It’s oppressively humid outside. The weather alternates between sun, clouds, and explosive thunderstorms with torrential rain. The air smothers like a wet wool blanket. I gain weight each time I inhale.

Inertia drags at my bones. The combination of Fibromyalgia, Lyme disease and antibiotics leaves me drained. I stare mindlessly at nothing while my mind roars, berating me for my laziness. I am too tired to tell it to shut up.

Days like this are a trial. A long “To-Do” list coupled with zero energy sends my critical mind into overdrive. Its casual jabs soon escalate into a long list of all my flaws and faults; when that fails to get me going it paints ever grimmer pictures of what I will turn into if I don’t get my lazy tail in gear. I will morph into a shapeless blob of flesh, it says, unable to do the simplest tasks, scorned by all who set eyes on me. I will be a drain on society, a worthless parasite. I may as well kill myself right now, for I have become a waste of space and air. This litany, no doubt intended to goad me to action, only paralyzes me further. I already “know” that what it says is true; so what’s the use even trying? I am doomed before I start.

I am not usually this grim. I know rationally that this mindset, in part, is due to the way I feel right now. Once the antibiotics kick in, i will return to my usual optimistic self. I will feel like doing things again, and these dark clouds will be a memory. But right now I struggle to find the good. It’s going to be a long day.

I have lived in this town for 20 years. That realization struck me this morning as I sat in our local restaurant, sharing breakfast with Husband and reminiscing with a couple of friends (Vinny and Irene), whom I’ve known since I first moved here. As we talked, I saw myself through their eyes, how far I’ve come, the life I’ve built here. It was eye-opening and a bit disconcerting. I don’t realize my life is actually visible, perhaps because I’m inside it.

I moved here 20 years ago this month. When I arrived, I was living in a white Subaru Hatchback crammed with all my things. I was halfway through four years of college; I had no job; and didn’t know anyone in the town I’d just come to. I was alone, friendless and scared.

I wanted a safe place to live. I didn’t know where that was or what it looked like. I had left an abusive situation two years before, and had been on the streets ever since. In those two years, I had endured assaults, being shot at, and being pestered for middle-of-the-night “favors” by certain members of the local police. I has also been labelled mentally ill by a family member, who saw to it that the “right” people (including several members of law enforcement) heard about the “lies” I was telling. Since he was well known in the community, he was believed. I didn’t have a chance.

When I arrived in this new town, I had just been assaulted for a third time. I didn’t bother reporting it because I knew no one would listen. I needed a place to heal—I was pretty beat up—and I wanted, for once, to sleep without being bothered. I didn’t know where I would go from there; and at that moment I didn’t care. I just needed a place to hide.

I spent several days doing nothing but eating and sleeping as my body slowly healed itself. It was a relief to be invisible. I was free to come and go as I pleased without looking over my shoulder or being laughed at. I was awakened by troopers twice; both times they wanted to make sure I was all right. It was a welcome change from being bugged for “favors” almost every night.

Still, I wasn’t sure if I should stay. I didn’t know anyone and wasn’t sure if I should risk asking for help. I had no job and didn’t know how to find one. I didn’t want to go back to my hometown, and I didn’t know where else I could go. I’d been there five days and I felt like I was at a dead end.

As I lay in my blankets that night, listening to passing traffic, I prayed: “God, I don’t know where to go. I need help. If I’m meant to stay here, I need a sign. If I’m meant to leave I need a sign. Please make it clear so I can’t miss it. Thank you.” A feeling of peace came over me as I said the words, and I fell asleep immediately. I slept right through the night.

I was awakened the next morning by a car pulling up next to mine. Thinking it was a trooper, I kept my eyes closed, listening. But no one knocked on the window. Instead, footsteps approached the car, and something landed on the driver’s seat. Then the footsteps receded again; and the car pulled away. I listened as the engine noise faded to silence.

I lay there for several minutes, wondering if I was still safe. My mind raced with questions. Who had it been? Had someone from “before” found me? Would I need a new place to hide? Would I find another note, calling me names and threatening me? Or would I see—I didn’t know what? Was I brave enough to peek?

I knew I couldn’t lie there forever. I finally summoned my courage, sat up in the blankets, and leaned forward to look. One hundred dollars, neatly folded, lay on the seat. I picked it up, disbelieving, and started to cry. I’d gotten my sign, and I knew I’d found a home.

I have been here ever since. I eventually met the woman who had thrown the money into my car, and we became friends. She moved six years ago and we lost touch, but I’ve never forgotten what she did. If she hadn’t obeyed the intuitive “nudge” she’d gotten that morning, I don’t know where I’d be today.