ask me out, though sometimes circumstances and inertia make me feel okay with flaking out. But I do try, because I want to do things.

Late last year, I moved from San Francisco to Oakland. The move brought with it my first roommate, a lot more space, and, of all things, a balcony. It’s not a big balcony, or even particularly cool. It’s got entirely too many spiderwebs, for one thing, and the tree that’s nearest to the edge (within touching distance) ranges from very pretty to very gross, because it’s sick with something. The balcony faces the two buildings behind my place, with a thin sliver of street viewable, and I’m on the first floor, so the sky is limited, too. But I have a nice little angle on the sky and the trees next door, a little more blue than green, and the weather tends to be much nicer in Oakland than it ever was in SF.

I went to Target. I bought an ugly green lawn chair and a small table. I put both on my balcony, and now my balcony is one of my favorite places. I spend as much time out there as I can, weather permitting. When I get off work, I’ll go and sit and read, snack, tweet about rap music, listen to music, or think through whatever I’m working on at the time.

On the weekends, I’ll take naps outside. I need to buy a straw hat like we had when I was a kid for a proper nap, but I get by. I’ll spend hours outdoors on a Saturday, streaming TV or movies or music to my laptop while I enjoy the weather and sky. I was wiped out for the 4th of July this year, thanks to a fun-but-heavy work event earlier in the week. Low sleep, new scars on three outta four limbs (minor on my arms, less-so on my legs), and sore muscles left me too exhausted to go to anybody’s cookout, so I took it easy. I read outside, I napped outside, I napped inside, and I played video games inside.

My balcony won’t fix my life in and of itself, but I do enjoy it. It’s sacred to me. I avoid working outside, though I will fool around on tumblr or edit something I’ve written. It’s an oasis of not-work, an exclusive club that only lets in things I enjoy. I’d probably spend a little more on the lawn chair if I had to start over from scratch, but it works. It feels good.

I needed to carve out this space for myself. I have workaholic, hermetic, and depressive tendencies. My default state is self-protective–“The prickly outer shell’s genetic, it helps defense mode/But it also helps to fuck up a couple of sacred friendships”–and that isn’t necessarily how I want or need to be. It has its benefits, but it can’t be the whole experience, so I’ve been trying to consciously dismantle it for a while now. The balcony helps. It’s a step forward, rather than marching in place.

Getting there.