I walk into my assigned room after enjoying the party that’s going on in the cafeteria, a party for the patients that are graduating from rehab tomorrow. I sit at my desk and look around at the plain almond colored walls with a smirk. I open the drawer under the desk and take out a bombay brown leather journal. I run my hand over the front and smile.
I remember after the first week of being here, my therapist gave me this journal when I was hesitant to tell her certain things about my life. Since then, I have written all that I have been through and how I felt about it. It also has the tips building self-confidence, finding the best option to deal with a situation, and meditation. I place my journal on the top of the desk and grab the pen from the holder on the edge of the desk.
I look at the pen, remembering how it was a little hard to adjust. It's design was strange, but now I understand why. The first time I asked for a pen and the nurse brought the box labeled "Prison Pens", I wanted to burst into tears and scream. I was a prisoner, but not because I had done something wrong. I had been hurt, and I was being punished? I give a faint smile to the bendable clear plastic and "stab proof" tip, then open my journal to a fresh page.
I start, “Today is the day! Well, tomorrow is the actual day. I'm finally out of here. I wanted to make my last entry really count, because I wanted to be able to read this, as future me.” I stop and look at what I have written so far.
Seeing how good it is so far, I continue, “I never want to forget what I learned and how I felt at this moment. My parents don't even have half the stuff I learned here to help them emotionally deal. I actually feel a little ahead of the game, well, almost. I woke up this morning excited, rolled off my wooden based bed with it's noisy, waterproof, three inch foam thingy that was sufficing as mattress, man, I'm ready to be back in my own bed. Oh yeah, I was getting to a point….I was excited. That lasted about half the morning, then one of my new friends asked me if I was scared at all. I said, “no, I'm ready to get out of here.” My friend smirked at me, which I had grown accustomed to, she was a long term patient with a chip on her shoulder. What she said next caused me to question my earlier feeling of security that I would be fine. She said, “Sure, you say that, but out there, there's no safe hiding place. The doors don't hold out the world and you can't just come to a counselor every time you become anxious.”
I know to take what she said lightly, to an extent, but it did make me a bit less confident.”
A heavy huff escapes my parted lips as I continue to scribble, “I want to be the best person I can for me. I don't want to care what others think. I know I took the classes and learned the “coping skills”, now I just had to walk with my head up. I had to learn to do this for real now. I know I can, it is a little scary though. Will I be treated differently by my family? Will I be able to get past how they went about leaving me here, even though I have since come to see it was a good thing? I don't know. I guess I'm going find out.” I put the pen down and look at my thoughts.
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I find myself leaning back in the chair and bobbing my head to the music that’s flowing from the cafeteria. The party started thirty minutes ago and I am in here instead of out there celebrating.
