One hour, one step.

I find it strange how one single hour can seem to hang over us, lurking around every corner just waiting to jump out and ruin your very good last day before vacation. Sometimes admitting that you need help is the hardest part of making a change. I seem to have lost myself a while back and I am on a mission to find me. Today that hour hit me like a ton of bricks. As I sat there wondering why at 30 years old I could feel so lost I could feel her eyes burning a hole in me and her hand writing furiously. Notes on my body language and the way I became so closed off and shut down at the mention of something so small. Maybe it was my suspicious brain playing tricks on me. As the hour drew to a close I wondered about what judgments she had made about me. What did she think she knew about me that I don’t already know?

The second hour seemed to go a bit more smoothly. As I stared at the clock with a bad case of verbal diarrhea I felt lighter with each word and sentence I put together. As much as I wish I could write all about what I learned about myself during those hours I am not fully ready to share the details. I take notes and keep them with me to help remind myself that I am capable of getting through this. I am not a light switch. I cannot turn off my emotions or dim my hurt simply because I don’t feel like dealing with it. I can hear her voice echoing in my weak moments, “you are not broken, you were knocked off your path and the first step is always forward.”

Sometimes when you get knocked off your path you land in a ditch. You can’t always see out of the ditch but when you look up you can see a ray of light sneaking through the trees. The backlight blocks the face of the outstretched arm and you can’t make out who it is but it all seems to make sense- you are not alone. One step forward. One foot at a time.

Breathe, just fucking breathe.