Trigger warning: This post contains descriptions of suicidal ideation.

Six years ago, on a freezing cold morning in Seoul, I made two major decisions. The first was that I wasn’t going to kill myself. And, since I figured I wouldn’t be dying any time soon, I thought I might also try to get myself out of the $25,000 in credit card debt I had amassed.

For roughly two years prior, I was mired in a stagnant, unrelenting depression. My friends and family back home assumed I was fine; I was working abroad, having new and exciting experiences, living with my first boyfriend, enjoying my life by all outward appearances. In reality, I rarely left my apartment. I had some part-time work, but often made excuses and didn’t show up. On the rare occasions I tried to be social, I’d end up feeling lonelier than when I was holed up in my dark bedroom. My only tether to the world was my boyfriend, who I both relied on heavily and deeply resented for allowing me to exist.

I also had credit cards.

Day after day, I’d follow the same routine. I’d wake up, brew a strong pot of coffee, open my laptop, and shop online. I’d spend hours browsing for different things to buy; clothes I’d never wear, household items I didn’t need, gifts for absolutely no one in particular.

Once my purchases were made and those confirmation emails landed in my inbox, I compulsively tracked my orders. When boxes arrived at the house, I actually felt something—happiness? Satisfaction? Pride for a job well done? Whatever it was, it was a welcome change from the emotional rigor mortis I felt the other 99 percent of the time. I was addicted to that feeling. Eventually, I didn’t even pause long enough to open the boxes I’d received before rushing back to my computer to make another purchase, nothingness nipping at my heels.

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