Walking into my therapist’s office the day I decided I needed to go back into residential treatment was not easy. I remember sitting in the beautiful but strangely uncomfortable couch in the waiting room and shaking my leg so much that the vibrations could probably have been felt all over the state of Utah.
All of the other times I had been to treatment for my post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), it had been forced on me, but this time, going back to treatment was my idea.
I would be asking for the help I needed and accepting that support. I would be taking my life back into my hands. My therapist walked out of her office to take me back — all while talking in her usual upbeat tone. “Good morning, Elisa!
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