I’ve been thinking about the people who shaped my WTF year — not by name, but by the imprint they left on me. They exist in my mind as snapshots, roles, anchors. Mental images of the ones who mattered.
My youngest child was the only reason I could force myself to function each day. Your survival became my mission. You were all blind innocence and sunshine cutting through my fractured sight. I’ll love you always.
My compass was the one who helped me find the version of myself that lived. The light at the end of the tunnel. The first safe place my mind ever recognized. The only person still beside me before I took my unsupervised detour from reality.
My haven was the man who gave me brief escapes when I couldn’t breathe. The last person I texted before my “vacation” from the real world, and the one who reminded me I was loved, that I mattered.
My dear warden watched over me behind the padded walls. She guided me back to calm when I was triggered, reminding me that hope still existed — I just had to look harder.
My roomie, my Mama Bear, kept my reckless mind from wandering into trouble. She was the last voice I heard at night and the first one each morning. She was the mother I never had.
There was an old friend who somehow became my editor‑in‑chief — an unbiased mind who knew nothing of the version of me that self‑destructed in my last life.
My oldest child, my “mini me,” held up a mirror I didn’t want to look into. It wasn’t a good reflection, but it was a necessary one.
My daughter gently revealed just how far I had fallen, and who I had become along the way.
There was the outsider who gave my son what I, at the time, simply could not.
And then there was my Mechanic in Shining Armor — the one who kept rescuing me through two car crashes and seven destroyed tires. My guardian angel who saw the chaos swirling around my life long before I could admit it.
But it wasn’t just the big characters. It was the small, unexpected forces too. The lunch lady who greeted me with a smile and slipped me extras. The cab driver who bought me a Pepsi — my first in two weeks — and brought me home so I could try again. The ambulance crew who loosened my straps, even though they weren’t supposed to, just to make me more comfortable. The EMT who said, “You’ve got this, girl,” as he wheeled me into the No‑Shoelaces Zone. The discharge nurse who scolded me for the “contents” of my purse and then smiled as I tossed the questionable items into the trash.
Every one of you played a role in my strange, spiraling adventure. You each left a fingerprint on my mind — some soft, some sharp, all unforgettable.
Still choosing you, even in the dark,
K.
Read more about the mess I’ve been trying to survive, →
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 