It comes like a tsunami.
It forces itself inside your house.
You run out your front door.
When the tsunami ends, your house is destroyed.
Your things don’t look like your things anymore.
Your bed is not in your bedroom.
Your kitchen has no food that can be eaten.
You sit and cry on the floor.
You say to yourself I can make this work.
This is better than trying to find a new house.
You spend your days attempting to move the bed back inside the bedroom, but it won’t fit.
Your kitchen appliances have stopped making you dinner and cleaning your dishes.
The tsunami ate them up.
You think you can start doing their job too.
Make dinners from scratch.
Clean every plate, by hand.
By the end of the day you are exhausted and your bed is still in the hallway.
Days go by. Then weeks. Months.
Years for some of us.
And your life inside the house starts to look like the tsunami did.
The destroyer. The chaos keeper.
The end of you.
But this is what it will take.
Complete life destruction to move out.
It takes exhaustion. Pain. Torture.
The daily kind.
And now you know. At last.
You have to stop fixing what cannot be fixed.
And as you exit the door of your old house.
Heading towards the unknown.
You find the courage to not go back inside.
You find the strength to look away.
Take your first breath and make your way to living once again.
With lots of unknowns,