Free Ex-girl to the Next Girl by Daaimah S. Poole Page A

they were safe. I don’t know what I would do without them. I was mad at myself for oversleeping, but thankful because I did get some rest. I felt a little better.
    The next morning, I dropped the boys off at school and headed for work. I thought about my life. How nobody cared about me. How I was a loser with my kids and work. N obody cares about you. You weren’t good enough to marry. You’re not a good mother. You’re not nothing, I kept thinking to myself. I dialed my mother to get the number for Dr. Burrows—maybe I did need to talk to him. I pulled over and just started crying. I couldn’t stop. Traffic was passing me, and cars were beeping their horns, but I couldn’t move. I was immobile—I couldn’t move my legs, they were so heavy. I remember my mother begging me to go to the hospital and for me to call her when I arrived there. Then there was a loud crash. I still had my cell phone in my hand. My mother was yelling, “What’s going on, Kim?Are you okay?” I got out of my car. My car was not damaged. A man came running toward me, saying, “Are you on drugs?” I didn’t know what to say or do—I just kept crying. Did I look like I was on drugs? I caught a glance at myself through the window—maybe I did. I didn’t look my best. Apparently I did look like a drug user because the police came and said I had to go to the district so they could check my drug and alcohol level.
    â€œHave you been drinking, miss?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDo you do drugs?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHow did you run into a parked car?”
    â€œI was talking to my mother. I need to talk to my mother.”
    â€œAre you okay?” the officer asked.
    â€œNo, I am not,” I said as I attempted to stand, and stumbled.
    â€œWould you like to speak to someone about the feelings you are having?” the officer said in a real calm tone, like I was crazy.
    â€œWhat feelings? No, I’m fine. I need to speak to my mother.” They gave me the phone and allowed me to contact my family. But my mind was clouded, I couldn’t think of anybody’s number. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I kept saying aloud. The police officer said they were going to take me for a ride and go to the hospital. I’m thinking, I’m not sick. What can the hospital do for me? Then I saw a sign that read M ENTAL H EALTH. I opened my eyes so I could see better. I walked through the doors and they shut behind me. There was a guard to my left, and the door was locked. Once you were in, there was no way out.
    A nurse came in with a mixture of brown and gray hair in a bun. She handed me a hospital gown and said, “Remove all your clothes.” I was reluctant until she said or she would have someone remove them for me. She took my clothes and I became petrified.
    â€œWhat are you doing with my clothes?”
    â€œYou get them back after the doctor has seen you.”
    I sat in a white room with nothing but a chair and a bed in it. While waiting for the doctor to come, my imagination got the best of me. My mind started racing. What if they commit me? What if the doctor thinks that I am crazy? What if I am crazy and I don’t know that I’m crazy? Kim, you are not crazy, and you have to let the world and this doctor know that you are not crazy.
    I peeked out the door and down the hallway. There were real crazy people out there. One older white man was smacking and hitting things that weren’t there. His robe was hanging open, exposing his droopy underwear. Another kept trying to chew on the side of her cheek like a dog. I was so scared. If I thought I was crazy, I knew now I wasn’t crazy. I was very sane, and I had to get out of there. I wanted to go home. I wanted to get my life together. My sons needed me. I have to leave.
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    The female doctor entered the room. She didn’t look old enough to drive, let alone be a