Feel Free To Run Over Me!

Last weekend, the sports team I coach was volunteering at a tournament as a fundraiser for our team. Because we're the oldest team in our region, we get "parking lot detail". That's considered the worst of the worst in jobs~people love to abuse parking lot attendants.

This tournament is HUGE. It's one of the largest in the southern part of the state. It's also extremely well-run, and each year the board gets positive feedback on how smoothly things go. But parking is at a premium, so the board has worked out ways that ensure that every team in the tournament gets an equal shot at parking spots within the complex.

There are two lots available. One lot is close to where the very small children are playing. The other, much larger lot, is closer to where the older kids play. The tournament board sends out a set amount of "parking passes" to each team entered in the tournament for the coach to distribute to his team. How he distributes them is up to him. There WILL be people who do not get them. There's simply not enough room within the lots. There IS, however, room outside the lots, on the street. There are also a few people who capitalize on the situation by offering $5/day parking on private property, and we will direct people without parking passes to them. Now each coach has all this information in their tournament information packet, and is supposed to pass it along to the parents on his or her team. Ask yourself....do you suppose they do it? Nooo...and I'll tell you why: because most of them pass them out to their favourites, and forget the rest of the parents. Or, they forget entirely and don't want the crap that's going to be heaped on them when the parents finally find out.

So...on the first day of the tournament, here come the cars~thousands. And despite the "10 mph" signs, the people are wheeling into the parking lots FAST. And we have people posted every fifteen yards or so, trying to slow them down, and God help us, to check their parking passes. The first people at the gate have to stand virtually in FRONT of the vehicles, because these people mostly know the rules, and if they can slip past, they will. So they get the "I'm sorry, this is permit parking only" speech, and they get ugly. I mean uuuuugglllly! Forget that they're in a vehicle. Forget that we're simply volunteers following rules. Forget that we're either in the burning sun or dust or driving rain for seven or eight hours at a time. Forget that it's their COACH'S fault that they aren't parking in that lot. All they care about is that they are going to take out their temper on the person standing in front of them. And all the better if the person they can take out their temper on is a relatively helpless teenager (there are a few) who really doesn't want to argue with a bully in a 4x4 who's really not slowing down or stopping while he curses at them and continues to wheel on past to the next poor sucker who's trying to flag him down....

So they make it to the next stop, and there encounter a stronger person, maybe an adult who's done this before, and is a bit less inclined to let them muscle their way through. And that's where the excuses start...

"I have to drop of my child". Fine, drop off is over there..."But it's not close enough to the field; I need to drop him off by the snack bar". No, the snack bar parking is not a drop off location and we've already had to kick three cars out for illegal parking when the OTHER parents said they were dropping off, and then parked and went to watch a game, so I'm sorry, you'll have to drop here, in the drop-off zone.

"I'm dropping off food for our fund raiser booth." No problem-how long will that take you? "I have no idea. I have to drop off and then set up...". No, you can't park and set up. You can drop it off and then come out. There is parking available there and there and there...."

"My coach took my parking pass; he came in earlier. I phoned him and I'm supposed to meet him in here and get it from him"...cool. Park over there outside the gate and call him. He can bring it to you OUTSIDE.

"They sent me the wrong colour parking pass." Ya, they did...THAT'S FROM LAST YEAR. Nice try.

"They sent me the wrong colour parking pass. I'm supposed to be in this lot, but they gave me the other lot's pass. All my parents' parking passes are in here and I'm the coach!" Well, best I can do is tell you to trade with one of your parents.

"But I parked in here earlier and no one stopped me." Lucky you. Luck ran out, dude. Who'd you run over to get in there?

"I just have to pick up some information from the info booth." Then you won't mind parking over there since you're only going to be here for a minute.

"I need to pick up my kid". Great...pull over to the side. "But he's expecting me where I dropped him off. How'd you get in to drop him off? You weren't supposed to be IN there. Don't LIE.

What amazes me is how often adults will lie to get what they want. And what further amazes me is how purely mean they'll get when they're either caught in a lie and how they'll take their anger and frustration out on younger people, and even some adults. And what's TRULY amazing is that they'll resort to DANGEROUS behaviour in order to avoid doing what the vast majority of others are doing: keeping the rules. What is it in their minds that sets them apart from others? What is it that makes them so special that they aren't governed by the same guidelines as the rest of us?

