Late Trains

Nathan Fillion, Malcolm Reynolds, Serenity, FireflyI’ve been waiting a week now for help, waiting for my therapist to return my calls, waiting for the hospital’s day program to accept me, waiting for the mental health professionals to save me.  I’m beginning to think like my Firefly friend, Malcolm Reynolds.  He tells Shepherd Book, “I ain’t lookin’ for help from on high.  That’s a long wait for a train don’t come.”

Even if Mercy calls today, I wouldn’t start partial hospitalization until Monday.  That’s three more days I have to get through.  The prospect of spending three more days holed up in my jammies is unacceptable.  If I have to work my way out of this by myself, then I’d better get started.

There’s still a Bad Ass inside me, still a part of me that fights to live.  I can’t just forget all the training I’ve gone through, all the work and effort I’ve made to come to terms with this bipolar business.  I’m tired just now from the fight, and resentful of how hard I have to work every day.  Every gorram day.  But waiting for help that may never come isn’t the answer.  It’s up to me.  It always has been.

So, impossible as it seems, I’ll get dressed.  I’ll go to my water aerobics class and reassure my friends there.  I’ll take myself to breakfast and journal my way through this strange situation.  I’ll take back the DVDs I’ve watched and get a few groceries.  I’ll take care of myself.

I never much cared for trains anyway.

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