Dear Survivor,
Sometimes, I still feel the cold of that hospital room – the thin blanket that never seemed enough, the invasive hum of the machines. My body had become a stranger, each breath feeling heavier than the last. That day everything seemed to fade toward a deep, bottomless darkness.
The coma swallowed me for 5 days. When I clawed my way back, it wasn’t into a welcoming sunrise. Nurses’ hushed whispers and the sterile scent of disinfectant told me this was not a gentle awakening. My mind raced, a chaotic symphony of fear and confusion. The world had moved on without me, leaving only questions behind.
They explained everything then. All it took was 90 of those little white pills to show me the gates of Hell. But I was focused solely on the ache in my chest, a heaviness I couldn’t name. It wasn’t physical pain; it was a profound sadness, a sense of something crucial being lost. Then, the words that would change everything: “psych ward.”
The term felt like a lead weight dropped in my stomach. The faces around me wore practiced expressions of pity. Suddenly, my shattered mind wasn’t the greatest source of my pain. I’d gone from a hospital bed to a locked ward, and I had never felt so lost, yet so aware.
It was there, among strangers all battling their own internal wars, that I had to face the truth. This wasn’t a joke. And I couldn’t leave. My spirit, my sense of self – those were the pieces that needed desperate mending. Those days are a blur now, a mix of tear-soaked pillows and forced medication. But slowly, a stubborn flicker of will ignited within me.
I realized that my journey wasn’t about fighting the sadness, but learning to live alongside it. The ache would remain, a testament to what I’d lost and what I’d survived. But loss could not have the final word. Therapy sessions brought words to the chaos, each breakthrough like finding a piece of driftwood in a swirling sea.
Living wasn’t just about breathing anymore. It meant carving out space for hope, however small. It meant finding something to cling to – the kindness of a nurse, the warmth of the sun on my face, the unwavering support of those who never stopped believing in me.
And one day, a day I barely dared hope for, came the word “discharge.” The world outside those walls felt bright and overwhelming. It was not an end, but the beginning of another chapter – a harder one, perhaps, but a chapter I was now choosing to write.
The sadness never fully leaves. Some days it rears its head like an old, unwelcome visitor. Yet, now I’m armed with the tools I learned in those stark rooms, in the hushed support groups. I’ve learned that healing isn’t linear, but an ongoing dance. Two steps forward, one step back – but always moving.
If you’re reading this, and your world is tinged with a sorrow that seems to drown out anything else, please know this: You are not alone. There is strength within you, even if all you can do today is breathe. Reach for the hand extended towards you – mine is here as well. And always remember, no matter how bad your life may seem, your story definitely isn’t over yet! Neither is mine. I’ll continue writing these beautiful chapters until the day the big man upstairs, finally decides it’s time for me to come home!
With strength and hope,