I nearly got run over this weekend. Twice. The first time was by a woman in a navy SUV who decided she wanted in despite not having the necessary pass. She managed to bully her way past the first two checkpoints. However, I was at the final checkpoint, at the actual gate to the lot. She had to drive past me to get in, and by this point, she was PISSED. Obviously, she had simply ignored the others who had said NO. When I pointed out that she could not park without her pass, she had a hissy fit and literally screamed at me that she was going in to drop off her kid, and did not wait for me to answer. She hit the gas and barely missed clipping my hip, which would have thrown me to the ground. Gravel sprayed everywhere. I sent a golfcart with supervisors after her to make sure she left immediately after. I, after all, had a RADIO (there's something about a radio that makes one feel important...Ooooo)!

The second situation happened the next day. While we were directing traffic into the 'big' lot, we were filling according to game location. I had to block a certain section being held closed at that point. Me and an orange pylon. Yippee. This utter dumbass redneck in a huge white dodge ram comes whippin' into the park. He's being directed towards his spot when he decides that it's not where he wants to go. So he changes direction in mid-stride and starts to turn left into a closed lane. I hold up my hand and step over to talk to him. Keep in mind that at this point, it's early Sunday morning and I'm still giving people the benefit of the doubt, thinking maybe he doesn't know better. Uh, ya right. He ignores me, and keeps moving. So I step in front of him and towards his drivers' window to talk to him; he pulls further to the left to try and go around me, runs over the pylon, narrowly missing ME...but seriously pissing me off in the process. So instead of stopping, I move in front of him and stand my ground, thinking, "Screw you, assmunch, you've pissed me off now". The white truck just keeps on coming. My husband, standing one lane over, apparently thought he was about to see his wife get run over. I felt bad for that. Dorkboy finally rolls down his window and says his vehicle is too long to go where we want him to go and it's just going to make it hard for everyone else if he parks where we're directing him.

Guess what? Every space is exactly the same length. Guess what else? His is not the first, nor the last, of the long vehicles that are being directed. Many are already there. In fact, trucks and SUVs are the majority of the vehicles being parked. NICE TRY. Gawd, if you're going to make something up, at least make it INTERESTING.

On both days, I dealt with a dude in a BMW740i convertible. Oh, he was just chock-full of self-importance! His plates read Universal City...that should have been a tip-off right from the beginning. He was NOT happy about not being allowed in the lot; he was important, dammit! But unfortunately for him, when these people run up against me at the gate, I tend to get a bit bull-headed. That's the "joy" of being BPD. Push me and see what happens. HA.

So he argued. I argued back. He argued harder. I argued back. He argued louder. I argued back. He spun out and dropped his kid, then went outside to park. And in order to "put me in my place", when he came back, he decided to "slip me a ten" as a donation to the tournament. I pleasantly pointed him in the direction of the Information tent. But his arrogance being what it was, he again insisted that "I" take his $10 as a donation to the tournament. I again directed him to the information tent. At that point, I felt an apology would have been more in order.

The next day, my husband was working the other side of the park, in the "big" lot. He was standing at a corner, pushing cars into a rapidly-filling lot. Next to him was a designated "no parking" zone for the trash carts to come in and out to empty dumpsters, allow entry to emergency vehicles and tournament field runners.

Suddenly a BMW740i convertible pulls into the No Parking zone and stops. My husband steps over and politely informs him that he cannot park there and directs him approximately 50 yards further down. Now keep in mind these three things: 1) It is CLEARLY MARKED NO PARKING, and you have to squeeze between signs to get into the space; 2) My husband is insanely polite; 3) It would have taken him 10 seconds to move 50 yards to park in the proper spot.

But does he? No. He turns to my husband and says..."I'm not parking. I'm talking on the phone." And up goes his window, as he turns his back. PRICK. PRICK. PRICK.

There was one area that was set up as an "entrance only" near the back of the park for a while during the busiest part of the day in order to get people into the back of the lot. One woman decided she was exiting this single-lane road. When informed she couldn't, she faked turning back onto the right road, then pealed out anyway, narrowly missing the 16-year old boy who was directing traffic at that point. I raced after her, but she knew better than to stop. I couldn't get her plate number.

