The People Who Picked Up the Phone

There were so many times I didn’t think I’d survive myself.
Tequila.
Fear.
Sirens.
Stitches.
Self-destruction.
Starting over and over and over.
You still showed up.
Through tough conversations.
During relapses.
When I repeated the same fears because I couldn’t get them out of my head.
Through the overwhelming sense of shame.
In versions of myself I thought would be impossible to love.
You never made me feel bad for struggling.
I thought at some point you’d learn the truth about me and leave.
I waited for the moment I’d say “I messed up again.”
And your response would be “we’re done.”
Instead, your response was always,
“That’s okay, let’s talk about it”
Slowly something began to shift inside of me.
My body stopped expecting honesty to end with people
leaving.
There were nights when I was lying on the floor trying to stop myself from destroying myself.
And someone still thought I was worth answering.
Someone still listened to me on the phone.
I’ll never be able to express exactly what that meant to me.
Some parts of my life exist today that used to feel like they would never happen.
Quiet peaceful mornings.
Groceries in my home.
A safe place to live.
Moments when my body unclenches.
I know I didn’t arrive here alone.
There were people who were patient enough to remind me,
drink water.
Breathe.
Take a walk.
Try again tomorrow.
Stay.
Eventually I stayed.
Now I catch myself planning for next month.
That feeling still catches me off guard.
I want you to know how thankful I am.
For each phone call.
Each appointment.
Each iced coffee.
Each hard conversation we’ve had.
I don’t think I’ll ever have the right words for what you changed in me.
Thank you.

Holly Morgan is a writer and photographer living in Maine. Her work explores mental health and lived experience. When she’s not writing or making art, she can be found spending time with her pets and other animals.