Therapy Bits

This poem is written in response to this weeks poetics at the d-verse poets pub!

This is a poem about it being two years since I’ve been an inpatient on the psych ward!

Two years out,
I carry the number like a warm stone in my pocket—
2,
the shape of a path that bends but does not break,
a reminder that healing is not a straight line
but a crooked, stubborn, beautiful curve.

I wake up now without the ceiling pressing in,
without the hallway clocks ticking too loudly,
without the weight of my own breath
threatening to collapse the day.
And that—
that is something I earned.

There were mornings back then
when standing up felt like rebellion,
when hope was a language
I did not yet know how to speak.
But still, I whispered it.
Still, I stayed.

Two years out,
I look at myself like a survivor
learning their own name again—
slowly, gently,
with awe.

I am proud of this distance,
of the footsteps I kept placing
even when they hurt,
even when they felt pointless,
even when the world was a dim lamp
and I was the smallest flicker.

But here I am—
2 years out,
alive,
louder than I was,
softer where it matters,
and carrying a strength
I once thought belonged only
to other people.

I’m still healing,
yes—
but I’m here.
And that is a victory
I refuse
to whisper.