I remembered her office as I sat down on the upholstered tan couch. Ana’s blue square wall wrap with white flowers is something I would put in my own house. But I’m not in my own house, I’m sitting in her office with a whirl of emotions.

I don’t even know how I got here. Maybe it was one too many breakdowns – too many nights curled up next to Kevin gripping his hand and knowing he couldn’t carry all of my burdens on his shoulders. Maybe it was smashing into cancer and struggling to pick up the pieces – like trying to hold twenty rainbow plastic balls in your arms that pinch and slip onto the floor.

She greeted me though Ana knew I avoided coming last week and changed our sessions to every other week. As we talk, I convince myself it’s okay to need help. It’s okay to need one more person to lean on, but I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling like I always need help, that I’m not independent.

Her voice is soft laced with a gentle accent – just like any counselor should be – and I’m jealous of the brown locks that curve around her face. We dip and dive back – back to when I was never sick – back to when my 16 year old self listened to Linkin Park and sported dyed hair.

It gets uncomfortable – but I need to get to a healthier self.

For my husband, my child, my family


It’s okay to need help. It’s okay to need help.

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