Therapy Bits

I don’t call it healing.
I call it surviving—
waking up with a chest that still remembers
the weight of every night it thought
would be the last.

Some days I am nothing but scar tissue,
a body patched together with silence,
a mind that won’t stop replaying
the scenes I beg it to forget.
And yet—
I breathe.
Even when it feels like I shouldn’t.

The world loves tidy stories,
but there’s nothing tidy about this:
blood that never quite washes out,
grief that cracks open in grocery aisles,
the sudden tremor of a song that knows too much.

I’ve carved a creed from the rubble:
I don’t have to be whole to be alive.
I don’t have to be unscarred to be worthy.
I don’t have to smile to prove
I am still here.

Survival is ugly.
But it’s mine.

FOWC With Fandango — Creed – Facts, Fictions & Fantasies