In my blog post, I spoke about therapy as medicine, a necessary act of self-preservation when my own mind became an unsafe place. That journey, like many, began with a single, profound moment—the moment I finally allowed myself to utter the words I had long resisted. This poem, “The Day I Said I Need Help,” delves into the raw vulnerability and quiet strength of that turning point, connecting directly to the themes explored in Why I Chose Therapy: Medicine for an Unsafe Mind.

The Day I Said I Need Help

It wasn’t a whisper, not a gentle sigh. It was a gasp, a ragged tear from the deepest part of me, where the silence had grown too loud to bear.

My mind, a battlefield, my heart, a shattered pane. I’d built walls so high, no one could see the ruin, not even me, sometimes. I wore strength like a second skin, a costume for the world.

But the costume was choking. The walls were crumbling inward. And one day, the weight of holding it all, the fierce, desperate grip on my own unraveling, became heavier than the fear of letting go.

It wasn’t a surrender. It was a rebellion. Against the voice that said I was weak. Against the shame that told me to hide. Against the lie that I had to fix this all by myself.

The words tasted like ash and liberation: I need help. They weren’t elegant. They weren’t brave, not in the way heroes are. They were just true. A raw, guttural truth from a soul on its knees.

The earth didn’t split. The sky didn’t fall. Only a quiet crack within me, a fissure of light where the darkness had been absolute. And through that crack, a fragile, trembling hope began to breathe.

That was the day the real work began. Not the performance. Not the facade. But the messy, unfiltered, heart-wrenching journey home.