“I am Jack’s Raging Bile Duct.”

Sometimes in life, I get spun off into a mental whirlwind. It’s like a tornado of thought and emotion swirling around, tossing the livestock and real estate of my mind into upheaval. Unfortunately when such a personal natural disaster touches down, there is no forerunner warnings, no emergency broadcast systems in place, no time for me to find my dog or even my brother and get into the storm cellar. Just enough time to look up into the dark, swirling sky and mouth the words “Oh, no.” And perhaps the most disconcerting or unnerving characteristic of this storm is that from the outside, to anyone looking at this State and all of its internal tempests, nothing is seen but a calm empty blue sky, devoid of any weather whatsoever.

And suddenly, Sunday night, as I walked up the stairs to my apartment to get some eggs for Monica, the storm hit. A mental car accident.

“This must've been what all those statistics felt like before I filed them into my reports.”

Eight car pile up blocking all four lanes; ambulances and Highway Patrol at the scene; all traffic is at a standstill. Each car magnifies and complicates the resolution of the problem, impedes the flow of traffic; impedes the flow of thought. A bit of personal revelation. A decision to be made. A group gathered together. A change in preferences. The exposure to something new. My worst fear. And just like a multi-car accident, these are the worst kind of mental crashes and take the longest to clean-up. And when there is a pile-up on the Interstate highway of your mind, nothing gets through, and all you have to focus on is the mass of twisted metal and blown out glass. Nothing else seems important or note-worthy; everything comes to a halt. And here you are, standing on the stairs outside your door, and the sirens and flashing lights come swirling up in the shoulder of the road.

“She'd invaded my support groups, now she's invading my home.”

I go back over to Plymouth for our dinner group. I eat the lasagna and garlic bread. Chicken was good, beans were a bit soft. And I don’t talk much. At least not with anyone else. Everyone keeps asking me why I’m so quiet or if I’m alright. “I’m fine,” my ready response. When a storm hits or an automobile crashes you don’t invite others to come over and check it out. You don’t even really want to call anyone. This is your problem, your issue, and you’re going to deal with it. Anyone else besides yourself is only there for pity or at best empathy.

I don’t need a pity party.

And so, I spent the rest of the evening quiet, lost in my own thoughts. I walked down the road to one of my favorite thinking places, the steps of the library. Everyone needs a place to go and sort things out, think and process, “get my Yin and Yang in balance ('cause I, FRIGGIN LOVE HARMONY!!).” And the steps of the library is where I can go to be alone without being alone. Solitude among the populace. Isolation among inclusion. This is my tree house...

The storm passes; traffic resumes and everyone’s lives go back to normal. Except those without homes or those trapped under their cars. For them, everything’s different.