Over a year ago, I lay on a sofa in Plummer Court with my hood up, curled into a ball. Trying to make myself smaller. Trying to be invisible. Help was there, but I couldn’t reach towards it. I couldn’t find the words for the staff, couldn’t join the conversations, couldn’t imagine myself belonging in a group.

The days felt long. And scary. I was there for my children, because I knew they needed me to be there. But I couldn’t yet want it for myself. At first, I refused the medication. I broke down. When I lost the alcohol, I hurt myself. I didn’t know how to be without something I had relied on for so long.

There were people around me offering help, and still I curled further into myself. My hood became a curtain. That corner became somewhere to hide until another day was over.

And now I have returned.

The same place. The same walls. Me again, carrying my fear through the door.

This time, I took the medication. I sat with the group. I spoke, listened, socialised. I allowed myself to become part of the days instead of waiting for them to end. There have still been tears. There has still been fear. But this time, I have let people see it.

Every day, I rolled my sleeves up and kept them there. I wanted the staff to feel reassured. Where once I hid beneath my clothes, now I was willing to be seen. Such a small movement, pulling back a sleeve. Such a distance between then and now.

I have asked for help. Those words look so ordinary written down. But I know what it has taken to say them. To admit that I’m struggling while someone is there to hear me. To place trust in the people offering their hands and allow myself to take hold.

L’ironie du sort. The irony of fate.

The place where I once felt so unsafe has become my sanctuary. The place where the hours dragged is now somewhere I wish I had more time. Once, I wanted to disappear into the corner. Now, I am frightened of leaving.

I wonder how somewhere can hold two such different versions of me. The woman curled beneath her hood and the woman with her sleeves rolled up. Both afraid. Both needing help. But this time, able to let it reach me.

I came back wanting sobriety for myself, too. Wanting another chance, even on the days when wanting it hurts. And within these walls, among these people, I have found somewhere to sit with that hurt without having to hide.

Plummer Court. My sanctuary. My safety. My saviour.

The same place where I once made myself as small as I could.

The place where I am learning to take up space.