One thousand two hundred and four. That’s how many days ago I met her. She sat next to me in the cold, hard, metal chairs, staring nervously at the unattended podium. We waited in silence as the room began to fill. Some were laughing and some were crying. Some were hugging and others were standing, arms crossed, in the corner. The unattended podium was approached by a women wearing many years on her face. “Everybody take your seats.” Rehab.
One thousand and sixty two. That’s how many days ago we left that room for the last time. No looking back. Hand in hand and heads held high – we did it.
Seven hundred and ninety three. That’s how many days ago you held my hand as I lay completely helpless in the hospital bed. Relapse.
Five hundred and ninety eight. That’s how many days ago we said goodbye. Not for forever, but it sure felt like it. We never thought college would be in our future. Yet there we were.
Three hundred and seventy six. That’s how many days ago our knees hit the ground. Kate was gone. Relapse.
One hundred and eighty eight. That’s how many days ago I held your hand as you laid unconscious in that chilling hospital room. Little did I know, you’d never make it out of that hospital room. Overdose. Relapse.
Two. That’s how many days ago you met Jesus and that’s how many days ago I said goodbye. This time forever.
Fifty five. That’s how many days until I step foot into inpatient treatment.