If therapy is a person, who’s your therapy?

Scanning letters in my drawer, then I smiled, remembering who the sender was.

Mortifying chaos dies when discomfort is told in a safe home…

When will all these panic attacks at any time of the day pop like bubbles? Yes, I am scared, but when will this dread of scenarios allow me to live like a little kid again? I want to play with my imaginations inside a dollhouse without hearing words of disapproval; I want to speak without being told dogmatic; I want to explore for myself without being perceived as a guinea pig.

It’s already 3:45 AM, yet I am still shivering, listening to my comfort 8-minute song, blowing the fire, and wishing it wouldn’t end. I actually don’t want to stay where I am now, but all of a sudden, I am starting to have fun under the beaming lights of someone’s presence…

Only music had sacrificed its lyrics to pause my blues; I didn’t know a person could stop it entirely.

This person I am referring to knows the right words to say, hitting the core of my terrible survival kit. He wasn’t only a portion but a whole part of my curtain — showing me a ray of sunshine to live my life comfortably.

“You don’t need a total clean mind to put you together…just a safe haven to totally crash, and that’s in my arms.”

I am a mess, but he surprisingly turned me into a gorgeous, jumbled woman. He handed me a flashlight to search for my 7-year-old letter for my 20-year-old self. We both found it and read while blissfully connecting into his proud eyes.

“You made it.”

I am the sender of my comforting letters, and he was sent to me at the most convenient time to grow in the saddest part of me.

If you are feeling down and you cannot find a fellow feeling within you — maybe a friend, a family member, or a stranger is keeping a solace in their pocket that is intended to be given to you.