These thoughts, my thoughts,

I cannot stop them.

Constantly running,

Endlessly churning,

Continuously eating away

At my sanity.

Always contemplating my strength

To continue living my life

Trapped inside my brain.

 

I cannot take it anymore;

I simply cannot.

These thoughts, my thoughts.

I know how to end them,

I so badly want to cease

Their existence,

My existence.

It would be so easy,

The opportunity so close.

Too close.

 

A knock, the knock.

Please don’t, the shame.

Please do, I need saving.

A short drive,

There it is…

Emergency Room Entrance.

 

Questions.

So many questions

I do not know the answers to.

For thirty hours

I sit in isolation,

Under blinding lights,

Waiting for somewhere, anywhere,

To take me in.

Please, take me in.

 

A call, the call.

Someplace finally wants me.

265 miles away,

Four-and-a-half hours away.

I do not care,

Just take me.

Help me.

Please.

 

I enter a place,

A peculiar place,

Of order and safety;

So unbearably terrifying

Yet so pleasantly comforting.

 

The staff, the patients,

They do not comply

With the tales, rumors.

The staff,

They are nice,

They care.

The patients,

They are normal.

They are people,

Just like me.

Exactly like me.

 

I meet a man, a quiet man.

The doctor.

His face is aged,

His beard graying,

His movements slow and gentle.

He has done this a time or two.

 

He does not shun,

He does not question.

He hears my thoughts,

Sees my panic, my tears.

He does not fear,

He does not flinch.

He listens.

Just listens.

 

Trial and error,

More error than progress.

For twenty days

He tests, I ingest,

They poke, we regroup;

All in the name of treatment.

But somehow I am finding me

Buried beneath the wreckage

Of these thoughts, my thoughts.

 

Day twenty-one,

Such a menacingly exciting day.

I no longer belong in the cautious home

I have come so accustomed to needing.

The man, the doctor,

He has made me anew.

We have found me.

I have found strength.

 

My troubles are not over,

They are nowhere near over.

Recovery is a journey,

Not a destination.

A journey that will

Tempt me, tease me,

Taunt me, hurt me.

But from this journey,

With a gentle push,

A helping hand,

From that soft-spoken man,

I have gained insight.

My calling.

 

To help people, all people,

It is a rewarding experience.

But to help people,

People like me,

Suffering from illnesses

So greatly misunderstood,

That is an honor I will achieve.

I will so that I, too, may one day

Become the soft-spoken [wo]man

That I once so badly needed to listen.

Just listen.