The Floor

I’ve worn a groove in the floor. Pacing back and forth. Trying to figure a way out. Deciding among the lesser of many evils.

It’s not something most of my friends know. It’s not something I’m proud of. It’s not something I bring up in polite conversation.

It is something that seems like it happened to someone else, a lifetime ago. But every once in a while, something happens and makes me remember. Like fingers running over an old scar.

I can still feel it if I am very quiet. It is a tactile memory. More like putting together bits of a smashed vase than the pretty movie-like happy memories of my life.

The sensation of being at the bottom of a pit and wishing, praying, for someone to throw dirt over the top.

Some people find Jesus, good meds, great therapists. For me, it was a combination of things, but mostly a good therapist teaching me to put one foot in front of the other. Several months later, life came back into focus. Bit by bit.

This is not the case for about a half a million people a year, including some incredible human beings I have been lucky enough to call my friends.

I’m so grateful for the magical life I have. This is a gift that I do not take for granted.

But, I will never forget the path that brought me here.

I think that salvation starts by being willing and able to have these conversations. To stop pretending that how we present ourselves on the outside has anything to do with how we feel on the inside. To be able to ask for help without fear of judgement. And for all of us to realize that sometimes even all of  that is not enough.

The truth is that you cannot save anyone. You can only hope that they learn to stop wishing for someone to cover the hole, and start praying for someone to reach their hand in.

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