LOVE and LOST

Getting Help

I know I need a hand to hold,

a place to speak what I’ve long controlled

yet asking feels like standing bare,

with every wound exposed to air.

So I wrestle silence, fear, and pride,

with aching truths I try to hide

because sometimes the hardest step to take

is reaching out

while quietly starting to break.

-Antidepressant

Each morning,

I hold a small pill in my hand

and think about how strange it is

that something so small can carry the weight

of a mind that has been fighting itself

for far too long.

At first, it felt like surrender

an admission

that I could not pull myself

out of the darkness alone,

that willpower was not enough

to quiet the heaviness living inside me.

I wrestled shame in silence,

wondered if needing help made me weak,

if healing that came in a bottle counted less

than healing found some other way.

But survival does not care

what shape help takes

whether it comes through words,

through time, through therapy, through love,

or through a little tablet

taken with trembling hope

and a glass of water.

And slowly not overnight, not like magic,

but slowly the world began to soften.

The fog grew thinner.

Breathing felt lighter.

The sharp edges of sadness

lost some of their bite.

I still have hard days.

I still carry scars no medicine can erase.

But now I carry something else too

the quiet understanding that choosing help

is its own kind of strength,

and sometimes healing begins

with simply deciding

you deserve to feel better.

-Scared

I’m afraid to ask for help,

afraid of what I’ll have to say

that once the truth is spoken out,

there’ll be no hiding it away.

So I carry what feels unbearable,

quietly, all by myself

wanting healing,

fearing healing,

standing between pain

and the courage to reach for help.

-Honesty

I sat with words

I never thought I’d say

the kind I buried deep,

the kind that kept me awake,

the kind that hurt too much

to speak out loud.

At first, silence filled the room.

Fear sat heavy in my chest.

How do you explain

a sadness that has no shape,

or pain that has lived inside you so long

it starts to feel like part of who you are?

How do you name

the thoughts you hide,

the wounds no one sees,

the nights that feel endless,

the exhaustion that sleep

never seems to fix?

But slowly, piece by piece,

truth began to leave my lips

raw, shaking, imperfect and somehow,

speaking it

made it feel less lonely.

Not smaller.

Not gone. But shared. Heard.

Held in a space where I did

not have to pretend

I was okay.

And maybe that is where healing starts

not in having all the answers,

but in finally being honest

about how much you’ve been carrying

alone.