Learning to Stay

I’ve been told to take pills
for as long as I can remember.

Because I was sick.

For years, I resisted.
I’d take them,
stop them,
start again.

That became my normal.

Until the day
my life split in two.

I still remember everything.

The exact moment.
The exact time.
The clothes I was wearing.
The dinner waiting on the stove.

Trauma has a cruel way
of preserving the smallest details.

As I write this,
I realise—

I’ve survived this feeling before.

For the first time in my life,
I take the pills without resentment.

Not because they erase the grief.

Not because they can give me back
what I’ve lost.

But because they quiet the noise
long enough
for me to survive another day.

There are mornings
when smiling feels like betrayal.

When laughter catches in my throat.

When happiness feels like something
I no longer deserve.

People saw me break.

And they were right.

I did.

Without my medication.

The thing I spent years fighting
became the thing
that kept me alive.

Healing isn’t always dramatic.

Sometimes
it’s a glass of water.

A tablet.

A deep breath.

Getting out of bed.

Choosing tomorrow
one ordinary day at a time.

I don’t know
when peace will find me.

But for the first time,

I believe

it will.

Until then,

I’m learning to stay.