We did this for 8 hours Saturday, 8 hours Sunday. We endured cold weather and rain, as well as a freezing rain storm on Sunday. It DID get nice on Sunday in the afternoon. On Monday, I was back out, doing other things that were far more pleasant: selling food at our fundraising booth.

I don't get it. We are volunteers, and contrary to popular belief, we were not trying to make people's lives more difficult. We were trying to make it EASIER! It would have been an unqualified nightmare if the parking lots had simply been left unattended. It wasn't our faults that the coaches had neglected to inform their parents that only a certain number of spaces had been allocated in those lots.

For those of you who ever have reason to be in a similar situation:

Volunteers are simply doing what they're told. They're helping their kids, or their organization, and the last thing they need or deserve is abuse. Try a smile. Oh, how sweet it would have been to have someone smile!

Now I know there are exceptions to every rule, so this won't apply to everyone, but what I discovered is:

There is a direct correlation between the cost of a car and just how big an asshole one is.

HIM

There are times, late at night, when I'm sitting next to him and he's sleeping, that I'm overcome with the urge to touch him. So I'll slip down beneath the covers very carefully and slide my body next to his, without disturbing him~and he'll radiate warmth. Then without waking him, I'll rest my lips ever-so-lightly against his skin; never his lips, but his back or shoulder, or hand ... and let my cheek linger there as I inhale the scent of his skin.

Sometimes I just watch him, moved by the love that's grown between us over time; heart-pounding, exciting love; humbling, unsophisticated love. Never do I tire of searching his face for the familiarity and kindness I've grown so used to finding there. I know he'll have one arm curled around a pillow, and I know that at least one part of him will be touching me ... because touching me brings him peace. And if he's not too deeply asleep when I lean in and kiss him, he will always, without fail, instinctively reach out and wrap his hand around me.

Once in a while, I get to do this when he's awake, when we find time away from kids and chores and commitments and insanity. We can curl up in our room by ourselves, and I get to stare into the warmest hazel eyes ever seen. And that's when you truly do see the depths of goodness in this man I've committed my life to. There's no pretense or meanness; just a man who loves his wife and takes his vow to love, honour and cherish seriously...as do I.

I love you.

Of 18 Year Olds and Friends

For obvious reasons, mental illness makes it difficult to maintain friendships. Most of the time, I consider myself relatively reasonable, and figure I can at least hold rational conversations and get my side of things through to people in a way that promotes some level of understanding. That said, it doesn't mean the people who I'm communicating with LIKE me. It just means I've managed to get my message across.

The point here is that I have few close friends. And trying to explain to them just how truly ill I am when I've spent years trying to hide it is a near impossibility. Now I'm trying to figure out why I ever bothered to TRY.

What I've discovered this week is that there is a huge prejudice against mental illness in this society. For some reason, people simply can't wrap their minds around the fact that it's not a weakness, or a choice or a damned lifestyle, but rather as much a sickness in my brain as epilepsy or tourette's or a tumour.

It was actually suggested to me this week that the only thing standing between me and mental health is telling God I accept it.

Considering this came from the last of my friends...my best friend...whom had just finished telling me that everything I had said and written was not ME, and made no sense, and if I just accepted what she was telling me, everything would be fine, it was a huge slap in the face. The slap to the other cheek was that she had no idea how much of a part God plays in my life~no idea at all. No idea that I have indeed accepted God in my life; that God was a part of my life from the day I was born and that the years I turned my back were an anomaly; that indeed, I consider God the only true hope for some sort of salvation from this horror because heaven knows the drugs and therapy aren't doing their job.

And what a slap in the face to know that I'm considered a step below my best friend on her scale of christianity...yet what does it say about the person who has judged me, and found me lacking, because of a chemical imbalance that a doctor cannot define or stabilize? My last friend is gone.

On top of this, I have an 18-year-old living here to whom we've offered a home out of the goodness of our hearts, who insists on telling me how life is; despite the fact that I live this horror day in, day out, SHE STILL KNOWS MORE THAN I DO. You can't imagine the frustration of fighting the mania and depression, taking and changing meds that don't work, dealing with side effects, and then having the self-righteousness of youthful arrogance telling you it's "just doctors giving you pills to make you come back over and over when they don't work anyway".

