In college in D.C., my Russianness no longer made me a curiosity. But it was actually after college that I hit the low point of my social well-being, when I was preparing to move to Los Angeles for graduate school.

It was 2009, the depths of the Great Recession, and I had suffered a string of unrelated misfortunes. Within a few-month span, I was laid off from my job, forced to move from my apartment, and dumped by my boyfriend of nearly two years.

Immediately after, I had a fling with a guy whom I wooed with lines such as, “What’s the point of anything if everything in life gets ruined anyway?” He, in turn, dumped me for “being an Eeyore.” Then, two of my best friends left Washington to further their careers—one headed to Massachusetts and the other to Baghdad. I, meanwhile, packed up my Nissan Versa and drove across the country by myself to go to school in a city where I knew no one.

L.A. is a very expensive place to be both friendless and penniless. I was staying at a second cousin’s house, and though I am grateful for her generosity, I have no idea where she disappeared to while I was there. Shortly after I arrived, she stopped coming home after work and stopped answering my calls and texts. She also stopped paying her gas bill.

After several “PAST DUE” notices, the stove and hot water were shut off. I switched to taking cold showers and eating nothing but yogurt. I finally found a cheap group house on Craigslist, through a process that can feel a bit like an ancient mating ritual, in which a woman meets a man for the first time and then immediately moves into his house and begins cleaning it. I had settled on this house because it was in a good area, it had free parking, and the people there didn’t seem as insane as everyone else I had met so far. On moving day, I was dragging my belongings into my room when I accidentally let out the house’s golden retriever.

Dogs are among the many things I’m highly allergic to. I’ve never had to handle a dog or call one or even touch one. There was no one else home. I pleaded with the dog to go back inside for what seemed like hours. In the middle of the struggle, I realized my new housemates had not cared enough to try to be home on the day I was moving in, or to answer their phones or check in to see how it was going. I also had no one—not one single person—to call for help.

I finally got the dog inside. Then I sat down on the curb between my two boxes of wool sweater dresses, buried my face in my hands, and sobbed.