(no subject)
Things had been going okay at work going into tonight. Chase* hadn't been giving me any problems for a few weeks now, and if he was howling at work, it was okay because I had Charles Mingus and Guns Germs and Steel to keep me company.
When Chase yells for help I mostly ignore him; I've communicated with him often enough that until he treats me like a human being I've nothing to say to him, and if he's not going to accept my support he can sit there, but I'm not going to present myself as a target for him anymore. As the staff is encouraging him to be more independent, this is fine; either he gives up or he gets into his wheelchair all his own. Usually he sees me in the kitchen and turns around. Tonight I was on the computer in the living room when he got up. He saw me and began to back away but starting yelling at me instead. He was pointing toward the door. This means he wants me to leave. I told him I wasn't leaving, it wasn't up for him to say I could leave, and if he didn't want any help he should go back to his room. Instead he goes to the kitchen. He's in there for a long time, so I go in to see what he's doing. I found him trying to erase my name from the dry-erase board (which has the day's schedule and who's working what shift; my name can be reliably found on the night shift five nights a week). I told him that erasing my name wouldn't make any difference, and anyway the board wasn't his to touch, so if he didn't want anything he should go back to his room. This led to a stand-off in the kitchen between me telling him to go to his room and him pointing to the door and yelling. All of a sudden he threw something at me (the towel he was using to erase my name). Chase has thrown plenty of things at me and has tried to kick and punch me, but this is the first time I really hadn't seen it coming. Before I could even register it, I reacted; I grabbed the broomstick with both hands and knocked it on the floor, and I screamed at him.
He left.
My patience was diminishing at a pretty good clip during this episode, so it's not like I was Mr. Rogers and there was this sudden transformation between nice, conciliatory Christopher and Nurse Ratchet. But I snapped, and it's left me pretty shaken. The broom doesn't bother me so much (my position wasn't so much aggressive/threatening as it was a defensive, and anyway what on earth could I've done?) as much as what happened when I screamed. Most of my screaming is confined to yelling at the Bush administration via the car windshield or behind a microphone, which is necessarily theatrical. This was genuine; it felt like I had no control over it. Chase's literature notes a tendency for violent outbursts; throughout this whole thing I've been worried about what happens if he decides to come out and have one. When he threw the towel at me, although obviously a towel can't hurt me the sudden aggressive act just frightened the hell out of me. And I just reacted.
When I was nine, a few months after I was assaulted, I was playing softball in the backyard of a distant relative's house down in Virginia. It was a family game and my uncle was pitching to me. Like every nine-year-old boy everywhere, I'm sure, I felt a lot of pressure to perform well in sports, and like a lot of them I performed very poorly, though at the the time it felt like I was the only one. I struck out five times in a row that day, and the last time was the pitch that ended the game. I remember but I don't remember: I raised the aluminum bat I was swinging and started running after my uncle. I don't remember how they got me to stop, but I remember it was a big deal and we never went back to that relative's house. I don't know if it was the cumulation of frustration with baseball or the embarassment infront of my family or the oversensitivity to teasing or feelings of futility in the face of the assault and constant verbal abuse at school or what. But I went after my uncle. I was going to hit him with it. Hard.
I was young, but there are times when I wasn't so young. The point is I feel like this job brings out that aspect of me I'd most like to bury, or anyway I'd least like to see. It's ugly and nasty, and it fleshes out when I'm losing my cool with someone who has an IQ of 40. Even when things are calm, I sometimes catch myself envisioning scenarios where I can show him who's boss, some of them rather cruel, before rationality takes over, which usually does before my good humor, at which point is immediately replaced by six hours of guilt and self-flagellation.
But, what am I going to do?
***************
To think, before this happened I was depressed because my social life is for shit.
Today was Kenari's birthday, and there was drinking and dancing at Jake's to celebrate. Kenari and I have squashed the beef, and although I'm happy the friendship's resumed I'm still somewhat keeping her at arm's length. (Whether this has to do with lingering resentment or a kind of defense mechanism is a fair question. I think it's a little of both. Part of hashing it out was that I more or less spilled my guts about how neurotic I was about liking her. She didn't have anything to say in response, except that she could relate in other situations.) Last year was one of the all-time inebriated Christopher appearances, including writhing on a karaoke stage, climbing on top of a television, and playing spin the bottle. This year I had to work at 11:30 and there weren't as many people that I knew. It's not like I had a bad time or that anyone made me uncomfortable, but I was feeling kinda woozy (either from the sleep aid or incipient illness is unknown) and I couldn't drink because I had to work, so dancing carelessly was sort of, um, hard. Kenari was there in make up, tiara and doing jelloshots. So good for her.
I saw Amelia and Sam, both of whom I hadn't seen in as long as I can remember. The conversation was embarssingly stunted with Sam and I. He's turning twenty-two in a month and graduating in a quarter. We had some really intense conversations last year and more or less saved my life on a few occasions, and I greatly admire and like him but we're in vastly different places right now. He's doing a lot of contract work with Diane, which is something I wished I'd done instead of fucking Patience and rock journalism. He also has a lot of prospects for his future, which is something I don't feel I have.
When I got to work I called Kate, who was hanging out with her friends, who were all into being young and boisterous. We talked for a while and then she got a ride home. Then the Chase incident happened.
The other night I saw Jim and we hung out with Woody, and it was a lot of fun. They were talking about their jam session they had, and it made me happy that people I know are doing great and creative things but sad and jealous that I'm not, and I'm not even sure it's my fault. But my schedule isn't really open the way it's set up for work right now, and I feel like Rivers Cuomo in "The Good Life." I'm not even entirely sure what it is I'm supposed to be doing, but whatever it is it takes up all of my time.
