Have you ever been kidnapped? I mean, it’s a weird question – not one you’d walk up to a stranger and ask. But I’m asking anyway.
I was driving today and out of the corner of my eye, this asshole in a black Dodge Charger pulls up to me and runs me off the road. I didn’t see the bastard coming at all. I’ve seen this car before – it follows me to work, from home, through the car wash – everywhere. This was the first time in years it got close enough to me to run me clear off the road and into the nearest culvert.
As I came to, I realized I was bound and gagged – now a passenger of the offending vehicle. I screamed as loud as I could, writhing around in a futile attempt to loosen the rope on my ankles and wrists. I looked through the window, only to see a version of me sitting behind the wheel of my car, driving as though nothing had happened. I kept screaming at “me” until we reach the next stop light. I saw the most profound sadness in my eyes; it’s not until then I realized I’ve been stolen again. I’ve been kidnapped again. I stopped screaming and allowed the driver to carry me away until it was time to find myself again.
I wish what I’d just written was a dream, but it’s not. I was in traffic today and out of nowhere I did feel this overwhelming depression steal what little of myself I felt I had left. For the first time in years, I thought of suicide. Will I act on it? No, I know it’s not what I want. But the thoughts frightened the hell out of me, enough to start writing in here again.
One day at a time. Thy will, not mine.