A few weeks ago, I was asked to be a guest speaker at the rehab I had attended almost 20 years ago. I was humbled to be asked and at the same time very excited to revisit the place where I learned about my disease and where I was given the tools I would need to survive.
As I parked my car, I looked up at the window on the second floor of the room I used to inhabit and to my surprise was immediately transported back to that time and the same feelings I had experienced. Scared, sick, depressed, embarrassed, ashamed, they all came flooding back to me. To make matters worse and to elevate my feelings, the inside of the building had barely changed; the walls were still a bleak off white color and the carpet was that “institutional” blue.
I was escorted into the room where I was to give my talk, the same one I had sat in several times a day when I was a resident, attending group meetings, like the one I was about to address.
My stomach was doing some flip flops, and I was suddenly not so excited to walk down this particular memory lane. But when I turned into the room where 17 women were waiting patiently for me, I immediately felt calm and at peace.
Almost all of these women looked forlorn and defeated. A few looked like they hadn’t combed their hair in days along with looking like they didn’t care. Some had eye makeup running down their face while others were in the pajamas they wore day after day. A few would try desperately to sit still, but their nervous system was calling the shots so their legs shook nervously for the hour.
So why did I feel so comfortable amongst the unkept, the jittery and uncaring?
Because I was one of those women 20 years ago. I sat in the same chairs, wanting to jump out of my skin, not caring how I looked or what I smelled like. I was fighting for my life and everything else needed to take a back seat. I was holding on with everything I had in me, trying to get through another hour, praying that I could get this monkey off my back once and for all.
By the end of the meeting there were tears and lots of hugs. I was able to share my experience, silently praying that just one of those beautiful souls would walk away with a flicker of hope and a bucket full of faith.
I was reminded that night, how important it is to never forget how it was when we were battling the beast, and the importance of reaching out your hand to help others.
That is what it’s all about my friends.