St. Elsewhere...

Where "ELSE" would I be? 

I sit in my head a lot.
I always say that—because I do.
And I find it funny when people act like they don’t.
Like they’re not up there too, circling thoughts, editing memories,
having full conversations with people who aren't even in the room.

To me, it's like—where else are we supposed to exist in our truth
if not inside our own minds?

That’s where the struggle lives.
That’s where the processing happens—or doesn’t.
That’s where emotions pile up in corners,
where vulnerability whispers,
and honesty doesn’t need to be pretty to be real.

So when those thoughts show up uninvited,
when they barge in at the worst time with no warning—
that’s when we find out who we really are.
Not who the world reflects back at us,
but the self that sits in silence,
scrambling for peace or at least permission to feel something.

I always ask:
Can you teach people how to deal?
Can you teach them how to process?
Nobody ever gives me a straight answer.
I’ve been to therapy, sure.
But I never went to school for this stuff.
I don’t know what they teach future therapists about holding other people’s pain.

And honestly? I wonder if they even know.
Because most of the time,
you’re just trying to survive someone else’s inability to process their own life.
And now it’s spilling into yours.

They say therapists need therapists.
I believe that.
Because people are heavy.
Life is heavy.
And most circumstances come with somebody attached.
What you end up managing is not just the moment—
but the weight of someone else’s unhealed everything.

And then—there’s the other kind of weight:
the one that is self-inflicted.
The kind that shows up
when nobody else is involved in the choice that left you unsettled.
That’s a whole different mirror to face.

You have to sit with it.
Own it.
Speak to yourself in a voice that doesn’t lie.
Live in your truth—
and then ask yourself the hardest question:

When I finally face what’s in my mind,
when I name it,
when I survive it—
what does that version of me look like on the outside?

Author’s Note:
I’ve never watched the show St. Elsewhere—not even one episode.
But the name sat with me like it belonged to the place I write from.
A quiet chaos. A mental waiting room.
So I named this entry after it. Felt right.