I got beaten up on Tuesday. It happens. I'm in my bed right now and can't think of anything to do but write. Unfortnuately, that's a lot more difficult than it's been in the past. My right hand's pretty damn sore. Swollen. Colorful. Nothing's broken and since I'm left-handed . . . it could be worse. I suspect I'm done working with crazy people. The fact is, I could have been killed. It's remarkable, all the thngs that went through my head as the bad guy was hitting and kicking me. I remember thinking that if he thought I was unconscious or even dead, he might stop. I had a pet posseum once--seemed to work for him. And the bad guy stopped the attack once I stopped screaming and trying to get away from him. At least, he stopped attacking me. But then I heard the screaming coming from the main room and there was nothing I could do to help anyone.
Thisw is not a linear tale. In the beginning, there were 2 of us in a small office with the bad guy. I was sitting at the desk--Roger's desk--and hew was standing between where I was sitting and our filing cabinets. We had just had a goal planning session with the bad guy (BG) and his mother. Mom left. BG stood up and approached Roger, then started punching him in the head. He couldn't get away--there was no place to run. I was sitting, knowing that we're not supposed to fight beck. DIFFUSE! DIFFUSE! DIFFUSE! He just wouldn't stop hitting him. I had to do something. There wasn't enough room for me to stand up so I rolled as close as I could get and started kicking the BG--aiming for his "junk" as that part of the male anatomy is commonly referred to these days. That allowed Roger time to crawl out. His head was a mess and I'm surprised that he could navigate to the door.
Now it's me and the BG. Then, as I mentioned above, I played possum and he went on to beat up someone who was more fun. I wasn't hurting at all--God's gift to the brutalized is adrenaline. I got to the office door and shut it. Heavy door--solid lock. Got to the phone to call 911--phone didn't work. I actually had the presence of mind to unplug the damn thing and reprogram it.Lucifer's gift to the brutalizers is new telephone technology. I finally got 911--she was wonderful. Cops and the fire department and an ambulance ride to the hospital. I didn't even know where I was sore until the next day. Everybody at work feels sad and sorry for us. We might even feel sorry for ourselves. What happened did something to me that can't be quantified and described like the concussion and bruises and sprangs. I'm still working through that part. It'll be a few days. The really is something wrong with my arm and I'm going to have to have it checked out. At the time sources of pain seemed quite inconsequential. The BG, we later found out, had been seeking a gun for the last 2 weeks. All of our clients were afraid of him so no one told us.
My son is absolutely beside himself. He says that the BG stole something from me that I can never get back. He's not exactly sure what it is but he alludes to "safety," and "security," stuff like that. He's wrong. Something was stolen from me, and I will never get it back. The BG robbed me of an illusion. While I was watching a man I've come to admire and respect and care about as a human being rather than a as coworker, being beaten--terrified he was going to be injured severely or even killed--and there was nothing I could do because I'm not 42 anymore. There was a time I could have diffused the situation because I had the power if not the strength, to take charge of the situation. The BG robbed me of the illusion that I have that kind of power, that kind of strength. So what do I do now? Yep, this is gonna take a few days to sort out.
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