Do I sound rational? I am, today.

It's a fleeting thing...sometimes I am and sometimes I'm not. Sometimes my thought processes are realistic and rational and sometimes they're just absolute shit. How do I know that? Because when I rethink them when I'm rational, I recognize they're nuts!

A few days ago, my husband spoke with my therapist and discussed how to have me admitted to a psychiatric hospital, should the mania escalate, or result in another psychotic episode. You know the drill: if I'm a danger to myself, or others, or suicidal, away I go. The upside is that it results in a new addition to my wardrobe: the winter-white jacket with the snazzy back buckles...

I should be relieved. At least I'd get some peace from the racing lunacy of my mind. Unfortunately, it just makes me sad that it's come to this. At a time in my life when things should be perfect, they're heading towards disaster like a 747 in a death roll.

Crazy

When I started this blog, the purpose was to watch my process through recovery~~ what a joke.

I believe that somewhere, somehow, there's a higher power that's watching this, and laughing uproariously at it all, thinking that this, somehow, is the greatest joke of all~that this utter lunacy has to be simply the most hysterically stupid thing ever witnessed by man or beast.

Just for entertainment, we've developed the joys of mania added to depression; ok, mania isn't a joy. I think that the general public think of mania as a "high", but for most of us, or at least for me and those I know, it's not. It's simply one more hell separating the real YOU from your functioning mind. Agitation, anxiety, restlessness, inability to breathe, concentrate, pricking at my skin from the inside. I want to get out, but I don't know how.

I'm screaming, screaming, screaming, in my brain.

And sometimes on the outside.

My husband and I, we had this 'thing' we did, that would help me when things got this bad. He knew when I was out of control and he knew that the more structure I had in my life, the happier I was. I hate to liken it to a dog, or a child, but that's how it is. If I knew exactly where the lines were, I was ok. If I knew someone would stand up and say "NO" each and every time I said or did the wrong thing, I was happy; I felt safe and secure, and for a borderline personality patient, or a bipolar disorder patient, safety and security are what allow you to live as a useful member of society.

It doesn't much matter what the "thing" is. The fact is that on Saturday, my husband said he simply can't do it anymore. It takes too much out, and it hurts him too much and he can't do it anymore. Well, that's rather a simplistic explanation of how it all went down with so much screaming and crying and carrying on. Both of us left in tears...and me in a panic. I lost control in the most dramatic of fashion (so I understand from his accounts later),him shovelling valium into me, me insisting that it was time to leave (to where, I do not know), just that I leave. I remember that. I needed to get away. Just go. I felt panicked and trapped. My safety net was gone and now I'm walking a tightrope with nothing but thousands of feet of space between me and the black hole beneath me.....

I knew, at some point, that it would happen like this. I knew, at some point, that he would have to say, "It's enough". I wasn't ready. I'm not ready to try to fight this illness on my own with no help, no backup, and no escape plan when things go wrong.

I had safety and security and now I have none.

My husband loves me. He swears he'll stay with me for the rest of my life, and ride this out. So what? What's the point of staying with someone who's fucked up beyond all recognition? What's the point of pledging your undying love to a lunatic? WHY? What can I do for HIM? At least before, after we had done our "thing", it brought a level of normalcy to our life for a while, and I was a regular, loving wife. Now I'm just crazy. I'm crazy.

I don't know what to do or where to go. I spent the weekend hoping I'd die, but I'm not afforded the luxury of helping it along because I recognize the selfishness in that, so it's just got to be this quiet thing that stays in my head. I'm desperate to hurt myself. I'll spend the next hours fighting the urge to find razor blades and bandages and alcohol and butterflies and polysporin.

I'm lost and desperate and alone.

I've been alone before. I raised my kids alone and worked alone and kept a bipolar disorder and BPD relatively under control and hidden from those around me. I've got to be able to do it again. I've got to find the strength somewhere inside to make myself do it alone.

Fuck drugs.
Fuck psychologists.
Fuck psychiatrists.
Fuck letting your guard down.

The only good thing out of this is that I learned a lesson: there's one person in life to trust. Even if she's crazy.

Bo