Waiting was hard. That was the part when I had to sit in one of those chairs, wondering when they were going to call my name, what they were going to say to me. I sat there, just biting my nails, pretending to read an outdated magazine but really, not taking any of it in. Just sitting there.

That was almost a month ago, and a little part of me wishes that, maybe, I was still waiting. But I’m not. Well, sort of…but now I’m waiting for something different.

Most people hate hospitals, but this one is almost my home. Almost. It’s safe here, with the nurses and doctors I know; people who can protect me and take care of me. People who know what’s wrong with me, what medications I need, what my limits are. People who understand. And structure. The structure I needed.

But now, a month later, I’m standing in front of the glass double doors looking out. It’s time to go home. But I know perfectly well that as soon as I set one foot out that door, away from this hospital, everything changes. I’m on my own.