I don’t know how many of you have ever had your freedom taken away from you, but it’s no fun. In fact, that very act can be more traumatic than the trauma that brought about your incarceration. I’m talking Baker Acts.
In the wrong hands, you may experience irreparable damage. And those wrong hands can be the police themselves.
The Baker Act (Florida Mental Health Act) allows for involuntary, emergency, or voluntary mental health examination and temporary detention for up to 72 hours for individuals in a mental health crisis who are deemed a danger to themselves or others, or unable to care for themselves. It is designed to provide immediate care for people with mental illnesses.
Full disclosure: I’ve been in therapy on and off for over 30 years.
I’d been Baker Acted once before, in my early thirties. In that instance, I Baker Acted myself. It was the only way to get the medication I needed at the time. But when I was released, I really did go crazy. Fortunately, my sister found a place for me to land. A dual-diagnostic center where I stayed for about a month.
That experience was unforgettable. The men I shared that apartment with, I still hold them close to this day.
But when I left, I was back out in the wilderness. Another decade went by. Even after putting down cigarettes, alcohol, and everything else, there were still gears grinding in the back of my mind.
Then I lost my father. And something broke loose.
A rage showed up that I didn’t recognize. I became a ticking time bomb, but the ticking was silent. I never knew when I’d go off.
I found a new psychiatrist. With help from my mom, we started the process. Medication, adjustments, trial and error. Trying to land on something that worked.
And then one day, I fell through the cracks. And my brain cracked with it.
I was 44 when I woke up wanting to beat the shit out of myself. That’s what my wife saw. And that’s why, minutes later, multiple patrol cars were outside my apartment.
But here’s the thing. The episode had already passed. I wasn’t hitting myself anymore. I wasn’t yelling. I wasn’t a threat.
From their perspective, maybe I still looked unstable. Maybe they were following protocol. I get that. But in that moment, it didn’t feel like help. It felt like things were slipping out of my control.
I walked outside with my hands up. No resistance. No aggression. Just… done.
And still, it escalated. One officer locked in on me. I don’t know why. Maybe I wasn’t answering fast enough. Maybe I didn’t give him what he wanted. But I wasn’t rude. I wasn’t loud.
Then I noticed another officer, small, steady, and ready to tase me. That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t under control.
Three cops grabbed me. And just like that, metal on my wrists. The back seat of the patrol car swallowed me whole.
First time.
That’s the moment. That’s when freedom leaves your body. You can feel it drain out of you. Like it’s pooling somewhere below your feet, out of reach. And panic takes its place.
Because you realize, you have no say anymore. None.
On the way, the officer told me I was resisting arrest. That it was a felony. That I could be held indefinitely.
None of it was true. But in that moment, it didn’t matter.
At the facility, things didn’t get better. They wanted my shorts because of the drawstring. Said it was dangerous.
I pointed out that drawstrings don’t kill people, bed sheets do. That didn’t go over well. I became a “problem.”
Forty-eight hours later, I was in an Uber heading home. When I walked in, my wife was gone. No sound. No movement. Just… absence. I stood there for a second, not really knowing what to do with myself. So I did the only thing I know how to do. I started creating.
We do that, right? We take what happens to us, good, bad, horrific, and we reshape it. Try to make sense of it. Try to survive it.
What came out of that was something I can’t easily label. It’s not an album. Not really. It’s not spoken word. It’s not quite a concept piece. It’s what I’ve been calling a mental health musical.
Since then, there’s been healing. Real healing.
I started DBT. My meds are finally dialed in. Better than they’ve been in a long time.
But I was also diagnosed with bipolar disorder. So now I watch. I stay aware. I pay attention to the shifts, the warning signs. Because I know what happens if I don’t.
A few days ago, Should Be Good quietly premiered on streaming platforms. Usually, I’d be shouting something like this from the rooftops. Not this time. This one’s different.
It’s exposed. It’s vulnerable in a way that caught even me off guard. So I’m not pushing it. I’m just hoping it finds the right person. You can stream it below.
If you’ve been through something like this, I hope it reflects your experience in some way.
And if you’ve only ever stood on the outside, watching someone you love go through it, maybe this lets you step inside for a moment. There is help out there. Real help. People who care. Places that work. Even if you don’t have money.
Start somewhere. Make a call. Send an email. Reach. Out.
And if you’re reading this while you’re in it, while things are slipping, reach out to me, too. I mean that. I know what crazy feels like.
But before I end this thing, lemme give some important phone numbers to reach out to first:
988 – Suicide & Crisis Hotline (24/7)
954-302-4288 – Destination Hope (24/7)
800-273-8255 – National Suicide Prevention
1-800-662-HELP (4357) – Live Counselor
