The plane ride was surreal, my mind was foggy, filled with smoke from grieving my last cigarette.
My heart pounded it's way through the door of the treatment center,
The sun blinded me as it reminded me of all the hope, dreams, and the future I had lost before.
That treatment center was like a dream.
The counselors and therapies heaved me up from the grave I had buried myself in and filled it with flowers.
It hadn't always been this way.
A total of eight months in hospitals and treatment.
Some hospitals were a truth or dare, but the dare is to tell your truth and you can only hope that their solution won't be a vial of pills that you end up addicted to.
Some other treatment centers,
Were a big room with no windows,
Literally.
We were trapped in the walls of our despair, and the walls of the center that resembled ripped jeans and spilled drinks did not help.
It hadn't always been this way.
I was so familiar with concealing the hurt within myself that life as I knew it was an upstream river of denial.
I convinced myself that it were normal to spend nights bathing in my trauma and to dry off with a towel woven in blades.
To the untrained ear my cries sounded an empty cup that had no place to be filled.
I found myself learning more survival skills than mathematics but there's so little time a house can survive if it lacks supports.
My worst moments brought me to treatment.
It will never be like this again.