<div class="fr-view"><p><strong>Trigger warning: This article contains references to sectioning.</strong></p>
<p>The road our house is on goes nowhere. It&#039;s not a cul-de-sac, but no matter what end of the road you come in from, it loops you back around so you end up where you started. So, when I saw the police cars and the ambulance van, I started settling deeper into the cushions on my sun lounger, wrapping my plush blanket around me like a robe. I was waiting to see the street theatre happen, because I knew they must be here for someone on my street. They didn&#039;t stop where I thought they would at Amrah&#039;s house, who&rsquo;s in a wheelchair and has a carer that comes everyday. They went past hers and parked up right outside Arla&#039;s house to the left of mine. Not wanting to seem nosey, I shifted my rattan seat around and pulled it into the snug beneath my bedroom window, my back to Arla&rsquo;s. Reaching in the window I feel around for my glass of Gordon&#039;s gin and take another sip.</p>
<p>I was vaping my raspberry flavoured e-cigarette that my therapist, Claire, noticed me using in a session with her the other day. I&rsquo;d already had the feeling of being &lsquo;naughty&rsquo; in some way for using it in therapy, but I reminded myself that I&rsquo;m an adult and I&rsquo;m allowed to do as I please. Straight away, she pathologized my vaping and tied all sorts of significance to it, when it only meant that I was feeling more comfortable with her. She&rsquo;s been encouraging me to venture outside more often and so I&rsquo;ve recently started sitting out front but it has been an issue with the landlord. They&rsquo;ve made complaints to the mental health team about me using my front garden for anything other than ornamental plants. I told them it&rsquo;s not breaking any rules and that I&rsquo;m as entitled to be here as my oxeye daisies are, so they&rsquo;ve left me alone since but it&rsquo;s been an uneasy truce.</p>
<p>In my peripheral vision a crowd starts to gather by the police cars outside Arla&rsquo;s and it reminds me of earlier this morning when I couldn&rsquo;t get into the Co-op. The shop looked open from a distance with workers mingling about inside, up close the doors were firmly shut. Thinking they were having a staff briefing or fire drill, a small group of us gathered outside to wait. Ten minutes later, the manager came out very stern looking and announced that they&rsquo;re closing for the day. They&rsquo;d decided to close the store to mark the Queen&rsquo;s passing on, but I couldn&rsquo;t figure out why it was all done so last minute. Finally, Prince Charles gets to take his place, so I expect to stop seeing his doppelganger every week hanging around the Co-op aisles now. I&rsquo;ve noticed how the royal power shift is mirrored in the ruling factions of entities and flea-like imps that colonise my body and the house I live in.</p>
<p>The slave class of sentient fleas sing in response to my thoughts. They run and jump excitedly all over my body, in and out of every orifice. Their movements coat me and everything in the house with a visceral electric charge that I have to constantly scrub off with diluted chlorine. The flea spot-on treatments and de-worming tablets did nothing, the only relief is with bleach for my outside parts and gin for my insides. I&rsquo;m used to their movements now but I never really feel clean. I still feel free though, to an extent, unlike the jumping sentients who are forced to do the bidding of their unseen masters. Over the years, I&rsquo;ve realised that everything I think, feel, or imagine is observed and commented on or even worse. I&rsquo;m often punished for thinking the wrong type of thoughts, and the special hate the Sentients have for politics means it&rsquo;s best for me to avoid the news altogether. The unseen and brutal punishments include, slashing, throttling, burning sensations all over my body. The sentients surround me in all ways at all times and I&rsquo;m always trying to carve out a small space to claim as my own.</p>
<p>Today, it was my front garden. I looked up at the clouds to see if I recognised anyone up there. 10:12: the lion headed man and the snake headed creatures weren&rsquo;t about. The clouds looked how they used to do before this all began. As I searched them out they put on a good show of normality, like they were just ordinary clouds of condensation suspended in the air. As if they knew we had outsiders watching us. Then there was the sound of voices which got my attention in a way that only embodied voices do. Body tremors pulsed through me as I held still and let my eyes follow the noise. I turned to see marching towards me, officers, paramedics, lanyard wearing suits and it seemed a miracle to me that so many of them could have come out of the two cars and one van I saw. A few were in plain clothes, one was a woman and she called out my name to me like a question.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Natasha Oseni?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Breathing heavily, I sat upright and kept my eyes lowered against the sun. I was thankful that at least there were no sirens on top of all the drama. Opposite my front garden the ambulance van had double parked next to my car, like they knew it was mine and were blocking it in because I wasn&rsquo;t going anywhere anymore. The crew stood expectantly, door wide open as though I&rsquo;d just get up and walk in. I counted eleven official people surrounding and moving in closer to me.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Uxbridge Magistrates Court. Warrant to search for and remove patient for the purposes of the Mental Health Act 1983. Authority is hereby given, for any constable accompanied by an approved mental health professional to enter the said premises to remove the said person to a place of safety.&rsquo;</p>
