Tithe

I am... for the better part, here.

Here?

Really?

Yes.

I am here.

Against my will.

Americans love to spout about freedom,

but a quick label of 'incompetence' is all it takes to bind you.

Cream colored walls.

No shoe laces.

Grippy socks.

Big metal heavy doors,

and a few bald headed security men to stuff you back into your bed for your happy juice.

I think I heard an old woman scream down the hall.

It's lovely.

Real- quaint.

How I ended up here?

Funny story.

I have a wild imagination.

Sometimes serious,

sometimes over exaggerated.

I told my therapist that I dream.

I dreamed of murder.

I dream of things I would not do.

Other times, I wish I don't wake up.

She said it was concerning.

She asked if I would ever go through with it.

Ah.

The trick question.

I stupidly said 'sometimes,'

and that was enough.

A red flag on my file.

I left that day.

I mentioned my family to her.

Mentioned if we ever crossed paths.

Even incidentally, it might end in bloodshed.

She probably believed me.

I believed me.

But that's not what did it.

I had cast aside the notion of them.

The strangers who didn't know me any longer.

The people I no longer associated with.

The people who told strangers that I 'eloped' and 'ran away' when they did nothing but chase me away.

Me.

The literal black sheep.

The only black thing in the family.

The one who - in name - I wished died sooner.

The one who - in name - threatened to end me several times over.

Crass, evil, vile woman.

Ugly with her dentured teeth.

Grinning from ear to ear as they wore too large for her lips to cover.

No.

That was not it either.

What was it was my turning over my possessions.

My anger and wanton for the woodsy life.

To give up my possessions within society.

A woman screamed over me.

She thought me to go to the road.

Oh, what be.

No.

No.

I didn't plan to die that way.

No.

No.

I had other intentions.

And then the officer came.

And then the pretender came [the suicide aid].

And I told them all I was done.

What they made of that?

I was trying to run into traffic.

No.

I just needed my councilor.

I just needed to sit down with them again.

To express how truly desolate things felt.

How angry I was.

How done I was.

How much I wanted to just stop struggling and fighting and live quietly.

Key words.

Quietly.

But no.

No.

No.

No.

I looked like I was ready to play in the street.

No.

I looked that way.

Thankfully I didn't go completely postal.

Now I'm back where I wanted to be.

In that very chair.

My hands are shaky.

Sweaty.

My eyes won't meet her.

I'm feeling flighty.

What?

So I can have someone else misinterpret my intentions.

What?

So I can visit that place again where I fight these giggly nurses,

robust security,

and placid doctors?

HA!

If you can even call them that.

Still.

Still.

Still.

It is nice.

This is where I ought to be.

Talking to a stranger.

Venting my thoughts.

So I know I won't go postal.

This is my tithe.

This is my way of climbing back down the rope to reality.