Okay, I need to do chores.
When Chase yells for help I mostly ignore him; I've communicated with him often enough that until he treats me like a human being I've nothing to say to him, and if he's not going to accept my support he can sit there, but I'm not going to present myself as a target for him anymore. As the staff is encouraging him to be more independent, this is fine; either he gives up or he gets into his wheelchair all his own. Usually he sees me in the kitchen and turns around. Tonight I was on the computer in the living room when he got up. He saw me and began to back away but starting yelling at me instead. He was pointing toward the door. This means he wants me to leave. I told him I wasn't leaving, it wasn't up for him to say I could leave, and if he didn't want any help he should go back to his room. Instead he goes to the kitchen. He's in there for a long time, so I go in to see what he's doing. I found him trying to erase my name from the dry-erase board (which has the day's schedule and who's working what shift; my name can be reliably found on the night shift five nights a week). I told him that erasing my name wouldn't make any difference, and anyway the board wasn't his to touch, so if he didn't want anything he should go back to his room. This led to a stand-off in the kitchen between me telling him to go to his room and him pointing to the door and yelling. All of a sudden he threw something at me (the towel he was using to erase my name). Chase has thrown plenty of things at me and has tried to kick and punch me, but this is the first time I really hadn't seen it coming. Before I could even register it, I reacted; I grabbed the broomstick with both hands and knocked it on the floor, and I screamed at him.
He left.
My patience was diminishing at a pretty good clip during this episode, so it's not like I was Mr. Rogers and there was this sudden transformation between nice, conciliatory Christopher and Nurse Ratchet. But I snapped, and it's left me pretty shaken. The broom doesn't bother me so much (my position wasn't so much aggressive/threatening as it was a defensive, and anyway what on earth could I've done?) as much as what happened when I screamed. Most of my screaming is confined to yelling at the Bush administration via the car windshield or behind a microphone, which is necessarily theatrical. This was genuine; it felt like I had no control over it. Chase's literature notes a tendency for violent outbursts; throughout this whole thing I've been worried about what happens if he decides to come out and have one. When he threw the towel at me, although obviously a towel can't hurt me the sudden aggressive act just frightened the hell out of me. And I just reacted.
When I was nine, a few months after I was assaulted, I was playing softball in the backyard of a distant relative's house down in Virginia. It was a family game and my uncle was pitching to me. Like every nine-year-old boy everywhere, I'm sure, I felt a lot of pressure to perform well in sports, and like a lot of them I performed very poorly, though at the the time it felt like I was the only one. I struck out five times in a row that day, and the last time was the pitch that ended the game. I remember but I don't remember: I raised the aluminum bat I was swinging and started running after my uncle. I don't remember how they got me to stop, but I remember it was a big deal and we never went back to that relative's house. I don't know if it was the cumulation of frustration with baseball or the embarassment infront of my family or the oversensitivity to teasing or feelings of futility in the face of the assault and constant verbal abuse at school or what. But I went after my uncle. I was going to hit him with it. Hard.
I was young, but there are times when I wasn't so young. The point is I feel like this job brings out that aspect of me I'd most like to bury, or anyway I'd least like to see. It's ugly and nasty, and it fleshes out when I'm losing my cool with someone who has an IQ of 40. Even when things are calm, I sometimes catch myself envisioning scenarios where I can show him who's boss, some of them rather cruel, before rationality takes over, which usually does before my good humor, at which point is immediately replaced by six hours of guilt and self-flagellation.
But, what am I going to do?
***************
To think, before this happened I was depressed because my social life is for shit.
Today was Kenari's birthday, and there was drinking and dancing at Jake's to celebrate. Kenari and I have squashed the beef, and although I'm happy the friendship's resumed I'm still somewhat keeping her at arm's length. (Whether this has to do with lingering resentment or a kind of defense mechanism is a fair question. I think it's a little of both. Part of hashing it out was that I more or less spilled my guts about how neurotic I was about liking her. She didn't have anything to say in response, except that she could relate in other situations.) Last year was one of the all-time inebriated Christopher appearances, including writhing on a karaoke stage, climbing on top of a television, and playing spin the bottle. This year I had to work at 11:30 and there weren't as many people that I knew. It's not like I had a bad time or that anyone made me uncomfortable, but I was feeling kinda woozy (either from the sleep aid or incipient illness is unknown) and I couldn't drink because I had to work, so dancing carelessly was sort of, um, hard. Kenari was there in make up, tiara and doing jelloshots. So good for her.
I saw Amelia and Sam, both of whom I hadn't seen in as long as I can remember. The conversation was embarssingly stunted with Sam and I. He's turning twenty-two in a month and graduating in a quarter. We had some really intense conversations last year and more or less saved my life on a few occasions, and I greatly admire and like him but we're in vastly different places right now. He's doing a lot of contract work with Diane, which is something I wished I'd done instead of fucking Patience and rock journalism. He also has a lot of prospects for his future, which is something I don't feel I have.
When I got to work I called Kate, who was hanging out with her friends, who were all into being young and boisterous. We talked for a while and then she got a ride home. Then the Chase incident happened.
The other night I saw Jim and we hung out with Woody, and it was a lot of fun. They were talking about their jam session they had, and it made me happy that people I know are doing great and creative things but sad and jealous that I'm not, and I'm not even sure it's my fault. But my schedule isn't really open the way it's set up for work right now, and I feel like Rivers Cuomo in "The Good Life." I'm not even entirely sure what it is I'm supposed to be doing, but whatever it is it takes up all of my time.
Okay, I need to do chores.