RussellSue
Not Active
I wake up in the middle of the night a lot and often can't get back to sleep because I end up thinking about things I can't do anything about. I woke up this morning around 2 a.m. and am not sure how much more I slept.
I've talked about this b4 but not in this much detail and not about how much of a hold it still has on me.
Here's how it went down.
In my early thirties I was engaged to be married to a schizophrenic but Joshua was no lock-down case. He was absolutely amazing. If he had any anger or scary inside of him, it never came out.
However, he couldn't work and stigma got him.
He should have been insulin-dependent but before we got together he failed to seek medical attention for his diabetes because he wasn't interested in being around much longer. Life was too much.
The reason we got together in the first place was because I was waiting tables at a restaurant he frequented and I saw how the locals treated him and it infuriated me. In an attempt to lend my support, I fell in love with him.
Two and a half years later, medical word was that Joshua had only months left to live.
Right around that same time, he came home with wounds all over his legs. A local had kicked him over and over. Granted, Joshua meant to screw with this guy but why this particular fellow felt it appropriate to kick the shit out of a diabetic's legs is still beyond me. Still, Joshua could have stopped this attack but did not and I realize that. When he came home with broken skin all over his lower limbs, I came unglued and started for the door. I may not look like much but with a tire iron in tow, I might have gotten my point across. Joshua grabbed me and insisted that this man was "not smart" and that I needed to let it go at that. I couldn't argue with Joshua; he was too sick.
But it didn't end there. Joshua's legs got infected and more. I had some of the most gut-wrenching, death-by-stigma discussions I have ever had in my life while I doctored them.
Over time, however, I felt that I had forgiven the man and he and I seemed to get along alright. We had known each other for quite a while before the kicking took place and because I was living in an area that made no sense to me so far as diversity or inclusion were concerned, I accepted him as the lesser of a lot of evils in that place.
When Joshua died, this man reached out to me. I assume he felt guilt for what he had done to Joshua. I accepted what I thought was friendship from him.
Unfortunately, 2.5 years ago, my husband came under the employment of a board of directors of which the kicking man's wife was a part. It was employment bullshit. He was demeaned, not paid for hours he worked, and basically made a joke of during meetings from his telling.
One night, another member of the board walked into my husband's office and began trying to intimidate my husband while I was there. Then, she slapped him in the head. I immediately had the first and only flashback I have had of the pus and stench that was my life for that last few month's of Joshua's life. I tried to get up but my legs gave out which was probably luck or God because I was out for blood.
A whole lot more happened but the endgame was that the kicker said something shitty to me (which just so happened to involve my disability) while I was still not wound down from my flashback. I walked away but I wrote him a letter later.
I told him what he had done to Joshua, not in detail, mind you, but in summary. I also explained what had happened with my husband. I remember saying, "I don't understand your culture and I don't understand this behavior, even a little." I professed that the behavior of demeaning other people who don't understand was not cute nor funny. I said "I might kick the shit out of the next bully who does one damned thing to hurt one of my people" and so I was going back to the civilized world where ethics and responsible behavior were still a thing because I could do a lot better there.
I also thanked him sincerely for reaching out to me after Joshua died. I said I knew he was a decent person, I just wished he would have acted like it at certain pivotal moments. (This wasn't our only problem just the big one.) I wished him well but said I wouldn't be around town much longer - I could not continue to live the way I had been living, surrounded by reminders of Joshua's suffering and local levels of sensitivity than ensured that I would go through similar shit again.
I knew the letter reached him because he was clearly angry and could no longer look at me when we saw each other in town.
His father obviously felt badly about it but never could come right out and say so.
The thing is, I really had hope for this guy. I had hoped that he would realize that I had cared enough about him to leave it alone for over 8 years. And maybe he'll figure some things out, yet.
I guess I shouldn't have tried to make friends with him and I guess I have guilt for lashing out at him, even though I went through hell for his dumb redneck amusement.
My husband says I shouldn't have any guilt. The apologies should be from the kicker. That if he had ever been a friend of mine, he would have been at my door as soon as he got that letter.
Still, I sit up at night wishing I had said the more right thing in that letter because there was a whole lot I didn't say and I could have been more zen about the whole ordeal for sure. I worry about the day I will see him again - and I will - my family and my husband's family are out there in that tiny town.
I don't wake up nightly thinking about this, anymore. I woke up last night because of pain but I am quite sure that this didn't help me get back to sleep. I also still have intrusive thoughts about it fairly frequently, though not nearly as often as I used to.
