Today was my first day back at work after a three-week break to recover from a mental health breakdown — or an “episode,” or a “condition,” or whatever polite name we give the darkness when we don’t want to scare anyone.

Let’s just call it what it was:

 I fell apart.

 And now I’m piecing myself back together.

My doctor phoned yesterday.

 She assured me it was normal to feel afraid.

 She adjusted my medication schedule and told me exactly when to take it.

I listened.

Which is probably how I ended up telling my wife things like:

• “Grasshoppers are attacking our lawn.”
• “When is the maid coming?” (We don’t have one.)
• “The earth’s gravity has doubled because of a comet hovering beneath us.”

Apparently, taking my night-time medication in the daytime turns me into a confused astrophysicist with a vivid imagination.

I went to bed early (I think?), woke up at 4 AM, startled by my alarm clock — the first I’ve heard in weeks — and stumbled into the kitchen where my wife gently helped me get ready. I was still in “sick-leave mode,” so she practically aimed me at the car, pressed the GPS button, and sent me off like a parcel.

The next thing I remember?

 Arriving at work.

Victory.

And you know what?

 They welcomed me back.

 Truly welcomed me.

There were hugs.

 Gifts.

 A little platter of treats.

 Even a motivational running T-shirt because they know I’m a runner.

 It warmed me in a way medication never could.

Then came emails. Chats. Piles of messages.

 But step by step, I got through them.

At lunch, I took the next round of meds — this time with food, like my doctor insisted.

Two hours later, I started the drive home.

Let’s just say… things got interesting.

The GPS tried to guide me home.

 “Make a U-turn,” it kept saying.
 “Make a U-turn.”
 “Make a U-turn.”

And then I realized I had driven straight to our old house.

The one we don’t live in anymore.

The GPS was having a meltdown.

 My brain was floating somewhere above the dashboard.

 And all I could think was:

“Ah well. At least I made it through Day One.”

Now I’m home — for real this time.

 Eating crisps.

 Talking to you.

 And listening to the dog fart under the table, looking very pleased with himself.

And you know what?

Today was a win.

Not because it was perfect.

 Not because it was easy.

 But because I did it.

And tomorrow?

 I’ll try again.