mentalhealthwriting

I’ve known.

Not the loud kind of knowing,

but the quiet one that lives in my chest

and taps twice when I’m not listening.

I say I don’t have options,

only dreams,

as if dreams are weightless,

as if they don’t cost sleep,

as if they don’t follow me into every room.

I wait for courage like it’s a bus

that should’ve arrived by now.

I check the clock.

I check my life.

I check myself.

Still waiting.

Then 111 appears...

not on a sign,

not in the sky,

but in a comment

I didn’t plan to leave.

I wasn’t waiting for the universe.

I was already answering myself.

Go,

says the universe,

without yelling,

without pushing,

without explaining how.

Go,

even if all I carry are questions.

Go,

even if my hands are empty

except for hope I pretend not to trust.

I’m not frozen because I don’t know.

I’m frozen because I do.

Because knowing means choosing.

Because choosing means losing something.

Because staying has become its own kind of ache.

So maybe “go” doesn’t mean run.

Maybe it means breathe

without apologizing.

Maybe it means stop calling survival

a life.

I don’t leap.

Not yet.

But I turn my body toward the door.

And for the first time,

I don’t lie to myself

About wanting to leave.

111

GO

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