A couple embraced inside a café across the street. The girl’s breasts strained against her ivory sweater and the man laughed. They turned and looked my way. 

“You having a tough time, pal?” the EMT asked me as he strapped me into the stretcher. 

“I’ve been worse,” I said. I wasn’t hospitalized again. 

Positive things became possible, reachable. I volunteered at a neighborhood soup kitchen and then found a job counseling peers at Connecticut Mental Health Center. I moved to the apartment side of PFTL and acquired my own room. I began to shave alone for the first time in thirteen years, without a staff person observing. Taking the blade and using it for how it was intended felt, at first, lascivious, a panicked thrill. It was like I was betraying so many old friends with that act. It took a while for everything to turn, but things do take me a while. A year and a half after burning myself on Halloween, I started looking for new apartments. 

I left PFTL on August 10, 2007 and I’ve only been back to visit twice. There’s a feeling of crushing weight when I’m there. It tumbles onto me like a soggy wool blanket, so I stay away. They’ve fixed up the place nicely, given it a fresh look. Touched up the trim around the doors with periwinkle blue paint. There are new people, new staff, but the longtime folks remain. I had a fantastic friend living there for years, working through his own struggles. The bottom line, some would argue, is growth. Did I improve there? 

“Stop your complaining, why don’t you!” I imagine Daisy yelling at me now. “It worked for you, don’t you see? You’re out, you’re better now, aren’t you?” 

So, I am. Yes, I am.