It’s a scary thing; waking up in a bed that isn’t your own, gazing down at the lines of dried blood painting your arms, glowing with shame. A beautiful young woman curled up beside you fast asleep. The scene wouldn’t be as unsettling if you could recall how you had gotten there or why the woman’s boyfriend was sleeping on the floor beside you as opposed to being with her.

At the foot of the bed lay my friend, Bryan, who hadn’t a clue that things were as bad as they were until he traveled three and a half hours south to see my downfall with his own eyes. They all slept peacefully free of concern or pain or worry.

My heart sunk.

Why are we here?

Their roommate snored in the other room. I wanted to cry, I wanted to gather my things and leave them behind. I was overwhelmed with shame and anxiety.

Panicked and desperate to escape, I turned to the one place I knew I would never be turned away.

I rolled over, closed my eyes and sought comfort and refuge in my dreams.


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