So, you relapsed, huh? You hate yourself for it, don’t you? You think you’re a failure, that your worthless and incapable of recovery, right? You’ve probably got tears streaming down your face as you let your mind torture yourself a little more because you think you deserve the added pain, but you and I both know deep down that you do NOT deserve the added insults. I’m not here to preach about how it gets better, and everything happens for a reason. How could emotional agony happen for a reason? No reason is a good reason for someone to be in so much pain. Period. I’m not here to scrape you off the ground, cover your wounds and send you on your way. How many times have people done that for you and you end up falling back down before you even reach the end of the street? One too many.
I am here to sit with you for as long as you need. I’m here to listen. Tell me, where did you get that scar above your left eye? How many times did you fail at riding your big girl bike before you finally mastered it? What do you listen to when you are sad? Tell me everything. Talk, talk, talk, talk. I don’t mind. What was it like growing up watching your parents fight and hit each other? How did you feel when that boy pushed you down in 4th grade and called you names? Tell me where it hurts. Let’s count your scars etched into your skin. Each one of them are proof that you survived a battle. You got 83 scars? That’s 83 battles in which you lived to see the next day. How many panic attacks did you have in school today? Was it hard? What helps you calm down and breathe again? Every time you talk yourself out of an attack, is one more time in which you were your own hero.
How many times did you write that last goodbye letter? Did your hands shake and did your tears smear your words? Did you tell anyone that you were going to end it all? Were you happy when you woke up the next morning? Or did you instantly want to try again the next chance you got? I’m all ears. I won’t judge you, or think you’re crazy. If it helps, I’ll just sit there silently and won’t breathe a word. Tell me, what does it feel like when you think that killing yourself is the only option left? Does taking your last breath scare you enough to want to hang on another day? Or does your body fill with a dark relief that within the next seconds, hours, weeks or days you’ll finally be free of your pain? I’m here. You are not alone. Please, don’t kill yourself tonight.
I’ve been where you are. I am where you are. You are not weak, you are the strongest little soldier I have ever seen. How tiring it must be to carry these wounds and stories around with you. How sickening it must be to see how people judge you before even knowing what you’ve endured. How devastating it must be to relapse after being clean for nearly a year — It’s okay. How many times did you fall when you were learning to walk? How many times did you fail when you tried to learn to whistle? Or, how long did it take you to learn to write in cursive? Recovery is the same exact thing. So, you relapsed. You fell flat on your face. You spit saliva in your best friend’s face because you sucked at whistling. You wrote sloppy for weeks or even months until you finally learned to curve your letters properly. It’s okay. You tried. You’re trying and that is ALL that matters, sweetie. I’m here and I still love you. Don’t give up just yet. Your break through is coming.