I’m the one being sectioned. I called the behavioral health number and said come get me.
I walked up and handed the officer my cigarettes and he held it while another one frisked me near the entrance to my apartment complex and they formed a phalanx around me till the Cataldo came and got me.
A Black woman walked by and checked in on me and said “ya’ll having a party and you didn’t invite me” and it was the kindest thing a stranger could do for me in that moment but I said “you can hang around if you want” to defuse tension and cause that is how I talk and then locked up in McClean I often thought of my poor word choice, my poor life choices, et. cetera.
I wasn’t alone in a crowd there, cause a stranger stopped by but I was alone physically with only Dr. Solomon who taught me about choice on the line and God above when I walked into the Atlantic and was baby fragments mm abptized
turn autocorrect into hooked on phonics like I was schooled in Ebonics but I digress, to address the prompt; distressing as it was to walk into the sea surrounded by disconnected people all near me who could sea and hear the silent tears streaming down my face as I thought of Rumi and enlarging my soul and the gospel about the house not being big enough and the possibility of escape to oppose a sea of troubles and to take arms against them when it gets to be too much to take and then I thought of a feeling that wasn’t fake and I stepped into the sea inside and died easily to be reborn sea breezily.
I felt alone then but I clearly wasn’t.
And when I die alone or I die alone in a crowd of people I won’t be alone and it ain’t because I’ll have a loved one or the doctor on the phone or by my side but because we are never really alone on this ride.