Lost. That’s everything I felt the first month. I was covered in my own puke and shit and piss and all that. Gross but it’s necessary. Every day is a battle. Against myself and the world. Demons rose against my very purpose every second of my days. I couldn’t eat, it was all a lie. The idea that I could possibly die from the torture of my very making keeps getting back to me and I almost give up. I cried every other moment, not because I could but out of shear desperation and the onslaught of my struggles.
The second month was easier but I can’t say easy. I was awake and conscious more often than not. I ate more than I was mast month. I knew several of the nurses and regularly saw my therapist. He is a tough one, he doesn’t lie, nor does he smooth his words. He speaks as it is. But I like that. The hit of his words have served their purpose so far. I realize I am my own enemy. I decide. And I chose to indulge. Mama comes to see me every week. She’s sweet and at least she’s crying less every passing day.
Freedom. That’s all I feel when I step out in my fourth month. I don’t mean freedom from the centre. Not at all. I am free from my own chains. The demons have learnt to shut up because I am in control. And on occasion when they do, a simple NO works.
Part of my lessons showed me that most of us really just need love and hugs and cuddles. We long for acceptance and recognition. The problem can only be solved from it’s root. And we all play a role. I bought, someone sold, someone planted and another owns. It’s a series of responsibility and I have learnt to take mine.
About the Author
