The day before I was released from inpatient, the fourth time in five years. My therapist had given my a survey on reasons that I had for not killing myself. The sweetest therapist I think I've ever had. So caring. Actually listened.
She asked me some questions and I half-heartedly answered. My mind was almost entirely elsewhere. Then came the question. The one that didn't get answered. Wondering why I wasn't responding, she looked over. My hair had been my protection, but the silence screamed louder. She pulled back my hair. My face had become a waterfall. My shirt and my jeans were soaked.
"My goodness, what's wrong dear?"
sniff. pause. sob. "What if I go back. and nothing is different?"
We did talk. But it ended as it always did. Because the meetings. The other places she had to be. That is what never ended.

I'm so thankful that things really are different. Things are not the same as they were before. But... Sometimes I wonder. When I'm feeling that way, now. Who is going to be the one to pull back my hair and say "My goodness, what's wrong dear?"

I know. I know... Closed mouths don't get fed.

But, I just don't understand. Why does this memory makes me so sad?