The day I didn’t fit in

This is the actual post from my blog the day I was terminated from a high end treatment center.

I feel scared, confused, and disposable. I want to believe that what happened today is a test to see how much I’ve grown. I want to believe things are meant. No what ifs, only what is. I feel like I’m on a balance beam, wind trying to shake me but I’m holding on tightly, not with my hands but only my stance. My legs are frozen, numb, in shock and I hope that I feel them soon. I trust that they will propel me forward. I feel that if I don’t move forward, I am nothing. I am a lie, a puppet, a pumped out product with a generic label stamped on my forehead. The thought makes me feel nauseous and cheap. I left the house because I just had to go. Anywhere. I got on my motorcycle even though there is a chance of rain. Let it rain. Let it pour. It will make me feel alive. I need that tonight. I came to the nearest wifi coffee shop. I feel safe here, like it’s the home base tree. I parked in a car space, then got back on my bike and rode up the sidewalk and parked right in front. Someone yelled “Fuck yeah”. It made my heart smile. I felt like Batman inside my flat black helmet. I don’t care. Give me a fucking ticket. This is me. I am here. Armed only with a computer stained with palm marks, I find a seat in the corner. Then I shrink. I’ve been here before, in this state of mind, one filled with desperation, a slippery well. My sweatshirt tightens and I feel dehydrated like I did years ago when I was writing screenplays in coffee shops all day. I take a sip of my warm coffee, wanting to rip out of my skin because this is a coffin and I can’t do it again. I can’t. I won’t. This place is fucking lonely and miserable, a hamster wheel. Now I question everything. Maybe I’m spinning on one already and don’t know it. Suddenly I am concerned about the rain, worried I’m going to get a ticket. I look down at my helmet and realize it’s just a helmet. Then I look up to see that I got a note on this post. One note from a follower on my blog. It says You are not alone. These four words snap me back, reminding me it’s different this time. There is no What ifs because I am not writing this to be someone. Only What is. I am writing this as someone. That is the difference. Suddenly I can feel my legs. They feel strong like the steel in my boots.

• Angry