I've talked about this b4 but not in this much detail and not about how much of a hold it still has on me.
Here's how it went down.
In my early thirties I was engaged to be married to a schizophrenic but Joshua was no lock-down case. He was absolutely amazing. If he had any anger or scary inside of him, it never came out.
However, he couldn't work and stigma got him.
He should have been insulin-dependent but before we got together he failed to seek medical attention for his diabetes because he wasn't interested in being around much longer. Life was too much.
The reason we got together in the first place was because I was waiting tables at a restaurant he frequented and I saw how the locals treated him and it infuriated me. In an attempt to lend my support, I fell in love with him.
Two and a half years later, medical word was that Joshua had only months left to live.
Right around that same time, he came home with wounds all over his legs. A local had kicked him over and over. Granted, Joshua meant to screw with this guy but why this particular fellow felt it appropriate to kick the shit out of a diabetic's legs is still beyond me. Still, Joshua could have stopped this attack but did not and I realize that. When he came home with broken skin all over his lower limbs, I came unglued and started for the door. I may not look like much but with a tire iron in tow, I might have gotten my point across. Joshua grabbed me and insisted that this man was "not smart" and that I needed to let it go at that. I couldn't argue with Joshua; he was too sick.
But it didn't end there. Joshua's legs got infected and more. I had some of the most gut-wrenching, death-by-stigma discussions I have ever had in my life while I doctored them.
Over time, however, I felt that I had forgiven the man and he and I seemed to get along alright. We had known each other for quite a while before the kicking took place and because I was living in an area that made no sense to me so far as diversity or inclusion were concerned, I accepted him as the lesser of a lot of evils in that place.
When Joshua died, this man reached out to me. I assume he felt guilt for what he had done to Joshua. I accepted what I thought was friendship from him.
Unfortunately, 2.5 years ago, my husband came under the employment of a board of directors of which the kicking man's wife was a part. It was employment bullshit. He was demeaned, not paid for hours he worked, and basically made a joke of during meetings from his telling.
One night, another member of the board walked into my husband's office and began trying to intimidate my husband while I was there. Then, she slapped him in the head. I immediately had the first and only flashback I have had of the pus and stench that was my life for that last few month's of Joshua's life. I tried to get up but my legs gave out which was probably luck or God because I was out for blood.
A whole lot more happened but the endgame was that the kicker said something shitty to me (which just so happened to involve my disability) while I was still not wound down from my flashback. I walked away but I wrote him a letter later.
I told him what he had done to Joshua, not in detail, mind you, but in summary. I also explained what had happened with my husband. I remember saying, "I don't understand your culture and I don't understand this behavior, even a little." I professed that the behavior of demeaning other people who don't understand was not cute nor funny. I said "I might kick the shit out of the next bully who does one damned thing to hurt one of my people" and so I was going back to the civilized world where ethics and responsible behavior were still a thing because I could do a lot better there.
I also thanked him sincerely for reaching out to me after Joshua died. I said I knew he was a decent person, I just wished he would have acted like it at certain pivotal moments. (This wasn't our only problem just the big one.) I wished him well but said I wouldn't be around town much longer - I could not continue to live the way I had been living, surrounded by reminders of Joshua's suffering and local levels of sensitivity than ensured that I would go through similar shit again.
I knew the letter reached him because he was clearly angry and could no longer look at me when we saw each other in town.
His father obviously felt badly about it but never could come right out and say so.
The thing is, I really had hope for this guy. I had hoped that he would realize that I had cared enough about him to leave it alone for over 8 years. And maybe he'll figure some things out, yet.
I guess I shouldn't have tried to make friends with him and I guess I have guilt for lashing out at him, even though I went through hell for his dumb redneck amusement.
My husband says I shouldn't have any guilt. The apologies should be from the kicker. That if he had ever been a friend of mine, he would have been at my door as soon as he got that letter.
Still, I sit up at night wishing I had said the more right thing in that letter because there was a whole lot I didn't say and I could have been more zen about the whole ordeal for sure. I worry about the day I will see him again - and I will - my family and my husband's family are out there in that tiny town.
I don't wake up nightly thinking about this, anymore. I woke up last night because of pain but I am quite sure that this didn't help me get back to sleep. I also still have intrusive thoughts about it fairly frequently, though not nearly as often as I used to.