What It Feels Like To Not Matter To Anyone

I went to jail the day before my birthday.

The day before I was supposed to meet my two grandbabies for the first time.

All over some old, blown-up charges tied to a night where my ex was high and I chose to drink my pain away.

Then while facing the mountain of anxiety that was my busted handyman trailer, I didn’t handle what needed handling. That neglect turned into a warrant.

And so, I was picked up—by a local cop I actually knew from work. Embarrassing doesn’t even begin to cover it. He ran through the standard questions: Are you suicidal? Do you want to hurt yourself?

“No,” I said. Easy answer.

I got booked into the local jail—hours of waiting, more questions, same answers.

Eventually, I was transferred to the county that issued the warrant. More holding. More questions. Only this time, something inside me shook a little. My mind hesitated. Was I? Did I?

Still, I stood tall and said no. Mind over matter, right?

I didn’t make a single phone call. Not one. There was no one I truly believed would care.

Five days in, I finally saw a judge. He released me. (So much for the new speedy-arraignment law.) Then it was back to holding, stuck waiting on loud-mouthed guys trying their best to piss off every jailer in earshot.

Eventually, I got to “dress out” and walk through the garage door into the outside world. The air hit different—filthy, yeah, but better than the still, stale air in a cell.

I was miles from home. No phone. No one to call. I tried the only number I still knew by heart. No answer.

Then, out of nowhere, a kind Black man with his toddlers gave me a ride all the way home. He had his own busy day ahead of him, but he made space for me anyway. I won’t forget that.

The first thing I did when I got home? Scrubbed off jail. Then I checked on the one soul I knew missed me—my cat. She was okay.

Now here I am, sitting in someone else’s garage, sorting my laundry and asking myself those same questions again. But this time, there’s no intake form to lie on. Just me, trying to figure out if I’d still say “no” out loud.

You know what’s hard?

Looking back at the version of me who used to be everywhere—always on the go, laughing, meeting up with people, phone ringing, friends popping in. I was the one who made plans, who lit up a room.

Now? Days go by without a single message, without anyone checking in. No invites. No hellos. Just... nothing.

This is what it feels like to not matter. And it’s the loneliest kind of pain.