According To My Therapist

Part 1: My Release

For the past two months, my place of residence, my home, had been a stark, grey, one-story prison. Now, you might be thinking I committed a murder or a series of stupid drink-driving offences, but no, I am not insane. My crime was having a predisposition to mental illness, and, well, I fell ill. I won't go into great detail because my therapist reminds me not to dwell on my thoughts - but how else am I supposed to evoke a solution? - but it all started when a girl shattered my heart. We were madly in love for two years, until she unexpectedly left. No explanation, no "it's not you, it's me". Nothing. For months, I wracked my mind in search of reasons as to why she abandoned me, all to no avail. It led me here; a mental asylum, a psychiatric hospital, whatever you wish to call it.

However, today is - according to my therapist - a new beginning. I exit the building with a single duffel bag strapped over my shoulder, and a sense of hope tucked beneath my ribcage. It's going to be okay. I'm going to be okay. I'm ready for this. They wouldn't let me leave if they didn't think so. That's what they said, right? Make positive affirmations? Yes, I'm sure of it.

I walk along the city street, enjoying the ever sweet simplicities of life; the sun shining down, the cool breeze tickling my reddened cheeks, the aroma of purity and cleanliness filling my nostrils. It makes me glad that I'm still alive, even though a few months prior to this very moment I wished for nothing but the opposite.

I wait at the bus stop until it arrives and then gingerly climb aboard. Once in my seat, I observe the people around me. Their individual mannerisms are rather intriguing, and I get lost over-analysing every little thing they say, the facial expressions displayed and the way they hold themselves.

It doesn't take long until I reach my stop, and I cover the ground from the bus stop to my house rather quickly. Inserting the key into the door and swinging it open, I'm immediately hit with a pang of sadness, nostalgia, and, oddly enough, relief.

She's gone. She's not here. She didn't come back.

Good.

It's her loss. She lost me, not the other way around.

Yeah... Right.

I miss her.

No!

I don't need her. She's nothing to me.

But...

But nothing. I'm fine. I've moved on. I'm free. I'm home.