Usually, I would apologize for my tardiness and promise future entries, perhaps even in a list with bullets. But really, I just want to forget that month entirely.
Pieces of it are missing from my memory. I suppose that's for the best. There are some things that are not worth holding on to. I mourn my lapses in time from depression and pain and disordered sleep - they make me trip and stumble until they're all one and the same. But, really, it's for the best that I can't remember much leading up to my need to go to the Emergency Room to plead for psychiatric help, please, help of any kind, please.
I wasn't admitted. Sure, they admitted that I need help and that I wasn't healthy, but they couldn't keep me unless I physically hurt myself or someone else. Or, if I told them the precise ways in which I would do these things. They can only help you if you have already planned your way out - planning to get healthy is not in their jurisdiction, it would seem.
I got some referrals. I took a few days off of work. I cried for a week in lieu of eating or sleeping. I saw some doctors. I got some medicine.
And a friend visited. I showed her around this city of mine. This city that felt throttled between the Rockies and the Pacific. This city that felt like its going to slip off of the edge of the country. We explored it together, though, and she made me feel a little less lost.
And then I got some flowers from a friend.
Flowers! From a friend! Who lives on the other side of the country! I didn't know you could do that. I didn't know I could get that. Flowers! How do we have flowers at this time of year, even inside? I wish I had a proper vase for them, or a glass pitcher, even. They make me smile every day.
With help, I'm slowly picking up the pieces of my life again. The ones that are worth holding on to.