<p>I could feel the sun warm in the gaps of my blanket, on my face, wrists and ankles with a gentle force. My only real place of safety these days is the overgrown burial grounds of St John the Baptist on the high street, the stillness there feels like home. Seeing through the slits of my eyes, I noted the paved floor, then the blue legs and black boots. Bulbous tips curved their boots upwards making them look like rows of thick military candy-canes. I gazed ahead waiting for my vision to clear, hoping to see a familiar or safe looking face. The past few days since my last therapy session flashed through my mind and checking in with myself, I was certain I was innocent and didn&rsquo;t deserve this.</p>
<p>&lsquo;I haven&rsquo;t done anything wrong this time. I know I haven&rsquo;t. I haven&rsquo;t written on my windows or walls and there&rsquo;s nothing piled up in the front garden. It&rsquo;s just me sitting here on my sun lounger daydreaming. I haven&#039;t been singing too loudly lately, and not at all today. I haven&#039;t been talking to myself without headphones on to disguise it. Maybe I should tell them about the sentient beings milling about the house and garden, leaning out of the windows, raucously loud and demanding. I could try to describe how countless worlds converge, like our old double-rope skipping game. Two of us turning the two ropes in opposite directions for another of us to jump in, out and between them. I could tell them and I might still be safe and free afterwards.&rsquo;</p>
<p>I&rsquo;ve tried in vain to explain to other people who can&rsquo;t hear the sounds of the Sentients because it&rsquo;s all done in the sound of silence. Like the trill of a dog whistle, the Sentients&rsquo; sound is undeniably present but can rarely be perceived by people. It&rsquo;s as though silence spreads itself out like a cloud, dense and full to the brim with voices, music, intense emotions and constant activity. I intend to find out what causes it to be released like invisible showers into my mind. I imagine an ethereal operator hooking me up to the exchange network of another world, directly streaming the thunderous silent noise into me. I wonder how it never leaks even a drop of sound that my friends or neighbours can hear.</p>
<p>As though in response to my thoughts, the mental health spokesperson tells me not to worry. They introduce themselves and read me my rights. I could only nod and make a mental note to read the paperwork later. Focused on keeping calm, I recall my therapist&rsquo;s advice about finding a way to feel &lsquo;safe enough&rsquo;, which is the reason I started sitting out front. It helps to feel closer to other people that this &lsquo;thing&rsquo; isn&rsquo;t happening to. I need the proximity to normality, which I can almost touch when I&rsquo;m sitting outside. A passing contractor might ask me for directions and I know they&rsquo;ll assume that I&rsquo;m normal and I would throw back a cheery response, exactly as I would have done before all this mess began. The cantankerous building works, courier traffic, bikes and suitcase wheels on tiled pavements are all welcome sounds that I can immerse myself into when I&rsquo;m outside. I get to choose that noise, unlike in the house with its screaming walls that only feels like a home when my girls are in it. I&rsquo;ve been waiting patiently for the rapture to come or at least the sensation of completely losing my mind, which I&rsquo;m sure would be easier than hanging on to it like this.</p>
<p>The official claims include &lsquo;indecent exposure&rsquo; and &lsquo;refuses to take medication&rsquo;. They could see under my blanket that I was wearing a spaghetti strap vest and a pair of black cycling shorts. My girls wear them under their school uniform as modesty shorts and it made me sigh heavily to realise I&rsquo;ve no modesty left myself. It&rsquo;s as though, once you&rsquo;ve been locked up once, you&rsquo;re an easy target for anyone on a crusade. Ridiculous or not, their claims meant that they had a warrant and they could deprive me of my liberty again. They seemed a bit deflated, realising they wouldn&rsquo;t need to use the warrant&rsquo;s power to force entry to drag me off. This time, I was already outside and I was obviously not in my underwear. Nothing apparently wrong with me, they insisted on seeing inside the house.</p>
