That’s how long it’s been since the first pill hit my bloodstream.
That’s how long it’s been since my body slouched and conformed to that comfy leather couch in that dimly lit room filled with books and inspirational messages.
It’s been one week since I admitted I was broken. Just one measly week.
But in my mind, the way I think, it’s been “ONE DAMNED WEEK ALREADY! WHY AREN’T YOU FEELING BETTER YOU WEAK MOTHERFUCKER?”
My mind has been racing, running like a postal worker trying to escape the clutches of a rabid dog. Like the mailman, my mind just wants to deliver the mail and get on with its life. But there is something waiting, lurking. Something standing in the way. Something more scary than gnarled teeth and a foaming mouth. Something more terrifying than deep growl and a vicious bark. Something so limiting, imprisoning, and so very encompassing it sucks the very air out of my lungs before I can even breathe it in.
That something is me.
As much as I hate to admit it, I am the one standing in the way. At the very core, it’s me who is responsible for my own happiness. I have to be willing and able to accept the help. I need to ditch the skepticism, the rolling eyes, the doubtful thoughts.
I need to open my mind.
And that folks, will be the hardest thing for me. I have to dig deep. I have to unlock doors and open windows that have been shut, sealed, and locked for years and years.
So, as I sit here a few hours away from my next therapy appointment, I realize that I, myself, hold the key. I just have to figure out where I left the keychain in the first place.