Most Fun Weekend Ever
[dropcap]I[/dropcap] say this tongue in cheek. I was very very angry this weekend. But at the same time, I was very scared. You see, my weekend involved getting hog tied by the police, carried out of my apartment in a canvas burrito-stretcher, injected with haldol, and shackled for hours to a hospital bed. How was your weekend?
How can I even explain it? It all started when I decided I’d go to this nightclub for a furry gathering. There lots and lots of furries there, and lots of fursuits. I didn’t want to go alone because I didn’t have a fursuit, so I wasn’t going to go until my friend Chantelle was going to go. I’d meet her there. That was the plan.
So I get there an hour late, and I spend the next hour looking and looking for Chantelle to no avail. For some reason I’m very sensitive to furries, and I just could not bring myself to introduce myself to anyone. I was so alone, it was very sad. I sat next to this other guy after I said, “You look exciting, can I sit next to you?” I was joking about the exciting part. So I sat next to him. He was a larger guy wearing a panda hoody with ears, had a porn-stache and was drinking a rum and coke through a swizzle stick. He kept looking at the dancing fursuits and smiling. It was creepy… so I moved.
[pullquote-left]He wrestled me to the ground where I bit him twice and drew blood.[/pullquote-left] I waited for an hour and Chantelle never showed up. I get in my car, after feeling so alone, and cried and cried. The people looked happy, and had friends, and the fursuits were beautiful… and I just kinda sucked. I felt like my life was pretty shitty. Talk about a perspective shift!
Now, I’ll be the first to admit since my nurse practitioner pointed it out. This is where I made the mistake of not employing any coping skills. I drove home getting angrier and angrier and angrier until I was more angry than I’ve ever been. Chantelle texted me and said she was two hours late, but I was already halfway back up I-25. I think it was at this point I crossed some strange threshold where I just wasn’t in control anymore. My anger was in control, my brain had gone all screwy.
Now I understand if its difficult to make the connection between a completely botched furry nightclub outing and what’s about to happen next. To explain it would involve recounting years of psychological development. Suffice it to say, it affected me very very deeply. I know it sounds like stupid shit, and really it is, really stupid shit.
[pullquote-right]Except, this time I was on the TV rather than watching it.[/pullquote-right] So I got home and immediately tried to stab myself in the leg with a steak knife. Maus stopped me and wrestled with me, where upon I cut my finger. He wrestled me to the ground where I bit him twice and drew blood. He was calling the police while he held me down.
I was out of control. I had crossed some threshold that I couldn’t go back from. I was gone. My brain was fried.
The police came and when I tried to escape from Maus’ hold, they took control of the situation just like they do on COPs. Except, this time I was on the TV rather than watching it.
[pullquote-left]I was in such pain that when they injected me with a second shot of haldol, it didn’t conk me out.[/pullquote-left] They held me down and handcuffed me immediately, and they bound my feet together. I struggled and writhed under the hold periodically, like a wild animal. I was a crazy person in crazy town! As I continued to struggle, right before they put me in this restrained padded stretcher, they tied my feet and arms together like the animal I was.
Then things get a little hazy. They took me out of the building and put me in some kind of car, probably an ambulance. I couldn’t open my eyes so I really didn’t see anything. That’s when they ripped my shirt and injected me with haldol. That’s probably why I can’t remember this part.
Next thing I knew I was being carried into the hospital whereupon I was put on a big hospital bed and shackled with these leather cuffs that took a key. They did it in such a way I would be most incapacitated, raising one of my own arms. Keeping that position for three-four hours really hurt! I was in such pain that when they injected me with a second shot of haldol, it didn’t conk me out.
Despite that I was able to slip my left hand out of the shackles and wield it around like a weapon. I allegedly swung at a nurse. Thank goodness I didn’t hit him/her. They padded my left hand shackle cause my wrists are so small.
[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o there I was totally incapacitated and doped up on anti-psychotics. It was at this point I was starting to calm down, most likely the result of the medication. Maus came in. He was awesome. He told me how much he loved me and how exceptional of a person I was, and that’s all that mattered. He told me he’s never met anyone like me, and that often times neither has anybody else. I wasn’t in the state to appreciate it fully at the time, but I remember it now and it was really really compassionate. He wasn’t mad or anything. That’s a husband.
When he told the guy from TouchStone how he disarmed me and held me down, the guy looked at him like he was batman.
The next many hours (until 4:00 PM the Sunday, starting at midnight on Saturday) I eventually returned to being a normal person. I looked back on it and was like, what the fuck was that? When I told my nurse practitioner and my mother, they couldn’t imagine it either. They just couldn’t see me struggling and fighting with the police or biting Maus. In fact, I have trouble imagining myself doing it too, except I was there.
They wanted to send me to ATU, but they said they wouldn’t take me because I had been restrained. So they were going to send me to Mountain Crest. However, they must’ve really been short of beds because they came back in and asked me if I felt I needed to be hospitalized. I said, “No.” Then… they decided to just let me go. O.o
[pullquote-right]He wasn’t mad or anything. That’s a husband.[/pullquote-right] I later learned that if they couldn’t get me into Mountain Crest, they might have send me to Centennial. That would’ve been really bad because apparently they sell people on to doing electro-convulsive therapy up there. I don’t know how they get voluntary consents when somebody’s there on an involuntary hold… seems really sketchy.
Another thing that I’m really really lucky to have is my husband. He didn’t press charges, and the police didn’t press charges, so… thank god is all I can say. Can you imagine me in domestic-violence classes? I mean, really?
So… I guess one good thing came out of it. They kept me on meds only, miraculously, and I’m getting to see a new therapist for a few sessions.
Thank goodness they didn’t charge me with anything. I was so afraid of that when I was in the holding room (unshackled). I thought I’d have to go to court, I’d have charges, and a record. I’d be just like on of those guys on those TV crime shows. I’d be at least looked at in a database whenever there was a crime committed. Wow.
[dropcap]I[/dropcap] think next time, I’m not going to let my anger get ahead of me. I’m not going to let my sadness overtake me. I’m not going to let the frustration and the insecurity reach out and hurt me. I’m going to let the beauty of my life remind me of who I am, and what I can be. I’m going to look at my arm, where my nurse practitioner said I should put a tattoo, and read, “What would Pablo want me to do?”
[highlight]I’m going to use some goddamn coping skills, it’s not like I don’t know fifty of them.[/highlight]
My nurse practitioner put it like this. She thinks that I had control problems earlier when I was having a really rough couple of years. I was obsessing about stuff so much, it was out of control. I couldn’t control my brain. Then when I finally gained control of that, she thinks that this was just a manifestation of a loss of control. That now that I’m not obsessing, when I lost control, I lost control in a much different, even ‘superfluous’ way. The whole thing gave me stuff to definitely think about.
I kind of laughed about it when I got out, though I really shouldn’t. I imagined myself on a call with one of my few clients I talk to. He asks me, “How was your weekend?” I think about it for a few seconds, remembering the handcuffs, the police restraints, and the haldol, and then say, “Mine was alright, how was yours?”