Visiting the Past

Walking into a familiar place, but as a new person, parts of your story are brought back. I walked into this environment and was greeted by all the shame that I felt the first time I walked in, and was comforted by all the accomplishment I felt the last time I had walked out that door.

Down the halls I am gawked at by those characters I would try to write about, I would try to relate to, I would try to sit with and be in communion with. I am no better of a specimen, but I believed that we did not speak the same language. There were a few characters I would share moments with. We would escape our own heads and meet in the middle. Having this moment would keep us alive, keep us relating. We all knew we were separate, but in this room full animals from different habitats, we tried to make it work.

Before we knew it, we made it work. The reality of our stories being so different never stopped us from seeing what we had in common. Labels like “crazy” were tacked on with weak adhesive, we took the labels off each other and helped look for new ones, better ones, accurate labels, that represent where we are going and not looking at where we came from. You never know the sweet relief of hearing “I’m okay," until you’re on the edge of your seat rooting for your peer to simply make it.

Labels are not important. We were all humans, and even if we acted like different creatures. If I saw something different, it was simply delusion. Although our diagnosis was different, that is what brought us together, and together we remained.

In these rooms, we were able to step outside of our labyrinth and meet others in the middle. There were times where that is all I needed. You wouldn’t believe how healing that is. It’s the cool breeze on a hot summers day, it’s warm blanket after being in the winter tundra. Being able to be understood, I did not think I would find that. Because I’m not crazy, I’m not sick, I’m not broken. Neither are you. Sometimes, to get through this life, we just need a tight hug of understanding, a tool box of coping skills, and safe place to rest our head when we get tired.

The first time I walked through that door I never understood that I would find all of those things. How could I? All I understood was fighting off the demons of my mind with a broomstick, and I didn’t have the ability to pause for a second and see that I was not an army of one, rather just the leading man. Taking those tools, with the support I found, I was able to see through new eyes.

Oh, the comfort I found in those rooms. Today I was reminded where I have been. Sometimes the scars are not enough, you have to see those faces that helped you. Scars are not enough because they only include you. I hope they needed it too, the healing power of a hug. There's a possibility they needed to see that progress, they needed to see that what they are doing works. I am not healed. But I’m better than I was. There is scar tissue where there used to be holes. Progress, there is no perfection.

I walked out that door again today, the lingerings of that comfort, and for the first time in a long time I hung my head high, maybe I am making it. Maybe this new person, who I did not know I could be, is the one making it.