Pieces For You Read Free

listened.  They may have called me a “bitch,” but that was the worst thing that happened…I’ve never been so happy to be called a bitch in my life. 
     
     
    Tomorrow’s the big day.  I’m going home.  I’m excited and fucking terrified. 
    After two months, I’m leaving here stronger.  I’ve conquered most of my panic attacks and anxiety.  I’ve learned to accept that the devastating horror I endured was beyond my control and no fault of my own—I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.  I didn’t ask to be hurt, I didn’t invite the abuse, and I sure as hell didn’t deserve what happened to me.  It had nothing to do with me—it was him.  He was the problem, he made the wrong choices, and he was the one to blame. 
    It took me a long time to stop looking for an explanation for why it happened.  I now understand how counterproductive it is to search for reason in a senseless act of violence; it only leads to an endless cycle of blame and ‘what ifs.’ 
    When I finally stopped asking myself ‘why me,’ I was able to focus on finding the small joys life still held.  It‘s become a healing game for me, always searching for the little blessings hidden in the mundane.  Sometimes I share them but often hoarding for myself the little hidden treasures others have missed.  It’s silly but it allows me to find beauty in a life that seemed to turn against me for a time.  I’ve also found the humor I thought I lost.  I regained my comfort in expressing thoughts flitting through my mind without censoring myself—in other words, I discovered the pieces of Old Sam that were inappropriate, irreverent, and overshared…god, I missed her. 
    Tomorrow, I rejoin society.  Not completely healed, but definitely healing.  I know I still have a long road ahead of me.  The obstacles and bumps are going to suck, but I believe I can make it to my destination and enjoy the ride getting there.  At TPC I found healing and hope, and I will hold them close on my journey.
     
     

 
    "While we have the gift of life, it seems to me the only tragedy is to allow part of us to die—whether it is our spirit, our creativity or our glorious uniqueness."  -Gilda Radner
     
     
     
    I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see.  Something was wrapped around my head, clinging tightly to my face, blocking any traces of light  The strange fabric was moist around my mouth and nose as I panted, struggling to draw oxygen into my burning lungs.  I could feel wetness gathering around my eyes where tears were spilling freely.  I opened my mouth to scream, but terror seized my vocal chords and no sound escaped.  Something hit me—hard—so hard my head rang and I immediately felt warmth oozing down the side of my face.  I tried to raise my hand, hoping to stop the flow, but I couldn’t move.  Oh my god—I was tied down—this couldn’t be happening to me.  I don’t want to die.  “Please.”
     
    “Sam.”
    I heard a voice calling me as if through a long tunnel, echoing in my mind.  I tried to answer, but the words died on my lips.
    “Sam, wake up,” the voice commanded as my world began to shake turbulently. 
    “Dammit!  Samantha Whitney, you open your eyes and look at me right this minute or so help me God—”
    Everleigh. 
    I recognized the voice of my best friend.  I was safe—I must be safe if Ev was here.  I fought to raise my unwilling eyelids, desperate for the reassurance her voice promised.  I was trapped in my own body, merely a passenger unable to control the vessel containing me. 
    “Sam, please, you have to wake up now, it’s not real—none of it is real.  Open your eyes for me—you’re safe.  I promise you’re safe,” she pleaded, her voice thick with tears.
    Ev’s desperate pleas were a rope lowered through the black abyss in which I was trapped.  I grabbed hold and tried to pull myself out, hand over hand until glimmers of light appeared.  Finally, my eyes opened and I