Like a newborn baby, skin so soft, eyes so wide open or in precious slumber, hair silky from a fresh bath, swaddled in cotton–I awoke to life, to a New Day. It was just after three days unable to breathe, unable to do for myself. I was in a cocoon of unknown.
Hope is a waiting, a pressing into the unseen. Hope is gentle, yet fierce. Hope is essential to a life touched by mental illness.
In the most unexplained places, it finds you. I found my first seeds of hope in the throes of full-blown mania, in a hospital with white walls which looked like the days of the oppression of Communism. I found it when the last bit of strength had seeped out of me. I found it on the third day of tubes, sponge baths and diapers. And yes, I found it even as it found me.