<p>11:24: I lead Dr Agboye and his team of three indoors. We left the rest of the intervention crew outside but kept the front door open. I was watched over throughout by officer 3333SE who looked exactly like the actor The Rock, but he was less stiff looking and very friendly. When Dr Agboye asked me for a doorway tour of the house, my mind flashed back to the last time I was sectioned. They came into my bedroom then, stood close to me while I tried to find and grab my things as quickly as possible. Today, I only had to show them from the doorway of each room that all was OK inside. I was confident that the rooms were fine but I have been confident in the past and have been wrong. We started on the ground floor and sweeping my arm invitingly across the threshold of my bedroom, I stepped back. In turn, they all leant heavily into my en-suite room balancing their feet respectfully on the carpet edging, making a show of checking each corner of the room.</p>
<p>Unusually the rest of the house is upstairs, so I lead everyone up to the landing. I invited them to look into the kitchen lounge, each of my two children&rsquo;s bedrooms and then their bathroom. I leant myself onto the corridor pillar which is marked with my girls&rsquo; and their best friends&rsquo; height over the years. The mental health inspectors all nod approvingly at the ordinary mess they see while moving room to room. Across the landing I glance through the open bathroom door into the mirror, wondering how the new visitors will affect the house&rsquo;s inhabitants. As usual it wasn&rsquo;t my reflection in the mirror, but Little Tasha looking back at me in my favourite yellow dress from an age I don&rsquo;t recall. I see her as if I&rsquo;m wearing my oculus headset, the ageless keeper of my forgotten memories, my vicious jailer and sometimes friend. The doctor brings me back to the present, asking me how I&rsquo;ve been coping with everyday tasks and in general. I answer well and keep a natural eye contact to reassure him I really am well. I read doubt in his face and noticed him exchange eye contact with his colleague. They left me with The Rock and went to congregate further down the street for a stand-up meeting about what to do with me.</p>
<p>They let me grab my chunky cardigan before we went back outside to sit and wait for a verdict. I&rsquo;ve been known for absconding in the past, so The Rock and his team formed a tight semi-circle around me whilst I scrolled through my phone. The last time they had a warrant out for me, they got me as far as the reception at Queen Elizabeth Hospital before I turned around, walked and ran away. I ran down Stadium Road, looking back every few seconds until I got to the pedestrian underpass and out of sight. I walked the long way home unsure what would happen next. They didn&rsquo;t come after me again until weeks later.</p>
<p>&lsquo;No-one plays Knock-down Ginger anymore, do they?&rsquo; I mutter mostly to myself.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hhmmm?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;You know? The old game?&rsquo; I look, but don&rsquo;t find recognition in any of their faces.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Don&rsquo;t think so.&rsquo; One of the many officers grumbles at me, frowning.</p>
<p>&lsquo;It&rsquo;d be anti-social behaviour today I guess.&rsquo; Letting my voice trail off, a smile cracks my face open remembering my favourite childhood game. I still remember the excitement of leaving our council estate and going to the road of two-storey houses nearby. The point of the game was to knock loudly on any nice-looking door and just run! We&rsquo;d run for our lives and it was the best fun I&rsquo;d ever had. We&rsquo;d find a corner or bush not too far off so we could watch the confusion, stifling our spluttering laughter with our hands. I think I grew up too late to see children like me running joyfully in starburst formations from my own front door.</p>
<p>Dr Agboye&rsquo;s head pokes through the barricade of officers, he walks towards me and I straighten myself in readiness. He tells me they&rsquo;ve decided not to section me today, tells me they&rsquo;re happy with what they&rsquo;ve seen and heard. He stresses that they reserve the right to do this all again. I see them all out of my front garden like houseguests to the gate, almost thanking them for coming. I watch the friendly forces retreating back to their vehicles and I sit outside until the scene fades away. With hours left before the girl&rsquo;s come back, I spend time tidying up the house removing any trace of today&rsquo;s events.</p>
<p>16:30: I&rsquo;m up in bed with my Parker jotter and journal, watching the small screen of my phone. As usual, I&rsquo;m looking for clues into my years of amnesia. Watching a documentary about &lsquo;The Family&rsquo;, an Australian cult that feels familiar somehow. I try sensing into what I&rsquo;m hearing, hoping it will awaken the memories I&rsquo;m told are now the sentient voices. Hearing the cult members speak about their captivity reminds me of the close call I had today, there is nothing worse than being locked away. I&rsquo;m reminded of the warrant papers I stuffed into my journal earlier and wonder about the vague wording, which only grants me an unsettling type of freedom.</p>
<p>&lsquo;The following person sought was found &#8211; Natasha Oseni. This warrant was executed on: 19/9/22 at 10:27am. A copy of this warrant (and notice of powers and rights) were handed to the occupier&rsquo;.</p>
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