Why I'm Here (pt. 2 of 2)

I was 15, quivering, throwing up charcoal.
“I promise I’m fine, I just want
to go home!”
White walls, sterilized sheets, under
the pitying gaze of a woman referencing Christ and redemption,
deliverance. I didn’t belong in that room.
A dark mouth on a sagging face that told me,
“You have so much more life left to live.” and
I wondered if each line on her face was a kid
like me, brought in with
panicked parents pleading, “Fix her.”
I remember seeing her fiddle with a gold cross
on a chain. “I will pray for you.” I
was crying, unable to look
her in the eye. I was
a sinner tossing the gift of life to the ground, and trying to break
it under the weight of thousands of milligrams of
god knows what.
Yet she still had faith in me.
Years later, I know
my reasons to be here are endless,
but a stranger was my first.
Number one:
I am believed in.