reaching out for help
is one of the bravest things
i’ve ever done.
i remember that dull fall thursday evening,
in which i poured a million drops
of hopeful effort into dragging
my ironically suicidal self
(ironic because i love life)
into the psychologist’s office.

that thursday,
everything came crumbling down;
i’ve seen entire buildings being demolished
with the same intensity i broke down.
my dad picked me up at school
because my tutor did no longer know what to do with me,
neither did the counselor, nor the nurse;
no one knew what to do with me,
no one knew what to do with my tears.
i watched myself fall into the dark hole
this emptiness is
and i did not know what to do with my own self.
the sheer panic of seeing how your life,
your motivation and
everything that keeps you tied down
onto this earth
slips away from your hands
does not let you do anything but stare.
so, i stared.
i stared and i stared,
for what seemed to be a lifetime.
until i heard
‘the therapist is waiting for you.
you can go in’.

that thursday,
in that waiting room,
i looked at my dad,
he squizzed my hand gently
and gave me enough courage and hope
to walk into
the psychologist’s office.