The Moment the Story Broke

I used to believe that if I worked hard enough, I could fix everything.

That strong people didn’t ask for help.

That I simply had to endure.

Night

I am lying in my bed. It’s 3 a.m. All the windows and doors are closed – it is so quiet that all I can hear is the uneven beating of my heart and the steady rhythm of my breathing.

I’m no longer trying to fall asleep. I’m pretty sure I can’t. The serene kingdom of Morpheus has no place for my fractured mind – all the doors are locked, every path is gone.

I feel like I have nowhere to be, nowhere to go – neither on this planet nor on the other side.

The room is dark, but I can still make out the outline of the bookshelf filled with unread books, the closet with clothes scattered around it, and the piano I haven’t touched for months.

Grey shadows and hazy shapes seem to fill the room. No – not the room. My mind.

They crawl into the corners to hide from sight. They bleed into one another, trying to blend in. To adjust. To fit in. To be normal.

But they can’t become anything other than what they truly are – just colorless, voiceless shapes. Without meaning, desire, or hope.

I don’t feel sad or devastated. I haven’t even cried for weeks.

Only one thought remains:

I am no longer interested in life, so I don’t want to live anymore.

At 3 a.m., that story finally broke.

Next morning (or rather, afternoon)

I am lying on my sister’s bed. She is working at the desk beside me. My face is buried in the blanket. It smells like calmness and comfort. 

I swallow the unbearable lump in my throat, take a deep breath, and say: 

“I think I need to see a therapist.”

At long last, my tears find their way to the surface. I break down crying. Saltwater pours down my cheeks, soaking everything around me. 

And yet, it feels like relief.

Like strength.

Like the beginning of a battle.

She gently pats my back and tells me it’s okay, that everything will be alright.

Following months (or rather, years)

I’m sitting across from a woman in a white coat. She is typing something important on her laptop.

I know she notices not only what I say, but everything beyond my words.

Heavy breathing.

Tears welling in my eyes.

Short, bitten nails.

Trembling voice.

She hands me a prescription, a page of breathing techniques, and a list of recommended books.

I'm not afraid anymore. I know – I can do this. 

The room is bright and quiet.

My journey here was anything but straightforward.

I stumbled, hid, and kept losing my way.

I trembled. I cried.

A lot. 

But here I am.

I made it to a place along my journey where I can breathe, learn, and think.

I leave the office and go to the nearest shop to buy my favorite ice cream. I smile at the warm summer sun, and my smile reaches a stranger passing by.

I don’t know what battle he is fighting. Whether the war is around him or inside him. But I know he can make it through. 

And so can I.