Six months ago, my life felt out of control.
Four months ago, I was still in partial hospitalization.
A month and a half ago, I was discharged with treatment plans and hope.
Today I realized that my story was still being written, in the choices I make, in the meds I take, in the therapy I attend even when it feels too hard. I am still terrified every day, waiting for the floor of sanity to crumble beneath me.
Who I am: anonymous, older than you would think, a lawyer, a wife, a friend. I’m liberal, I’m lost, I quote bits of songs to myself when I see myself.
Maybe someday I’ll find the answers.