I'm wrapped in a blanket, curled up in a fetal position, knees hugged to my chest. I'm no longer crying; I am lifeless and despondent. I feel far away. The therapist is asking me something. "Are you okay?" Usually I say yes, even when it's not true. This time I can't say yes. I know that I'm far from being okay. "No," I say. "You're a survivor. When you walk out of here today, walk out whole." I simply nod in response. Am I a survivor? Is it possible for me to ever feel whole again? I have moments when I wonder what is real about me and the life I've lived. What if I really am too sensitive? If I were stronger, would my story be less dramatic? I didn't look tattered or torn. In fact, I appeared just the opposite. Yet the crudely stitched-together mess that I was would never mend unless I exposed my brokenness to light and air. I had to face my truths, accept them, and become willing to offer forgiveness to myself and others. At the beginning of my story, I didn't feel as though I had any safe places. Not one. Through the heartache of searching out the dark places in my life, I discovered incredible beauty--soft, warm, loving hearts helped heal my damaged one. Truth, love, and grace provided the safe haven for which I was searching.