I don’t know if it’s from my Starbucks mocha that I’m still nursing, or if it’s from losing my temper with my two little boys this morning after my younger one’s basketball game.
But I’m suddenly having flashbacks of the mental ward and how I was kept in there against my will — a prisoner cut off from the real world.
I recall pushing my face against the barred window, straining to get a glimpse of some trees or grass.
The feeling of helplessness. Madness. Panic in being trapped.
Now here I am. I’m free. My body. I can go wherever I wish. I can sit here at a bookstore and read while the old, the young, the obese, the hot eye candy, the children pass by, consumed by their Saturday afternoon.
A staff member walks past me, unaware of my thoughts. My feelings. My darkness.
I can simply lash out at anyone — anything — in an instant and ruin lives. Ruin my own. Forever.
The thought scare me. They cut through the medicated complacency that I enjoy.
This book could help me. The entire religion section could. The self help section could. Even the half-nude women on the car mags, on the literary mags, on the _______ mags.
Oh well, just my thoughts. Don’t mind me.
Or should you?
Photo by Topaz