I laid on the basement floor.
Tears and snot were running down my face.
My mom tried to hug me.
I pulled away.
I couldn't hug her because I'd been sick for two weeks.
She reached in and hugged me anyways.
"I'm not okay. I am not handling this well."
I was having an PTSD episode.
I was told I wasn't allowed to hangout with friends until further notice because of the pandemic.
My car was at the mechanic so I had no way to leave the house.
I was sick so I had to keep my distance from my family and stay in my room.
I didn't have an office space and I left my work equipment in Chicago.
I was working from a table in a spare bedroom.
This is almost the exact environment I was in while in a cult for ten months.
I had nothing to lean on for comfort.
Nowhere to walk outside.
I couldn't hug anyone or hold anyone because I was contagious.
I couldn't eat sweets or drink alcohol...probably for the best.
I was restless, anxious.
I lacked a feeling of freedom.
I felt trapped.
I showered until I washed the tears away.
And then it passed.
I was okay again.