I took a taxi barefoot, in a nightgown.
I paid $17 to go home.
“You can’t come get me?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry it’s come to this.”
I get it. I’m sure they’d say, “It’s tough love.”
But tough love doesn’t work for all of us. And tough love doesn’t work for all situations.
Because, while I sat outside the ER, bra-less, so sick I couldn’t see straight or stand, all I felt was even more split between this world and the next.
I feel like part of me is already dead. Even if only the part of me that exists in the hearts and minds of others.
Jesus would’ve picked me up.