well, well, now. Aren't we on a roll! What with all this talk of abuse, and the abused... and all the many rages such talk exhumes.
Saturday night, I took down this journal, and considered taking down more than that—I mean, of course, the rest of the site. A tantrum. Then, for the second time in two months—the first since my sister's death—I shook the bed in sobs, which my pillow kindly buried.
A man designated here as Mr. F (his initial) tried to run me down at work Saturday. But in a courtroom that would be considered an inadmissible conclusion. I say that with only a mere touch—far less than my usual dose—of cynicism. For, in this case, much is to be gained by sticking to just the facts, and most of it gained by me. So let me say it this way: Mr. F operated his vehicle in a way that I perceived as an immediate and lethal danger to myself, at a speed and direction through a confining alley which required me to leap from its path and climb up onto a chain-link fence. His actions were aggressive immediately before he entered his vehicle and drove it in a way that scared the shit right out of me and everybody else watching—Mr. F had been fighting with a patient in the parking-lot, and physically resisting the efforts of other staff who had sought to intervene. And Mr. F's actions remained aggressive when he exited his vehicle, at a point thirty feet beyond where it would have impacted me, where he violently attacked John, a detox counselor. We might safely assume Mr. F's indiscriminate aggression remained in full force during the intervening 6 second 'rage-ride', when I nearly lost my life. This was not merely drug-induced reckless endangerment; this was assault with intent to kill or maim.
This pathetic soul—probably suffering with more pain than I have ever known—missed by inches the grandchildren of the man he had been fighting. I was at a singularly advantageous position from which to make that estimate; I looked down the alley just as he swerved into it and accelerated toward me. I clearly saw every inch of space between those screaming kids and his deadly car. Their heads were the same height as the headlight.
i object; we know nothing about the condition of the defendant's soul, nor is it germane to this case. Furthermore, the characterization, 'deadly car' is prejudicial since it has not been proved the defendant used his vehicle in any lethal manner, whatsoever." Yeah? Go fuck yourself. Because this is never going to see a courtroom; Mr. F was home sleeping off—or further cultivating—his buzz before I even finished writing the incident report. The cop told me point-blank, "..even the ticket I wrote isn't gonna stick," as a discouragement from my stated wish to sign an assault complaint. It was just past 3:00 PM. "I've just gotten this all resolved, the guy in the lobby [the grandfather] is all set [read: ..is letting it go without making me write an assault report] and now YOU want to sign a complaint? The lady from across the street is telling me this guy [Mr F] was the one getting beat-up..."
*you know something? I got a problem with authority to begin with. Beginning with... well, you know who, way back when I was too small to like getting fucked, and extending all the way up from those roots to pollute, if only slightly, even the highest branch. Every act of abuse took place under color of authority, and that color was not distinct, but shaded all the way from pure to putrescent. So forgive me, won't you?, if I have no fucking clue how to act, with authority, on my own behalf? I was the admissions supervisor at a detox on a day when a drunk nearly killed me with his car. Which is it, then; abusive of me to file a complaint, or abusive of me not to? Am I going to hurt his chances for recovery by letting him go? Will I benefit by subjecting him to a reckless judicial system in which justice is random?
And once this dilemma—and ten-thousand more—are resolved, and I know the key between the right use of authority and its abuse, which way do you think I will turn it?
Because I really don't know.
on Saturday, it felt like abuse when I told them what he did, and this mortal threat had his handcuffs taken off, and I told them what he did, and everybody walked away like nothing happened, and I told them what he did...
I was supposed to work ten hours Sunday, and ten hours today. I worked 1 hour on Sunday, and I left. I have not been able to go back, because it does not feel safe. It feels—like abuse.
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